seeing Bond in France

Upon my brother's arrival, one of the first orders of business was to see Skyfall (it came out earlier in France than in the U.S., which is strange considering Les Mis will come out here months later than everywhere else. Even though it's about France. I'm not bitter.). So after riding up to the Bastille on top of the mountain and braving a true blizzard (and I know blizzards), we dried off a little, put plastic sacks around our feet to keep them dry in spite of our decidedly not waterproof shoes, and found the movie theater.

Joining the mob of people crammed into the foyer of the theater (any personal space issues have to be left in the states. This is France, where you don't smile at people but you should expect your face to end up in their armpit.), we eagerly awaited the inevitable opening chase scene. They finally let the ropes drop, and everyone ran into the theater. The huge, plush seats of even the budget theaters in France really do put ours to shame, although I guess I'm more used to the dollar theater folding chairs.

As the trailers started rolling, we both had a terrible realization: we hadn't checked whether this theater played movies in French or English. The first theater we'd checked was in English, but we just ran into this one because we saw it was starting right then, and we didn't even look for the VO signifying version originale or you'll be able to understand this one (I'm fine with normal French conversation, but dubbing still throws me off. Apparently I rely a lot on lip-reading). There was nothing to do but wait and see, and eventually the opening chase scene began. The running and heavy breathing and shooting was all very exciting and suspenseful, but it was doubly suspenseful because NO ONE WAS TALKING and we had to wait five minutes before it became apparent that they would be speaking... French.

Sooo we climbed over the people next to us and left, while I used some really good French to ask for a refund (I'm pretty sure it involved making up a verb and some sign language, but we did get the refund)! And off we went to the first theater, where we got tickets and then embarked on the longest, most epic hike ever made inside of a building. No joke, this theater was some kind of labyrinth, and it took us probably close to ten minutes to get from the entrance to our theater. We may have been underground in an ancient secret Roman tunnel for all the stairs and creepy hallways we went through.

Thanks to the maze, we missed the first few minutes, but thankfully we'd already seen them and knew that no talking had happened. And then I got to sit back and enjoy the only time when I actually feel smart in France-- I understand the movie a split second before they can read the sub-titles, and I make sure to react in that split-second with a fitting gasp or laugh just so they know how smart and English-knowing I am.

I'm sure they were all very impressed with my English-knowing.

annecy

A few weeks ago, my handsome brother appeared at the Grenoble train station and we decided to explore la France, starting with Annecy- the "Venice of the Alps." Easily the most beautiful place I've ever seen.

The Annecy château houses a museum, and while I expected it to be full of castle-y things, it turned out be a mélange of natural history, Annecy's fishing history, and a truuuly fascinating exhibit about MERMAIDS. Like, real ones (or so they said.) They even have the fossils to prove it. So, as if France needed one more ounce of magic, they've got mermaids, too. Come on, France, share the wealth! (Oh wait, they're trying. 75% tax rate for the bourgeoisie? Yeeks.)

From the castle, we took a little hike up to a cathedral that looked deceptively easy to get to- as in, it's on top of a small hill. Not too hard, right? Not right. It took us about 45 minutes, lots of stairs, muddy not-paths, getting out of the way of logging trucks and trying to not get crushed by rogue logs to finally get there. 2 minutes before it closed for lunch. I'm not sure why the Spanish siesta is so well-known and   le lunch in France isn't. Two hours for lunch, people? The outside of the church was really pretty though, and then we found the direct path down to the bottom of the hill (that took about 3 minutes) Whatever. We took the scenic route.

But really, every route in Annecy is the scenic route. Every street, every corner is just too pretty. If you told me Annecy didn't actually exist, and it's really just some kind of mental experiment where they drug everyone on the train with "Imagine the most beautiful place you can and call it Annecy" drugs, I would believe it in a drug-laden heartbeat. The sparkling blue-green lake, the changing fall leaves, the clean streets, the boulangeries-this city is perfection.

For lunch we went to an adorable (shocker, I know) little place right on the water (like most of the city is, because it's criss-crossed by canals like Venice...but cuter). We ordered our first real Savoyard fondue and ate our combined weights in melted cheese and bread. I still can't believe that is actually a meal here. These people have bread as an appetizer, as a side to the meal, bread and cheese after the meal, and bread and cheese for dessert. We were also the only ones not drinking an entire bottle of wine with our bread and cheese, but we made up for it by having both the blueberry and lemon tarts.

Stereotypes are true, my friends.

lyon

A few weeks into our new French vie, a few of the assistants took a day trip to Lyon. A picnic in the park that doubles as a free, public zoo (!), then a tour of the covered staircases made by Chinese silk workers and were later used by the résistance, and then a dinner of ratatouille and dessert of fondant chocolat. 

Not such a bad way to spend a Saturday.

les profs

Yesterday, the teachers at my main school invited me to their weekly Friday luncheon, where they take turns making the meal. And it's France, so it's not like "Oh hey I picked up this box of sandwiches on my way here."

Here is the menu:

 Bread and homemade paté

Some kind of delicious squash casserole

Homemade moussaka

Homemade chocolate mousse

Hm... I think I can get used to this. 

l'école

Today was the day. I stood in front of the class instead of sitting in one of those little plastic chairs (okay, I did that for a little while, too). But the really strange part was standing on the playground and watching the kids play and realizing that I am now the boring grownup who doesn't play jumprope games or hang on the monkey bars. Not that there were any monkey bars, because there weren't. The "playground" was really just a big square concrete courtyard, but kids always seem to find a way to amuse themselves. And I find that usually involves loudness, but at least that's cuter in French too. Probably because I can't understand them, but oh well. But still, yikes. 1st grade memories of the "duties" came flooding back and I vowed again to never be as crotchety as those women were.

Despite that glowing preamble, my first day teaching (read: talking about myself in a melange of French and English interspersed with large gestures) was great! I started at 8:30, and helped in four different classrooms for about 50 minutes each. I gave a short presentation about myself, Idaho, and the USA (Texas is bigger than France, fyi) and then opened it up for questions. Each class definitely has its own personality- one was obsessed with what animals we have in the states. Are there pigs in the United States? Sheep? Horses? Rabbits? Dogs? Cats? Sheep? Pigs? While another was obsessed with the fact that I did the presentation with my computer. Is that a laptop? Do you have a laptop? Can you charge your laptop? And another didn't quite understand the concept of a question. I have a brother too. I don't have a brother. I used to know two words in English, but I forgot them. 

But it's understandable that they don't know English yet, because they're mostly all already bilingual or trilingual. At least two thirds of the students speak Arabic at home, a few Turkish, one Laotian, one Creole, and I'm sure there are others. Goodness gracious. So I'm barely bilingual, and I'm supposed to teach them something? Sheesh. They're very humble about it though- as I was leaving, one little girl told me "You speak English sooo well." Aw shucks, thanks. I figured I should at least learn one language, you know.

native encounters

1. Today I was waiting at the tram stop to meet my new friend Alexandra, and a man came up to me and asked in French, "What are you doing today?" (I thought), so I responded "Oh, I'm waiting for a friend." And then he looked all disgruntled and said something about "How is the day," so I said, "It's a very nice day..." and then he said, "I'm married you know, I just like to talk to people... blah blah french." And I looked confused and I figured he must have thought I was waiting for my boyfriend and thought he was hitting on me, and he left. But then he came back and said, "In fact, I think you're not very respectful." And then I stammered in French and he said, "Oh you don't speak French?" and seemed to not be mad anymore, but then he asked if my friend was French and said it would never work out.

BUT the point of that story is that he didn't know I'm not French (or at least a real French-speaker) until halfway through our conversation!

2. Then later this afternoon, while Alexandra and I were in line for gelato, a girl came up to me and said she loved my shoes and asked where I got them. I got to feel all exotic when I said, "Oh en fait, je les ai achetées aux États-Unis," or "In fact, I bought them in the U.S." But she asked for the brand so she could find them. So, that's me. French style icon.

la nourriture

For my first few days here, I had no appetite at all. Which, as you know, is a very strange thing. That's never happened to me before. But here I was, in a food capitol of the world, and all I ate was some yogurt and bananas.

Now it's all changed. Appetite back in full force. Today I got a sandwich and a religieuse (an amazing two-tiered pastry filled with chocolate) for lunch. After watching the cashier wrap my things in paper, I promptly picked them up like they were bags and dropped my uneaten religieuse on the floor, much to the amusement of the two girls behind me. BUT because my appetite was back and I had not yet eaten a really amazing pastry this time, I picked it up and put it back in the paper. I carried my lunch over to the park, and figured I could just eat around the side that had dropped on the floor...

But it was SO GOOD that as soon as I started eating it, I knew I would also be eating the floor part. Oh my gosh it was amazing. Soo... yeah, appetite back, to the detriment of my immune system.

Oh, and here's a religieuse, so you can see why I would do something like I did:

les gens

There's a look you get when you tell people you majored in French. It says, "Well, isn't that romantic. I can think of nothing less useful." And you try to excuse yourself, "I really loved it... Employers are actually recruiting humanities majors...I learned how to learn..."

But Monday and Tuesday, I was at a training in a tiny little town in French mountains. Monday night, all 250 of the teaching assistants in the Grenoble region had dinner together, and I thought, "This, this is  all the reason I would have ever needed to major in French." People from everywhere- the US, Spain, Argentina, Italy, Germany, Scotland, England, Australia, Ireland, Russia, Israel, Portugal, and more- were all crowded around too few tables, conversing animatedly. In French. And it's such a beautiful, spiritual thing that no matter who we are, we have language in common, and we can communicate. It's comfortable to speak with everyone, because it's not anyone's native language; we are all learning, so we're all forgiving of each other's mistakes. And it is so fun to hear French spoken in all different accents, although I admittedly have a darned hard time understanding Italians speaking French. 

And of course, some people have learned French much better than others (ahem, than me). Seriously- I am surrounded by geniuses. No really, one of my new friends goes to Oxford. I'm one of the few bilinguals (and it's a stretch to even call me that). Most people here speak at least three languages, although I'd say four is more the average. And they speak them well. Sheesh, I can barely handle English! But because I majored in French, I get to admire these people up close for a few months, and find out that even though they're practically all MENSA president material, they're also very nice and some of them even want to be my friend. 

To be able to communicate is an incredible gift, and it's so beautiful to see how just one language has connected hundreds of people who otherwise have very little in common.  This is why foreign language instruction is so essential, and the more I speak with the other assistants here, the more disheartened I am by the educational system in the states. I've been here a week, and it's basically become my new life mission to go home and start a private school that starts teaching kids a foreign language by at least age 7, and which will eventually become the national model and will cater to gifted and talented students (who receive less than 1 percent of the government's education spending but who have the potential to make incredible contributions to society, if only they were allowed to develop their skills instead of being held back by the rest of the class) and will group students by ability, not age, and will teach them how to communicate complicated ideas, and will recognize the many different learning styles and will incorporate the arts (and teaches them how to avoid terrible sentences like that one. I'll do some tweaking before putting it in the mission statement).

It was long since time for bed, but I had to share the incredible brainpower I'm in contact with over here. Here's hoping some of it rubs off on me!

l'école

Today I went to meet the director of one my schools, and I got there about an hour early (I didn't trust my map-reading skills nor the public transportation, but they both served me better and more quickly than I expected). So I wasted some time sitting at a bus stop, and then I wasted some better time with un palmier at a café.

The school is right off the street with just a plain sign in front, and if I couldn't have heard kids laughing behind the wall I would have worried I was walking in to something out of Matilda..

But thankfully, the inside of the building was bright and colorful, and the director was nothing like the Trunchbull. And I've discovered another reason I'm glad I asked for a spot in elementary schools- the teachers haven't lost all faith in humanity, as often seems to happen when the students get a little older. Instead, all of the teachers smiled and said they wanted me to teach from Maurice Sendak books in English and French. Cool, that I can do. I think The Hungry Caterpillar was mentioned, but let's be honest, I only got about half of what anyone said. 

Oh, and the kids looked at me like I must have looked at Miss Gold, my 1st grade student teacher- with absolute adoration. This shouldn't be too bad at all (that is, if I can ever escape from the paperwork that is moving to France). 

l'arrivée

Made it! 27 hours, 3 flights, 1 bus ride, lots of speed-walking and over 5,000 miles later, I'm in Grenoble. It looks like this: 

Totally ugly, right? Poor me.

Now for every inane detail that comprised those afore-mentioned stats...

Took off from Spokane long before the sun had come up, and got in to San Francisco at 8:00 am, where I entertained myself for a good seven hours. It involved lots of walking back and forth with my bags, talking on the phone, and watching out for suspicious behavior. Eventually I made my way to the boarding area for my Lufthansa flight, and at first I was alone. Then one German came. Then a few more. Then dozens and dozens of Germans. And then all of a sudden, the escalator was flooded with German Lufthansa flight attendants smiling and speaking German and laughing at the lone American in their midst (that was me. they weren't really laughing at me. people always think I'm german). But I really might have been the only American on the whole flight.

But I learned something interesting about Germans. The ones who are in charge are in charge. They come around weighing carryon bags to make sure they aren't over 8 kilos (My 9 kilo bag was miraculously spared), telling everyone to sit down, and then making sure everyone lines up in their complicated, yet efficient, pattern. But the Germans who aren't in charge really don't care. They'll pull on carry-on bags the size of Great Danes and stand when they want and push people around and line up willy-nilly (using the term "line up" very loosely).

So the Germans and I board the enormous, 2-story plane that is to be our home for the next 11 hours. It really was the most efficient boarding process I've seen- why can't other airlines get the memo to board the back of the plane first? I sat next to a very argumentative couple from somewhere in eastern Europe,  finally saw The Avengers (way better than I expected), and tried so hard to sleep and actually managed it for a couple hours. And then some man wanted to talk to his friends across the aisle from me, and stood leaning on my seat, butt in my face, for an hour or two.

Then came Frankfurt, and I longed for those glorious hours of nothing I'd had in San Francisco. Getting in to the gate at 11, and boarding the next flight at 11:40 meant shameless speedwalking and perspiration because guess who wore her sweater and coat and boots because she couldn't fit them in her suitcase? That indian summer I was loving at home was not so kind to the winter-dressed me in Germany. Gross. But I made the flight and sat by a boy who threw up the whole way. Grosser.

In Lyon, I had to figure out a way to get Grenoble, and luckily saw a bus that said "Grenoble" on it, so I bought a ticket and got on it. Um guys? France is gorgeous. We passed tiny little cottages and a castle and more old, stone houses than you could shake a stick at (p.s. anyone know where that phrase comes from? I don't get it).  Then we made it to the bus station, which I hadn't counted on since I'd planned on taking a train, but I found the tram station, bought a ticket and hopped on with all my stuff, which had somehow gotten really heavy. So I was all sweaty and gross again, and refused to make eye contact with all the handsome people on the tram. And then we were at the stop I thought was mine, so I dragged myself off and bullied two old men into telling me where my street was.

Made it a little further, fervently hoping new home of mine actually existed and I hadn't wired my deposit money to some sneak, and then there it was, in all its vine-covered glory! I checked in, went upstairs and unpacked in my own little room with yellow window-panes and door. So cute. Then I showered because I was completely disgusting, and used a t-shirt to dry with because I mistakenly thought "linens provided" meant "don't bring a towel." And then I laid on my bed because I could. not. take another step. I don't remember ever being so tired, even after climbing Mt. Sinai with food poisoning from the Egyptian train food. So I went to bed at 7:30 pm and woke promptly at 1 am even though I was still pooped. But never fear, I went to sleep again and then got up at 9:30 (you thought I was kidding about the whole "inane details" thing, didn't you?).

And then I went out for a walking tour of the city. For about four hours, I wandered around and looked at things and tried not to get run over by trams. The car drivers are really nice though, and waved me on almost every time. Okay, so this place is gorgeous. Surrounded by mountains, split up by a river, dotted with bakeries and chocolate shops? I'm ok with it. About two hours in, I realized I was still reeeally tired and it would be nice to have some food (since I hadn't really eaten in two days). So I stopped at the next café and got a quiche, and then wandered for about 30 more minutes until I found a place to eat it (one does not merely eat while walking in France). Some more walking, and I realized I was completely lost (but somehow, that is never a bad thing in France). So some more walking, and I figured out where I was and made my way to the Monoprix grocery store and stocked up on things that I hadn't put in my suitcase (including a towel).

Then back to my room and my bed, where I again laid down and vowed not to take another step. So far I've kept that promise, which is why you've been blessed/cursed with this giant post.

All in all, of places to be, this one is not too bad. Over and out.

privacy

I'm giving up the dream I never had of being a famous blogger, and am going to make this blog private.    I plan on doing lots of writing and photo-ing while I'm gone, so for safety's sake I figured I could sacrifice the imminent internet fame and sponsorships...

If you'd like to keep reading, please send your email address to hereternalsummer@gmail.com. I'd love to have you!

C'est la vie

As you may know, I'm leaving for France soon. Moving there, really, because I'll have an address and a bank account and everything. But I just don't know if it really counts as moving when I leave all my stuff at home and just take one suitcase with me. Please, of course it counts. I'm moving to France!

As I've been preparing for this (and sheesh, France doesn't joke around when it comes things you have to do to move there), I've also been imagining the ways I'll change during my stay in the Alps.

Of course, I'll become infinitely more chic, and French-girl thin. I'll learn to cook a perfect soufflé. I'll perfect my sultry gaze (who am I kidding, I'd have to at least have one of those to begin with) and gain so much confidence that all those boys back in the states with whom I was so enamored will suddenly fall at my feet, but I'll actually fall in love with...

Humphrey Bogart?

Merde. My French future is not mine. It's just Sabrina.

So, I guess it's back to the drawing board. Maybe this time I'll just let France tell me what is going to happen. Probably a better idea anyway, non?

(but I would really like to learn to crack an egg with one hand.)

harry potter generation

We were 11 when he was entering Hogwarts, and 17 when he defeated Voldemort. The books and movies were spaced just well enough to see us through not only Harry's childhood and maturation, but through our own, as well. Even the actors were our own ages, contributing to the intoxicating idea that it could have been us.

Late at night, clichéd flashlight under the bedcovers, I found myself apparating as well as a mere muggle could- I was not huddled in my bed, but was flying over the quidditch pitch or traipsing through the Forbidden Forest. The wizarding world was so real, all thanks to J.K. Rowling's cocooning writing style; once the book was open, I was sealed off from the world around me. Film-wise, it was supported by some decent visual effects and extraordinary acting (here's to you, Helena and Maggie), but of course, the true magic was always in the words themselves.

Now, I had a perfectly enjoyable adolescence- friends, piano lessons, obsession with horses, and the like. But there was always the back-of-mind thought that I really belonged in this world where you could read centuries-old books and transform mice into teacups, and most importantly, be brave and courageous and noble and defeat evil.

Even now, these seven tomes on my shelf are some of the most escapist literature I own. Whenever I feel that life is lacking in color or characters, I can open up any of the seven, and immediately be right back in that other world. Granted, a few characters' faces have morphed into those of the actors who play them (most notably in the case of Bellatrix Lestrange, but seeing as the actress completely superseded my imagination, I'm ok with it), but other than that, the words and my imagination are still in synch. Hogwarts will always be there to welcome us home. 

When the last film came out, I was ready. I'd watched the actors walk by on the red carpet in London,

(a blurry Weasley twin with an arm in front of him)

(Helena Bonham Carter blowing a kiss to the rain-soaked masses)

 and my heart beat had raced every time I passed one of those stirringly minimalist posters in a train station: "It All Ends." I saw it in Sweden, two days before it would be released anywhere else in the world, where the release was shockingly anti-climactic. The theater wasn't full, and only one little boy (dear to my heart) was in costume. Nevertheless, my eyes were glued to the screen for the full 130 minutes, though my vision definitely got a bit foggy at certain parts.

And then it was over. Not just the movie, but the era. Stepping out of the theatre into the Scandinavian sunlight, there was an overwhelming sense of conclusiveness. Never again would there be the excitement of waiting for the next book or the next movie. They would always be there to be revisited, but now we knew the whole story. Harry Potter had grown up, and so had his generation (though not to the extent seen in the epilogue. But here's hoping we age as gracefully as Hermione).

And now I'll finally get to the link that prompted this sappy, late night ode to the Boy Who Lived:

they miss it too.

travel philosophy

Before I travel, I usually check out all the travel books and online recommendations available. It makes for a pretty good plan, and while some spontaneity is vital,  it's nice to know there won't be some giant thing I miss, only to realize it when I've come back home already. But at the same time, I think it's kind of dangerous to plan too much because you form an idea of a place before you experience it, and to my experience, very few places match what you imagine them to be. When you let a place just be, rather than try to make it match your expectations, it's suddenly much more beautiful than you could have dreamt. 

This quote encapsulates my feelings about the pros and cons of travel planning:

I was glad I hadn’t known about this beforehand. If I’d stuck to my usual method of over-preparation, I would have read all the details about [Montmartre and its] view. I would have seen professional photos. I would have heard the dissenting voices bemoaning the crowds and those pesky kids with their soccer ball. I would have been, I am sure, disappointed. 

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, especially in travel, where surprise and wonder and discovering the new are pretty much the entire reason for the endeavor.
   –Doug Mack, from Europe on 5 Wrong Turns a Day

from a perfect day in croatia, when I had absolutely zero expectations

What do you think? How do you strike the balance of just enough knowledge?

nostalgia, part 5 (because yes, I went to college for five years)

Coming back to Provo for the third time was not any easier. The roommates from before had all graduated or moved, and I was starting over again. I found another cute house at the last minute, and moved in, yet again with eyes full of tears. I spent the first few days, again, filling out the application for BYUH and feeling guilty that I was considering turning down the TA job with my favorite professor. For who knows what reason, I stayed again. (Probably because I only had one year left, duh).

Unfortunately, I did not feel any reason to be intimidated by this year's group of roommates. And even more unfortunately, there was never to be any friendship forged with most of them.

But it was fantastic for my study habits. Taking 17.5 credits in the fall and 19 credits in the winter would have been utterly impossible if I'd been distracted by any household amicability. Fall semester, an assignment in my advanced writing class resulted in my essay winning a school contest, for which I then read the essay in front of a very large (space-wise), darkened audience (thankfully I couldn't see how many or how few people turned out to hear it). In the front row sat my dear friend Collette, who has been with me for many of the more surreal moments of my life. This was no exception- we sat next to the Samuelson's, didn't recognize the school fight song, and sat through a 10-minute video of Jimmer saying "Guys, I wish I could be there, guys, guys, it's amazing to be a basketball player, guys." And then I read my essay and then we ate lunch with a bunch of amazing and important people, and then we laughed a lot, because that's what we do.

That semester, I took my first contemporary dance class. And it was the only thing that got me through those four months.  Every morning, I joined a group of the most amazing dancers, who were also some of the most kind, welcoming people I've ever met. We danced together, prayed together, worked through injuries and got awesome abs together. This was what dance was supposed to be. A connection to the divine, and a connection to humanity.

In the winter, I took five French classes and a couple others, TAed again for Humanities 202, and honestly thought I might die. Somehow I made it through that one, too, thanks to a few truly great friends in classes. We took photographs, made up a Romance language, and memorized more French history than I knew there was.

Then somehow, that semester was over too, and as soon as I could, I sold my contract, packed up all of stuff, and moved two blocks south, away from that place I dreaded returning to every night, and into the most beautiful house in Provo, filled with the most beautiful people. And then I walked in graduation, during which I couldn't stop wishing I was doing that on an island, surrounded by people I knew, instead of a sea of 3,000 I'd never met. My brother sent me a lei, both of my parents came, and it was wonderful and happy and...really anti-climatic because I had classes starting again on Tuesday.

Spring term was full of credits, but also of fun and sun and restored faith in humanity. Outdoor movie nights, twinkle lights, late-night chats with the world's greatest roommate, and lots of secrets spoken in French. It was a dream. By the end of those two months, I had actually come to (eek!) love Provo, attesting again to the age-old truth that places are nothing more than the people you know there.

And then I took three finals, turned in a portfolio, and left that campus for the very last time.

Over and out, college.

nostalgia, part 4 (a long one)

As I said, it was a surprise even to me that I decided to go back to Provo. It had taken everything out of me, and apparently I was prepared to give it even more. I found a cute house last minute, and headed down with my mom a week before classes in order to attend the ballet audition. We dropped my boxes off at the house, and went back to our hotel for me to get ready. I pulled on my worn black leotard and noticed that one of the (1 inch wide, honor code appropriate) straps was about to pull off. I straightened the seams in my tights, made sure I had my flat shoes and pointe shoes sewn, slicked my hair back into a bun, and headed out, envisioning my glorious debut as a professional dancer.

My mom dropped me off at the RB, a good hour early because I am insane, and I walked inside with my heart racing a little more than I had anticipated. I found some other girls who I could tell were auditioning (it's not hard to spot a bunhead), and I sat down with them and attempted to make some friends. I usually go into things pretty optimistic that people will want to be my friend, but this time, the optimism faded with the death stares I received after a simple "hello."

I found no kindred spirits in the hallway, nor in the signup room, nor at the barre. I pulled on my pointe shoes and got stuck at a plastic barre in the middle of the room, as far away as possible from my studio sweet spot. As soon as the teacher started giving the instructions for the first combination (pliés- it does not get any easier), I suddenly realized I had zero comprehension. The music started, and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. For the very first time in a dance class, I found myself desperately trying to follow the person in front of me while acting as though I knew perfectly what to do. And it didn't get any better. I eventually managed to catch on to the teacher's odd lexicon, but my body then decided to disconnect itself from my brain. The result was a torturous hour in which I couldn't even say I actually danced. I just suffered through the motions that normally brought me so much joy.

While I waited in line for my turn to do the dreaded foutté combination, I had my very first epiphany. I didn't like anyone in that room. I was dancing worse than I had in my whole life. I was not enjoying myself. And beyond that, the star dancers in the room had faulty technique. This was not where I was supposed to be. Being in this program was not what was going to make me happy. And so I did something I would never have predicted. I slowly, and very much against the rules, walked across the studio without permission. I unpinned the audition number from my leotard (strap hanging on by a few blessed threads), and walked out on the audition. All of a sudden, I felt happy, even though I hadn't realized I hadn't been feeling happy for quite some time. And while I knew I still loved to dance, I knew that that BYU studio was not where I was supposed to do it.

So my wonderful mother came and picked me up, surprised I was done so early, and even more surprised when I told her why I was done so early. We went to lunch and then unpacked my new room.

The first time I went in the front door of the yellow cottage, it was after noon, and a girl named HB was asleep on the couch. I was kind of afraid of her, but then I saw that she'd been reading the last Hunger Games book, which had come out at midnight, and I regained a bit of the optimism the hairspray and bobby pins had taken from me earlier. Eventually, I met the rest of the roommates- Amy, Chantelle, and Suzanne. Thoroughly intimidated by all of them, I took to playing the ukulele in my room and studying constantly. And auditioning for and joining the folk dance team.

Slowly but surely, I realized that I definitely had reason to be intimidated by all four of my roommates. They were four of the smartest, most well-read, cleverest, most insightful girls I'd ever known. And then all of a sudden we were on the couch watching the Bachelor and making charts on the whiteboard, and our friendship was forged forever, in spite of my many attempts to make them eat my gluten/dairy/sugar-free black bean brownies, thank goodness.

Dance parties, car rides, dance party car rides, and who knows what else later, Provo had actually become a home. I took a Humanities class and finally realized that everything I loved in life could be my major, and then it was. And then I was French major with a Humanities minor, and I was going to France for Spring term.

nostalgia, part 3

Year 3 (or, the Year in which she eats a lot of hummus and encounters the extremes on both sides of the emotional scale)

There was a song in my ears as I woke up. Disconcerted, I sat up, pushed off the rough blue blanket, and remembered that I was in Jerusalem. The call to prayer from the nearby mosque echoing throughout the limestone building, I pulled open the sliding glass door and silently slipped onto the porch without waking my roommates. The words of the call became more distinct, but I still couldn't understand any of it. Roses climbed up the posts of the porch, and a pomegranate tree was in reach. My mind was overwhelmed with the following train of thought:

"UNREAL. unreal. unREAL! I am in Jerusalem! I live here!"

and so went almost every morning for the next three months. Living in Jerusalem isn't something you just get used to. Or at least, you shouldn't. Of course, you get used to the reality of living in Jerusalem, but living in Jerusalem is a completely different thing. Because you live in Jerusalem (can I hit that point one more time?), where the three major religions were born, where Jesus Christ lived and taught, where millions of people fight over the land because of their innate connection to it. I doubt there is any land more deeply loved. And you can't help but feel it; there's a Hawaiian concept called mana, which is a spiritual force that can exist in people and places. A place gains mana through the events that happen on it. The land remembers. If any place in the world has an almost tangible mana, it is the Holy Land. I don't think you can go anywhere without feeling the import of past events.

Every day at the center brought something new to learn and explore, but it almost always started out the same way. Matt, Tessa and I would be the first to breakfast every single morning, and eventually came to calling ourselves the Breakfast Club (though without all the angsty connotations). From there, some of the hardest, most educational classes I've ever taken (and one of the least educational but most fun... hummus not hamas!), and field trips all over the Near East. Roman ruins, ancient synagogues and Biblical landmarks became almost old hat. Almost. Because there is just something so undeniably moving about buildings and cities that are several millennia old. The romantic that I am, I couldn't help imagining the all sorts of people who'd walked right where I was standing and feeling like I was connected to them for the briefest of moments.

Eventually, it was time to go home. I said goodbye to the people and the places, but the moments and the memories were with me for good (sappy, I know).

In January, I dove in to my first semester in Provo. Well, to be more specific, it really involved more diving under my covers as I sobbed every. single. day. Hawaii-sickness, it's called, and I had it bad. Still do, but I've learned to manage it better. Every day for the first three weeks of school, I was one tiny click away from buying a plane ticket right back to my island, but for some reason, I stayed. I took "worthless" classes like Art History, French 101 and Cello. I cried a lot. I did a lot of dishes. My daily ballet class got me through it, even though with my short hair slicked back for class I looked like I had no hair. Which was very heartening when I ran into my latest heartthrob on the way to class almost every day. I never did learn to just do my hair when I got to class. But I did decide that I was finally going to just let myself dance, because it's all I ever really wanted to do.

After a lot of self-searching, crying, selfishness, crying, studying French and crying, I came home once again, victorious over a semester in Provo and certain that I'd be going back to Hawaii in September. Housing contract ready, classes chosen, and ready to see my beloved Pacific ocean, I suddenly realized that there was some reason I was supposed to go back to Provo. (Cue more crying).

nostalgia, part two

Year Two (Or, the Year in which she cuts her hair off, learns lots of life things, and unsuspectingly stumbles upon the career path she'll end up following in four more years)

Back in Laie, I moved into the only house I'd ever visited. It looked like some kind of Dr. Seuss creation, with rooms coming out of every direction. Thirteen girls lived there technically, but there were usually a few more sleeping on the couches. Tiny ants became part of every meal, and the rats and cockroaches were just extra roommates.

No longer a Music major, I just took classes that sounded interesting. The Bible as Literature, InterCultural Communication, and so on. I became friends with Erika, and then her roommate Collette, both of whom had completely intimidated me, but we bonded over gluten-free noodles, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and late night drives on Kamehameha Highway. I was less invisible in choir this year, and I somehow started playing the organ. Some other girl named Alyssa had signed up for organ practice times, but they thought it was me. So then, there I was, playing this giant organ for the choir and for university devotionals. I quit writing for the paper (which means I quit making up quotes), and started working as an English tutor at the Reading Writing Center, where we never could agree on the proper use of the subjunctive. 

We had adventure after adventure with Hawaiian public transportation. For just two dollars, The Bus would transport you to anywhere on the island you had a desire to go. Thankfully, all of these adventures were documented second to second by our friend Ting, who has never let a moment go unphotographed. Then all of a sudden I had a tail, and was dancing across the stage as a Bird Girl in Seussical. Now that I think of it, the lyrics to that song from Grease that I auditioned with were probably the raciest that stage has ever heard, but I was still transitioning from small town naiveté and had no idea. Thanks for not expelling me. 

I ate a lot of spam musubi, pake cakes, and Fruity Pebbles, and did pretty well avoiding gluten. I made friends with Anna (another girl by whom I was completely intimidated) and we bonded over gluten-free chocolate chip cookie dough. (Food has always been a very large part of my life, clearly. How would I make friends without it?). We climbed mountains, and then sent in applications to go live in Israel, after which we would both return to Hawaii, duh.

(disclaimer: three paragraphs in no way recap all that happened, and if I don't mention you, please don't think you were any less a part of my life. As if you read my blog, whoever you are. Wishful thinking on my part. But for reals, I totally love you.)

nostalgia, part 1

I just left Provo, where I've spent the majority of the last two and a half years of my life. I'm not yet officially a college graduate, but I have completed all my required coursework and will not be returning to that campus (probably ever. until I do). So, I think it's time for a little reminiscing of all the life college has given me. This is probably going to be long (and not just because college has already taken me five years), and pretty stream-of-conscious-y, so I won't be offended if you just scroll through looking for your name.  

Year 1 (Or, the Year in which she escapes Winter and learns that no boy is worth jumping off a sea-cliff for)

I left the Pacific Northwest with two suitcases bursting at the seams with unworn swimsuits and flowy dresses, and arrived in Hawaii with no suitcases. Sitting in the Honolulu airport, waiting for the Coconut Express, I met a girl named Janie, and we became best friends the way you do when you've both just left home and you're on a little island where you know no one. That night I sat on my bed (no sheets because my luggage was still missing), breathing in the unfamiliar humidity and listening to my Korean roommate breathe as she slept. Unfortunately, we were both incredibly shy, so that pretty much constituted our most intimate conversation of the entire year. My bags showed up later that night (much mahalo to whoever delivered them all the way to Laie that late), and I slept for the first time as a college student. 

After a week of exploring Hawaii and meeting other wide-eyed and sunburned freshmen, school finally started. My official plan of majoring in Intercultural Studies or Political Science seemed to evaporate along with the sea foam, and all of a sudden I found myself auditioning for the Vocal Performance major, which, goodness knows, my one year of voice lessons had surely prepared me for. By some stroke (whether of luck or humor), I was accepted, and started taking voice lessons with one of the most talented women alive. The hour I spent with her each week was equal parts voice lesson and therapy session, and though I left with my voice still lackluster and breaking at C4, I kind of felt like I'd grown up after every time I talked to her. 

I studied music theory, anthropology, American history, and decided to change my major at least three times. I danced the hula, and entertained notions that someday my fair skin would be tan enough that I would pass for Polynesian, but my blonde hair that was getting lighter every second I spent in the sun didn't factor into that equation. 

I went surfing once, and swam all the time. Janie introduced me to the show The O.C., and we spent every night with those dramatic California teens. I met people from dozens of different countries, and gave the wrong phone number to one boy. I jumped off a sea-cliff and fell madly in love no less than ten times. I sang in a choir, and though I loved every minute of it, felt pretty invisible. Transitioning from home-schooled, bagpipe-playing, ballet-dancing loner was hard, but at least there was no snow to deal with. And no matter how far away I tried to go to practice the bagpipes (which really wasn't that far away, I just got lost and kind of ended up walking in a circle), I would always attract a small crowd of people wondering who that really weird girl was and why she was playing such a loud, annoying instrument. 

All of a sudden it was time to leave, and though I'd thought I would be transferring to somewhere else, as I left I realized there was no way I wasn't going back to my island for the next school year. So I got on the plane, cried a little (a lot) at leaving, and then left again for four magical weeks of exploring Europe with my big brother. I was tan, idealistic and diagnosed with a gluten allergy. Freshman year was complete. 

done. fini. terminado.

Five years ago I started college, and today I turned in my very last paper and final.

I'm done.
Fini.
Terminado. (I think that might mean dead. I don't remember much Spanish).

So what did I do to celebrate?



Watched The Bachelorette and and ate a baguette and nutella left over from my perfectly parisian birthday party.

I guess college didn't elevate my taste too much.

The Mongoose and the Mustache

A friend invited me to participate in a sunday afternoon literary society, in which everyone writes the first line of a story, and then everyone is given one of those lines and has 30 minutes to finish the story. I was super impressed with the caliber of people's stories- there are some seriously talented people here. From the not seriously talented pool, here's what I came up with:

“A man without a mustache is like a mongoose without pants,” said my stylist, but I didn’t think he quite grasped the concept of a mongoose. I decided to just ignore it, but as he finishing drying my hair, he kept going. “A mongoose, you see, is nothing without its pants. Do you understand me?” I almost nodded, but then realized that his scissors were placed precariously enough so that if I did, I’d suddenly look like a 10 year old boy. I’d already tried that look once, and it was not something I cared to repeat—Shelo Neyda, i’d told myself when it finally grew out—“May we never know such sorrow again.” Head still, I replied, “I know exactly what you mean. That’s beautiful.” He looked pleased, and went back to his deep focus on my hair. I could always count on him for that.

An hour later, I left his swivelly chair, hair considerably lighter, but mind still weighed down by the idea of a mongoose wearing pants. “What could he have meant?” I asked myself over and over again. I tried to remember the Rikki-Tikki-Tavi movie I’d watched incessantly as a child, but the only part of it I could recall was something about a bird building a nest and something that I think looked like a capybara. And the fact that Rikki-Tikki-Tavi never wore pants.

I thought about all the men with facial hair I’d known, seen or loved. There was Ricky (who was of course the first to come to find, despite the sad fact that his last name was not Tikki-Tavi). He’d sported a razor thin mustache, that while many could mock it forever, I had found entirely endearing. He looked like some kind of Italian jockey, though thankfully with better fashion sense. Then there was Charles, who’d worn what he referred to as the Chaplin, but what I’m sure you would recognize on another, slightly more infamous, character. He was so dedicated to it that he even dyed it black, despite the fact that his hair was naturally almost platinum blonde.

Lost in my facial hair fantasy, I somehow found myself in front of a pet store. It seemed out of place in the middle of downtown, and it felt both timeless and brand new. I hesitated at the door for a moment (I could feel my hair beginning to frizz in the humidity and thought maybe I should just go home), but then I felt the  handle turn under the weight of my hand. I walked in, blinked a few times to adjust to the dingy atmosphere, and realized that my sleek hair was now just a distant memory—it felt like the snake room at the zoo. There was no one at the desk, so I started making a slow circle around the shop. What kind of pet store was this? I saw all sorts of creatures I’d never even known existed. There were birds with lizard tails, guinea pigs the size of bears, and cats who liked me.

I bumped into a box as I turned a corner, and immediately a man emerged from the shadows. Finally, at that moment, I understood what Javier had been trying to tell me in the salon. On this man’s face was the largest, most elaborately styled mustache I’d ever seen. And on his shoulder sat a mongoose. Wearing pants.

“A man without a mustache is like a mongoose without pants,” Javier had said. They were both perfectly acceptable, I realized, but why settle for acceptable when you can have perfection?

summer magic

I've never been in Provo during the spring before, and although many people had told me that was why I hated it so much, I never believed them.

They were so right.

First, I moved into a new home that immediately made life more beautiful. The house was built in 1910, and I can just tell it's full of old magic. Not only that, it's also full of the greatest roommates.

photos by olivia

We kicked off spring with John's birthday party, where we sent glowstick wish balloons into the universe (I worried about the negative environmental effects, but I realized that animals in Provo don't really have a chance anyway).

 We'd been discussing how to improve the effectiveness of wishes, and realized that the wishes that have come true had been spoken out loud- so we decided to forego the tradition of keeping them secret.

I wished for un été magique.

(and I think it's working.) 

confession

sometimes when I'm up late (like tonight, after finishing the fifth sisterhood of the traveling pants book- yeah, I didn't know about it either until this week), I get on facebook just because I know it will be all hawaii people popping up in my sidebar and it feels a teensy bit like i'm there.

wisconsin part 3 that is really chicago part 1 and utah part unknown

SO as I said before, I'm stuck in Chicago. The city where I just so happen to have 3 very good friends, one of whom I've never actually met. So I call Erika- no answer. I call Ting- he's gone photographing people poking each other with foils (don't be fooled, I've actually always wanted to learn to fence), but Ting gives me Travis' phone number (who is the friend I've never actually met). And so I make a very presumptuous first phone call, in which I ask if I can stay with him and Erika that night. Being the most wonderful friend I'd never met, he says "of course! we're at dinner right now but we will come right over and pick you up!"

Now, for a little back story. Erika and I had been talking on the phone on Sunday for the first time in months, and discussing how awful it was that we had no idea when we would see each other again. Now, stuck in a random airport because of a random job interview, I would be staying at her house! I wish I could say I saved someone's life the week before and that's why I deserved such fantastic karma, but I really did nothing except miss Errka all the times. So now I'm sitting in the Chicago airport with a terribly lumpy bowl of oatmeal from Starbucks, grinning like a mad person that I get to see her and FINALLY meet Travis.

They pick me up and we head back to their (totes adorbs) apartment. My new flight was at 8 or 730 in the morning or something like that, so we had to leave their apartment around 530am (or maybe 430? It's a little foggy. It was then, too). But that does not mean we slept. No, no it does not. Hawaii friends + not seeing each other for 3 years + fortuitous meeting in Chicago = no time for sleeping evar. So we talked and giggled and made poor Travis sleep on his massage table and probably kept everyone awake and did terrible impersonations and facebooked hawaii (it can be done) and I just loved every single minute of it.

And then, far too soon, it was time again to fly away. The two of them got up way earlier than anyone ever should just so I wouldn't have to take the train to the airport. Then I get in to SLC and meet Collette- wait, this is the best non-hawaii day evar. I get to see both of these girls in the same 24 hour period? Serious karma- if you need your life saved, I'm probably the one to have around, because I have done nothing to warrant this kind of luck. It was almost just like this:

And then, Collette and I do so many of our favorite things: eat thai food, go watch the hunger games, analyze the hunger games, eat MENCHIE'S FROZEN YOGURT THANK YOU MENCHIE'S. And  it was the greatest weekend of all time.

Thank you Wisconsin, Illinois and Utah for conspiring to create this really really really great couple of days.

P.S. I got the job in Wisconsin. But I also got a job in France. One guess as to which one I accepted.

saturday afternoon

I've been sitting on my bed for so long eating mini Reese's peanut butter cups and writing about how photography killed French Romanticism that I've perfected the throw of my Reese's wrapper into my rubbish bin across the room.

I think I may have finally reached the point of too many Reese's, which is probably the equivalent of absolute zero- no one knew if it actually existed.

wisconsin part 2

The company was on top of getting a cab for me to get to the airport, and since they had been so perfectly timed for the last seven hours, I wasn't worried. I wasn't worried when my flight left at 5:50 and they didn't get me a cab until 4:45. I wasn't worried when we got stuck in traffic and then it was 5:15. I wasn't worried.. okay, I was worried when I got TO the airport at 5:35. Yep, I was worried then, and when the check-in desk for my made-up airline was empty, and when the kiosk told me I was too late to check in, and when the really grumpy lady who showed up told me I should have been there earlier and that I should really hurry.

So I run all the way through the airport, through security, to the very last gate (of course), up to the counter and wheeze "I'monthisflightcanIpleasegeton??" She replied, "We're not boarding," and all my hopes and dreams were dashed. But then she said, "No, I mean, the plane just got here." I was flooded with both love for this woman and extreme agitation at that horrible woman at check-in. 

Half an hour later, we board the plane and taxi out. Then they turned the plane off. Storming in Chicago. Turn plane on. Turn plane off. Turn plane on. You get the picture. An hour later, we finally set out for the grueling 60 minute flight.

By the time we arrived, I had most definitely missed my connection, but there was another flight to Salt Lake leaving in 10 minutes. So again, I'm running through a new airport, through terminal after terminal until I finally arrive at gate G10. Where I'm informed that no such flight to Salt Lake exists, but I've been courteously rebooked on the flight in 12 hours. 

BUT

I was in Chicago. Where some of my best friends in the whole world live. Friends I hadn't seen in years. And so, the first missed connection of my life was about to become the absolute most fortuitous event it could have ever been. 

to be continued again... (this is a really long story). 

weekend wisconsin adventure

I'm not sure if the words "wisconsin" and "adventure" have ever been used in the same sentence before, so mark this moment-- you may have just witnessed history. Although the real history was probably made when I really did have an adventure in Wisconsin, which was last weekend.

The adventure actually started in the Salt Lake City airport, where I ran into my friend slash old roommate who works at the company at where I was on my way to interview. We ended up sitting next to each other all the way to Wisconsin, and she briefed me on the day-long interview process I had coming up. Since I got in after 6, I'd missed the group dinner with other candidates and a current employee (which sounds like a perfectly comfortable situation), but we went out to our own group dinner at the Old Fashioned, where I learned two things: 1) there are more beers than I could have counted in first grade and 2) cheeseburgers topped with a fried egg are simultaneously fantastic and horrible, like the relationship between the jar of nutella I ate today and the diabetes it's going to give me.

After stuffing myself silly, and eating more than every cute Wisconsin boy in the restaurant (although they were drinking more than eating, in my defense), I went back to my hotel. Which was, you know, right across the street from the capitol building. And then I had to use my room key in the elevator to get to my floor (because it was so elite), but the key only worked after you stuck it in exactly 23 times. When I finally made it to my floor (the top one), an old Russian gentlemen asked me if I was sure I was on the right one. "Um, yes. You don't think my wrinkled plane clothes are suited for this floor of governor's suites? Oh, you're right. But yes, this is my floor."

After setting out my outfit for the next morning, reviewing my application (and finding a typo but not being able to do anything about it), and prancing around my giant room in the hotel robe, I decided I should head to bed. In my personal king size bed. I stretched out, yawned, and...didn't fall asleep. For hours. Not because I was nervous for the interview, but because I was ashamed of myself for not being able to take full advantage of that enormous bed. All I could think about was how I wished I could be a cat, for the sole reason of having this ability:

but I couldn't do it. I sleep curled up in a ball, and that's how it is. I finally had to accept my failure and resort to my safe fetus sleeping position, in which I took up about an eighth of the bed, and slept perfectly for the remaining three hours of the night.

The next morning, I went downstairs and caught a taxi to the offices. I walked in with my suitcase and joined the herd of anxious young applicants, who were trying to crowd 20 people onto a bench meant for 10. The rest of the day was a meticulously choreographed dance in which we were all trying to impress everyone we came in contact with, because who knows who has the final say in what happens to your application.

2 interviews, 5 logic tests, 3 writing assessments and 7 hours later, I was done.

but the day was far from over.

to be continued...