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.

First Good-byes

Since I had worked at Target for seven years, I had made a fair amount of friends, and while I didn’t find the work to be the most stimulating, the men and women I worked with made it (mostly) worthwhile.  I could rail against the company all I wanted, but as long as my bosses had my back, Corporate didn’t matter.  Therefore, I thought saying good-bye for what could possibly (God willing please) be the last time would be difficult.  I purposely chose September 12^th as my last day because, as a Monday, most of the people I cared about would be working, and I wanted to get everyone in one fell swoop.  Plus, because the date fell a complete nine days before my departure, I could theoretically catch anyone I missed one subsequent last minute trips.

Julie, one of my bosses, had given me a joint gift between her and my other boss a couple days before as a “contribution”/departing sendoff.  It consisted of a teacher’s goodie basket with two Target Bullseye dogs, one dressed in red and khaki and the other covered in grey dots, which was a part of my job; black and red pens; highlighters; a Target key chain; a “Good Work!” stamp and accompanying green ink; two lesson planning books; a grade book; Target folders; and a package of Sour Patch kids, all perfectly displayed in an 8-piece fried chicken container from the deli!  I squeed.  It was beyond adorable and actually persuaded me to be a bit more excited about the teaching aspect, instead of terrified enough to run away to Russia and change my name to Olga.

My gift basket!

Mmm. Dunno if the kids are gonna get any of that candy...

To remind me of the deli.

To remind me of where I come from.

Teaching supplies!

When people asked if I was excited to be leaving, I began warning them well in advance that I would become an emotional wreck, the person who cries uncontrollably on people despite any consolation or if I even knew them, the person whose face scrunches up and becomes all blotchy and then snot erupts like Mount St. Helens.  Then Monday came and . . . nothing.  It was a clear, beautiful sunny day — even God seemed happy that I was leaving, so I don’t know how to take that — and I couldn’t keep a smile off my face.  Despite my previous fears of leaving literally the only job I had ever known, that insuppressible smile might have been just one of the many signs that I had made the right decision.

Of course, all the hugs from friends and well-wishes from co-workers sprung a couple tears to my eyes, but I didn’t break down and ugly cry like I thought I would.  Everyone was just so happy for me that I couldn’t help but be happy myself.  Their enthusiasm rubbed off on me at a time when I had started to doubt my commitment to the whole idea.  A co-worker, Linda, gifted me a Parisian flea market book and a journal; another, Jim, a list of rules and a gift card; and my other boss, Linette, had everyone sign a card (which made it into my suitcase) and presented me with a cookie that read “Oui Will Miss You!”  Love!  I promised to send a postcard from my town, most likely gloating about the food, and I skipped out feeling on top of the world.

It was tasty, too.

So while I will truly miss the friends I have made at Target, this decision was clearly the right one.  First good-bye down, only five billion and six other things left to go.

Packing Part the Second

When it comes to crunch time, I become super well-organized and go-getter-like, so I like to think I blossom under pressure, and this time was no different.  I did a dry run with just my shirts, blouses, dresses, shoes, and pants, and everything remarkably fit into my 29-inch suitcase!  I was dumbfounded.  You mean I could possibly make the trip through two airports, two train stations, and half a downtown without two suitcases?!  I.  Win.  I rehung everything in my closet, sent my packing skillz (nope, not a typo) packing, and rested on my laurels.

The Monday before I left, I made a physical list of the objects I still needed to purchase and the tasks I needed to complete before I left, the funniest being calling the credit card companies.  Since they don’t require a certain amount of time between the notification date and the date of departure, I figured it wouldn’t be a problem if I called a mere two days before I left, and while I was correct, it certainly made for some interesting conversations.  The automaton from the Chase debit card wasn’t super excited, but the woman from the Chase credit card gave a startled yelp, put me on hold, and then said that I was all good and if I had any questions, call the international line.  But CapitalOne was by far the best.  If you don’t know, they’re the credit card company that runs the “Peggy” commercials: people with “other credit cards” call for customer service, and they are transferred to the company’s overseas affiliates — in this case, a Russian man named Peggy.  Well, I definitely found myself CapitalOne’s Peggy.  He claimed his name was Miguel while his accent sounded Indian, and I had to repeat how to spell my last name three times.  Then, get this: he ended the conversation with, “Have a good journey and . . . merry Christmas.”

I’ll wait ‘til you’re done laughing.

With my list all pretty in its crossed-out goodness, I turned back to my looming suitcases.  Yes, plural; a conversation between me and the rest of RAMBL over the weekend convinced me that I should get over my fear of looking like a complete American at the airport, suck it up, and bring both the damn suitcases.  Therefore, the day before I left, I opened both suitcases, folded everything into exceptionally tiny squares or rolls regardless of wrinkles, sorted my other stuff into its “other stuff” pile, and began.

Halfway through the folding, I realized I should be calling Houston.  Somehow, while I hadn’t been looking, my clothes had gotten busy and made little clothes babies in my closet.  I didn’t have enough room, even in two suitcases and two carry-ons!  Okay, whoa.  How the hell did that happen.  Before completely freaking out and leaving half of my stuff in a pile under my bed, I backed away from my room, slowly and with hands raised.  Maybe sleeping a night on this dilemma would help.  (It had better; I would leave in a couple hours whether or not I’d solved it.)  When I awoke on the day of departure, several solutions occurred to me.

First, cut the shoes.  While it made sense to bring multiple pairs of boots, I had to keep in mind my spending habits.  Of course I would buy some boots while in France, the Land of the Booted Women.  One pair of knee-highs didn’t have traction, and my prized pair of bronze ankle boots, while absolutely adorable, weren’t at all practical; my work heels could double as youknowwhatImean shoes.  Also, since the winters don’t get super cold, and it doesn’t snow more than a handful, I could nix the winter boots and actually use the liners I bought for my rain boots, which would be much more versatile.

Second, distribute, distribute, distribute.  A friend I made in Angers told me her lost suitcase horror story that involved multiple trips to Charles de Gaulle and a pervasive fear of wet socks, and so I triple checked that I had a representative of every type of clothing in every travel case.  I evenly distributed my work and play clothes, underwear, socks, shoes, and cardigans between my two suitcases, and I packed enough clothes in my backpack carryon in case I lost both of those.  I weighed every one: under weight!  I clicked my heels as I wheeled my suitcases to the door.

Final Good-byes

My friends from Angers know that I’m really bad at leaving places, especially when I don’t have anywhere pressing to be.  It’s no different with good-byes.  While my tour of duty would take me away from my friends and family for seven months, and that could seem like time stretching into eternity, the reality was that the contract had and end point; I would be coming back.  Why rend my garments, sackcloth and ashes, when I would see everyone again in what would probably seem like the blink of an eye?  So I reveled in my last few days at home, spending the weekend with RAMBL and the last couple days with my family, and said, “See you later” and not “good-bye.”  Besides, with Facebook, email, my blog, and Skype, it would be virtually impossible to get away from anyone!

My mom and my brother react similarly to big changes: they both become snappy and maltempered, quick to react negatively to any provocation.  Surprisingly, this time neither of them did.  My brother became nostalgic, complying with nearly every request of his time that I threw his way.  He made promises to actually email or Skype with me, but we’ll see how that goes.  As for my mom, considering she was very against this from the beginning, she seemed rather well-adjusted.  She cooked my friend and me a “replacement Thanksgiving dinner” (never mind the fact that I’d told her about my plans to visit an American friend in Antibes for an American-in-France celebration), and she even kicked my ass into packing more than once.  In conclusion, color me confuse.

And then there was my father.  Now, if you don’t know me that well, you might not know that my father and I don’t always get along, to put it politely.  If you do know me, then what follows should not come as much of a surprise.  Apparently, when I was using the weekend before I left as a last fling with RAMBL, he decided to take a job in Wisconsin that would last a week.  In other words, he wouldn’t be home to see me off.  Nik, my brother, said that he was thinking about driving back down to take all of us to the airport, but I didn’t put much stock in it, and rightfully so; he never showed, nor did he call to say good-bye.

While part of me was completely not surprised, the rest of me was astonishingly hurt.  We’ve had our differences, arguments, and knock-down-drag-out fights, but he couldn’t find time in his schedule to see off his only daughter, whom he wouldn’t see for at least five months?  Yes, I know my parents are planning on visiting, but I’m not even allotted a good-bye?  If I thought about it too hard, I did start to tear up.  I still start to tear up.

So.  Anyways.

Because the only time my mom yelled at me was when we talked about getting to the airport, we decided to ask my grandfather to drive us.  He’s my last surviving grandparent, my mom’s dad, and he just so happens to have fought in World War Two, stationed in Reims, France. He also has family that still live in Sessenheim, a town near Strasbourg in France—by proxy, they’re my family, too, though removed about seven times.  He came over, made some jokes that he totally, completely has never, ever made before (/sarcasm), and drove us to O’Hare to meet Amy.

Whether it was because of Amy’s family standing not two feet away, my final good-bye to my family was not as long or as wet as I anticipated: a tight squeeze and choked, “call me,” from Mom; a bear hug and a lingering kiss on the top of my head from Nik; and a peck on the cheek from Grandpa.  That’s all.  And Amy and I joined the (mercifully short) line through security.