Nightlife Junkie

I have not been to bed before midnight in a good couple weeks. Scout’s honor. Ask anyone that knows me and they won’t have words for the abandonment of my militant sleep/running/class schedules. Though homework and repeat 200’s are still getting done, the French verb sortir has appeared more frequently in my dinner conversations. And, because “cultural immersion” is this semester’s tagline, I wondered exactly how does one go out in Tours, France?

Taking it from the top, the week before this past week began the process of sleep deprivation habituation. My night-owl behavior was a combination of weightlessness in a foreign country and a new friendship. On the nights that I wasn’t staying up aimlessly reading in my bed trying not to feel jittery, a Bible study was struck up between a Japanese friend and myself. Here, you might be thinking how lame! And I would say, you find an appartment half way across a French city in the shadowy fog to play the synonym game in English and French across cultural boundaries concerning Biblical implications for modern day issues over dinner. Why not throw in some French mouth? (FM, cousin to cotton mouth, occurs when successive attempts to speak French are hopelessly intelligible; whereby the poor fool is left to stutter until he regains sanity.)

If my brains were already there to begin with, my past couple weeks would have still been challenging. Not sleeping does wonders for my French vocabulary retention. It has also rained incessantly adding to the perpetual gray over le Pays de la Loire. Then my bank account read 19.31, in dollars unfortunately, right after the last of my food stipend disappeared. In the face of an upcoming oral production test and biology capstone thesis, I thought to invite a friend over to make a dinner for my French siblings. Somewhere between our vegetable flans and pear crumble, we hit it off… as well as every night thereafter. It only required a single hand, at most four fingers, to indicate the hour at which we returned home. No matter where life took us, gorgeous châteaux or en ville, the company is what made it worthwhile.

Here, again, you might be thinking how lame! And I might reply, you try taking God at his word and follow his will by submitting your every thought, action, conversation. What if he brings you away from the monopoly boards of Tayor University? What if he calls you to make friends in a formality-paralyzed, appearance-obsessed culture that loosens up over late night coffee? And so this past week, my French brothers being  home, my linguistic skills grew from informal lessons meeting this or that friend. Perfecting my accent, there was nothing like explaining the ridiculousness of prom to a French motorhead or debating loneliness with a Russian philosophy major at 3 A.M. I found that whatever they taught me in Sunday school is worthless if I can’t explain it and I can’t explain it if I haven’t internalized it. You learn better by doing. Hands down.

It would be just before I leave that I finally get it! You can choose to be a hermit or live on the edge by placing confidence in a God, who, if you let him lead, invite him into every thought and situation, and lean on him, can turn every moment into something that brings him glory. I will say that his Bible is a lifeline, pertinent to any and everything, more evident this semester than ever in my life. I will also add that this has been one of my best weeks ever. For whether in ‘lil Marion, Ohio, or talking politics in a French café, there’s something to this laissez-faire contentment and trust. There might even be something to sharing a little light in the cover of night.

P.S. Your thoughts are more than welcome. And I’ll add some cutesy pictures tomorrow.

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Maison + Malade =

 Homesick. OK. I give up trying to pretend like I can learn in 3 months what a French woman knows after 20 years. The idea struck me on the heels of an incapaciting stomach bug, exasperated by my endless to-do list. I had taken on so much that by the end of October, the time of our trip to Normandy, my body decided to shut down. I don’t blame it. If anyone, I point my finger at my parents and anyone else who encouraged my insanity to forsake family, familiarity, and the following:

1) Mon Kitchenaid me manque. Once by myself, once with my sister, chocolate chip cookies were made with this weird vanilla flavored baking soda powder stuff. Last week was a lovely apple tart from a recipe from Cooking Light which everyone still found a bit lourd (heavy.) Anyone that knows me can attest that I am neither Paula Dean nor a Farenheit to Celcius processor nor a cups to grams calculator.

2) Le système éducatif des États-Unis  me manque: Last weekend I stayed in the first arrondissement of Paris with my host family who helped me conquer Musee d’Orsay and a hilarious A Midsummer’s Night Dream (set in the 70s). That preceded Tuesday’s La Toussaint, the national holiday of strewing chrysanthemums about the cemeteries. To quote my grammar teacher, never give French families that flower and never faire le pont (skip that Monday of classes between the weekend and the Tuesday…) What happened to my lighter, American load of classes with logical breaks?

Ma soeur et moi devant l'Arc de Triomphe.

3) Le soleil me manque : It might be 60/65ish regularly here but I would appreciate seeing Mont St. Michel, St. Malo, Loches, or Chenenceau without the rain. The center of France in the middle of autumn is one big puddle.

Pinch me! (The visit to Chenenceau was surreal.)

4) TUTF me manque: I was beginning to wonder if French people run track at all when I finally discovered a little soccer field ringed with synthetic red tartan! A bus ride from my house, the entrance required jumping over this chain link fence (my spandex and therefore myself getting snagged mid-straddle a meter above a staircase. Fantastic). Reunited after two long months, the track and I passed a few moments of silence in the fading sun before my deathly 600s. Every sprint workout tears at each muscle down to my heart, alone without my TUTFers. (╙╠╣╜= I’m feeling it.)

After spending a night on the actual Mont St. Michel, I awoke early to run amid the blues and pinks of dawn.

5,6,7,8) Mom et Dad et Jon et Mitt me manquent. Nuff said.

Taytay: Found this WWII American troops' board which reminds me that I beat my French brother the other day. You've less than 2 months to try and get better ;P