To start with, I hate that I "need" to go to bed. I used to be the girl who would stay up until 3.00 in the morning because it was quiet and dark and I could prowl around my room (whichever room I currently occupied, that is) without the impending anxiety of being summoned. I used to be the girl who would sit on stoops and stare out into the nighttime so I could spy on possums and skunkeroos and assholes running the stop sign at the end of the block. I used to possess my own time. Now I'm a slave to a totally artificial sleep pattern. Boo.
In less whiny brat news, I ran into my high school history teacher today. Ok, "ran into" is a bit of a lie. He actually walked into the store, I recognized his now medium-sized small child, and then I walked up to him in surprise and delight and said his name. Loudly. Of all the possible blasts from the past who could've walked into my place of employment, his appearance was by far the best imaginable. It might be delusional and projected, but I genuinely feel like "Bill" (I doubt he'd be thrilled that I refer to him as such, but whatev) knows me as a person. Not as the hostile fourteen-year-old he met twelve years ago, but as the better-adjusted kinda-adult I am now. I'm not sure how that's possible since we don't "hang out" regularly, but I guess he just saw me through all the bull shit and walls I had going on back then. He told me when I was seventeen or eighteen, after having written one of my college recommendations, that he knew I'd go on to get a PhD someday. He might've said that he thought I'd be a professor, too. When I found out two summers ago that I would be teaching at a lycée, I asked him if we could meet up and he could dispense some advice. He indulged my anxiety but we basically spent our two hours of coffee talk discussing the other directions his life could've gone. And how exhausting his house guests were.
Anyway. I've clearly never forgotten his "PhD" remark. I won't say it haunts me, but whenever I see him I always feel a little guilty. Like I'm slowly failing him and his prophecy of some future academic brilliance. I know he still expects "things" from me, and I know when I tell him about my various exploits that he isn't disappointed in my less than straight-forward route, but there's an uneasiness in my gut. I can't help it.
After some preliminary chit-chat, I revealed to Bill my plans to move to Istanbul, and he was both surprised and mildly (?) impressed. There was no characteristic sarcastic quip on his end - he just listened, and questioned, and listened some more with genuinely caring ears. It was nice. And then he said "but what about France? Would you ever move back there?" I hesitated, and probably grimaced.
Truth is I've been missing France a lot lately. It's been sneaking up on me. A few days ago I went to the market for a lentil replenishment and I found myself walking into the house with my canvas grocery bag on my arm. It seems so small, but it struck me in that instant how frequent an occurrence that used to be - me. Walking. With groceries in a tote bag. On my arm. Digging into me. Yes, there was a time when I didn't have a car at my disposal. There was a time when I would unthinkingly lug pounds of produce and pasta and chocolate and cheap wine around on my arm. On the bus. Down the cobblestones. I carried my food, and didn't think about it. I miss that.
Bill and I talked about the daunting prospect of my learning Turkish, and it reminded me of another moment in time. I was at a bar in Bordeaux called Milo's. I was trying SO hard not to turn bright red when the absolutely gorgeous waiter came up to me to take my drink order, and I, stuttering, said "pourrais-je te demander une question?" (roughly: "Can I ask you a question?"
He said "non." Then he smirked. "Tu peux me poser une question."
Uhh... fuck you very much, Garçon. Dude corrected my grammar. Smirkily. Charmingly. Unapologetically. And not very gently, at that. The good thing is that to this day I will never make that simple, common, pretty understandable mistake again. The bad thing is that I still remember it with blushing cheeks and mild shame in my heart. I need to work at letting shit go. Fortunately, it's magically become a funny memory instead of a humiliating one. One of those "years from now we'll laugh about twenty-five days without electricity" things. (And oh, Laura and I laugh.) I miss Milo's. I miss those slouchy waiters and their disgusting toilet that often didn't work. I miss our main joint, La Comtesse, aka Big Balls, and everything about it. I miss the laundromat. I miss the scent of those hulking bunches of mint at the market on Saturday mornings. I miss a lot of my students - the wee ones who fortunately aren't on facebook posting pictures of making out with each other. I even miss booping my TBC card on the bus or tram. The hard times were really fucking hard, but they were good.
But I feel like I need something new. I've gotten used to how easy the U.S. is, and though I don't think living in France could ever be "easy," it would be nice to explore a new culture. A new set of cobblestones, new street art, new pastries...
Lest y'all think I've been neglecting the fruit-mongering portion of this blog, uhh... don't. It was only last weekend that I went to a half-legit farmers market in the mountains (i.e. Altadena) so obscure and indie and underground and hip that it was held at an estate. I had to sign a waiver saying I recognized everything had been made by hands (hands not necessarily certified by the health inspector of LA) and that I willingly entered a working farm populated by goats and chickens. Hot.
The chickens were beautiful (and alive, thank god) but moved so fast that all of my pictures of those fine ladies are blurry. So I'll leave you with this oozing morsel of adorable: two kids. Kids. The puppy version of goats! Yay!
p.s. tomorrow I am finally succumbing to the threatening letters I keep receiving from my doctor's office, and getting a "much needed" check up. So, just for fair warning, expect a scathing, hostile, vitriolic post soon about the American health care system and what a steaming, bubbling CROCK OF SHIT it is. KISSES!!!!
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