Pseudo First Day

Monday morning, Muriel gave me two options: I could come with her to school and sit in the staff room all day until they could move me into my apartment, or I could stay at her house all day by myself.  Two factors influenced my decision.

Big City to Small Town

Somehow I knew my contact before she introduced herself.  I’d been looking for a younger-than-middle-aged woman with possibly two kids in tow, and when a young boy with a slightly Bieber cut and a girl that could melt steel with a smile skipped across the tram tracks, I just knew the couple behind them were my contacts.

Again, I don’t know what gave our little group away as the Americans she searched for, but she and her husband approached us, and I introduced myself and everyone else before they suggested having a drink.  As a rule, one never says no to a drink, so while we’d just finished one café experience, our giant group of eight sat down together.

Insert awkward silence here.

Angers . . . I’m Ba-ack!

This flight was the first time I’d ever laughed freely in a security line.  One of the TSA guys was telling jokes while giving us safety instructions.  He would pace back and forth in front of the new image scanners, and he said to no one in particular, “How many of you smoke?”  Silence.  “Well some of you are lying, because studies say at least one in five of you do, and after this checkpoint, you can’t just step outside to light up.  So if you’re jonesing, too bad for you.”  After surviving the scanners (I really wanted to opt for the pat-down instead, but I thought I’d better not make a scene), we sat in O’Hare for a couple hours before boarding the flight.  This waiting period was the most extensive amount of time we spent together without having a preplanned topic of conversation in place.  Let’s just say we definitely earned our merit badges in Small Talk that day.  We also tested our oral comprehension, as we happened to choose seats next to a French couple.

Red Eyes

It’s been a month to the day since I landed in France, and I haven’t updated at all.  (See? I told you I suck at these things!)  My only excuse is that I’ve been busy living life instead of writing about it.  I’m trying to catch up as quickly as I can, but until that happens, posts will probably be longer with less detail.  Unless something extraordinary happens that warrants mucho detail.  I know the first month is the most important, and that’s why I want to still write about it even though the info is old. Anyways, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?

Red Eyes

For some reasons unknown, I could not comprehend that it was so late in September that I would be leaving soon, and so I kept pushing off everything I needed to accomplish: namely calling my credit card companies, talking to my bank about transferring money, buying toiletries, packing. . . .  I made multiple mental lists which only became physical lists two days before I left for France.  I may procrastinate like a pro, but I make up for it by catching up at warp speed.  And first on the list?  My first good-byes.

Le Sigh . . . Packing . . .

Packing sucks.  Packing sucks.  Packing sucks, packing sucks, packing sucks.  Ah, that feels better.  (Oops, one more: Packing.  Sucks.)  Why?  Because you try to fold everything neatly, place it in the suitcase/receptacle orderly-like, play Tetris so it all fits without bursting some seams, ruthlessly edit what the hell you’re bringing, and then undo it mere hours later! All that effort for only a couple hours’ transportation!  Just thinking about it gives me hives.  (Early Dane Cook fans?  No?  Alright.)  And don’t even get me started on repacking to go home.  It all brings me back to the same conclusion: PACKING.  SUCKS.  That’s as close to a key smash as I’ll allow myself in public communication.

However, like planes and washing your hands after you pee, packing is slightly necessary, so I guess I’ll do it.

Can't I Have a Pro Without a Con?

Contrary to my nature, I had a blog post all planned out about packing and how I’d rather sew my fingers together than do it; I even have the pictures to prove it.  But in accordance to the laws of “Gotcha!” that govern my life, as I sat down to write it, I checked my email and received a pretty little surprise: a response from my contact person in La Flèche!  In English!

Dance party!

Pourquoi "Pourquoi"?

Like every cognizant, major life decision I’ve made in my twenty-four years on this planet, I made the decision to teach English in France for a year on a complete whim.  In the past, I chose my college because it had a speech team (an activity that, at the time, I technically could have lived without); I studied abroad in France because the English pound made my wallet weep; and I’m pretty sure I would have kept adding majors and minors forever if my adviser hadn’t started tacking on years to my graduation date.  I could boil all these choices down to one question: why not?

Hence the title of this blog.  “Pourquoi Pas” means “why not” in French.  A fitting title for my life, really.