unlocked

There is something about this time of year that inspires nostalgia. It's February: it's cloudy more often than not, so a lot of time is spent indoors, reading or clicking through old photos on Facebook. February means Valentine's Day. It's the time that people (soon to be college grads, for example, or, well, people like me) start looking for the Next Big Opportunity. This, in turn, inspires a lot of personal reflection. How did I get here? What made me the way I am? etc.

I promise this isn't going to be your typical emo/existential blogpost. Despite the two glasses of wine that I have already downed. And despite the Fleet Foxes genius mix and tea lights that are currently happening chez moi. No. This is not Xanga.

So. I've been doing a lot of reminiscing lately. A lot of reminiscing, and a lot of reflecting. A lot of daydreaming. Working in schools with hundreds of hormonal, overemotional teenagers isn't helping. In my attempt to understand what sorts of things they would like to learn about, what sorts of activities they would find fun, if anything, I've had to put myself in their shoes.

That being said, there are a lot of directions in which I could now take this post, but what I really want to talk about are lockers. Yes. You read that correctly. Lockers.

The French don't have lockers. Perhaps this is meant to reduce the type of kissing that the French are so well known for from going down. (If that was the goal, I can tell you it has failed spectacularly. Those kids have no qualms about shoving their tongues down each other's throats and will do it anywhere and everywhere. Pretty sure they get more action in one five-minute break between classes than I have in the past three years. Combined.) Perhaps the no-locker phenomenon was also to prevent vandalism and graffiti. (This has also failed. You'd think by now someone would have figured out that "fuck" is not spelled "fuk," but I guess that's not what the English language assistant is there for, right?)

By now you're probably thinking, what's she on about? What the fuk is so special about lockers? They're kind of ugly. Nerds get shoved in them. It's a pain learning (and remembering) a new combination every year. They can get really messy, and often really smelly. They can cause traffic jams. And how often did you walk down the halls of your high school and have a locker door fly open into your face?

But remember how exciting it was to have birthdays in middle and high school, because you knew that your best friends would, every year, without fail, decorate your locker? Remember how, before a big game, athletes would have their lockers inundated with good luck wishes and green and gold streamers? Remember decorating your locker with photos of friends, posters of Orlando Bloom, and those silly magnetic dry-erase boards? Remember how people would slip notes on lined 5-star paper into your locker, probably folded up like little triangles? Remember how, when you had a crush on someone, you would plan out your route to class and make a detour just to pass by his locker, on the off-chance that he'd be there and you two could exchange a shy smile? Remember how he'd come to your locker after school and try to lean casually while talking to you, but fail miserably because, well, it's entirely impossible to act casual when your entire being is focused on making this other person like you back?

Remember?

I think the French are missing out. There's something to be said for the anticipation, drama, and excitement--the butterflies--of lockers and everything that happens near them. Lockers are, I think, one of those strange identity-forming social rituals/experiences. Strange, yes, but also beautiful.

Remember?

woah dream big

During my freshman year of high school, now nearly eight years ago (!!!), my good friend Epiphany and I began writing in our so-called Notebooks (creative, I know), which, by the end of our high school career, numbered well over twenty. Those Notebooks were, come to think of it, basically our lifeline throughout those typically tumultuous high school years. Instead of releasing our teenage angst in more physical or visible ways, we turned to our pen and paper. The pages of those Notebooks are filled with scribbles and doodles and long, long letters. They are some of the most hilarious and also heartbreaking pieces of writing you'll ever see.

The last time I was home, in late September, I drove out to see Epiphany. When I got to her new place, I saw that she had lugged out the storage box in which she'd kept all of our Notebooks. For a few minutes, we were silent, just reading over what we had written and reminiscing. Then we began reading aloud certain passages to each other, and pretty soon we couldn't stop laughing.

I was struck by a few things. We wrote about the same things over and over (and over). From year to year, the themes of our Notebooks stayed the same: boys we loved (and who, most often, did not return our ardor), girls we didn't like, and how much we hated our *insert body part here*. It's so funny to read things like this, now, after having seen a bit more of the world that's out there, and to realize how narrow the mindset of a high-schooler really is.

Yet I was also struck by the prevailing sense of optimism and positivity that runs through those Notebooks. Sure, we despaired over the size of our kneecaps and agonized for weeks about who would ask us to Homecoming. But because we were sharing our writings--our thoughts, our fears--with each other, we were able to support each other. Each complaint from one side was swiftly negated by the other: "SHUT UP you're beautiful and you KNOW IT," etc, etc.

We shared our thoughts and our fears, yes, and we also shared our dreams. We dreamed of bigger and better things, the two of us. At one point, we were going to be successful violinists-turned-magazine editors-turned-superstars, taking New York (and, by proxy, the rest of the world) by storm. Okay, so maybe things haven't turned out quite like we'd dreamed. But that doesn't mean that we have to give up on those castles in the sky, right? We just have to adjust them a little bit to match the reality at hand, right?

A lot of people say they do their best thinking in the shower. I do my most random thinking in the shower. Today, I was thinking about what my answers will be when journalists from Vanity Fair come to administer the Proust Questionnaire. In case you live under a rock, VF's PQ subjects are, essentially, living legends. In the back of my mind, an annoying little voice was whispering, "Faustyna. Get outta here. You're not going to make it big! It's too late...especially since you're still so lost." Well, you know what, Annoying Little Voice? I don't think it's ever too late to dream big. Maybe that's naive...maybe so. But I'd rather hold on to some fragment of a dream than resign myself to a static, complacent lifestyle.

Call me crazy, but I still have a dream.

cinema, solo

d4nceinthedark.tumblr.com via weheartit

I've said it before: sometimes, I like being alone. More so than most people, I think. When I lived in New York City, I was known to take myself out to dinner at least once a week. Just me, a glass of wine, and that week's issue of The New Yorker. When you're constantly surrounded by people, often not by choice, it's really nice to just be with yourself. And who said that you have to do that in the privacy of your own home? Why not show people that you like yourself enough to hang out with yourself in public? Easier said than done, of course, but it can really be one of life's little pleasures.

Going to the movies solo was the next hurdle for me to get over. The trick, I've found, is to go during the off-times; that is, the times when not that many people are going to the theater. Sure, you're going to feel awkward being alone at the Friday night showing of the latest romantic comedy. Chances are you'd be the only one not participating in the classic dinner-and-a-movie combo with your Crush of the Week. So instead, why not go see it on Saturday at 2PM? Problem solved!

That's just what I did this past weekend, and it turns out the Saturday 2PM rom-com is the Single Girls' Showing. It was me and four other middle-aged women--all of us solo, all of us ready to learn "l'Art d'Aimer." It was nice. Sure, I didn't have anyone to exchange horrified looks with at some of the trailers for upcoming movies, but I didn't have to make unimportant small talk with anyone while waiting for the movie to start, either.

And, of course, once the movie starts, everyone, ideally, is alone. That's what I like about going to the movies. In the dark, once the story envelops its listeners, everyone enters into his or her own subjective little world. Everyone gets something different out of every single movie. The movie experience is shaped by your own personal worldview. It's often quite nice, after a movie, to discuss what you thought with others. But often, putting what you felt into words is nearly impossible. And most of the time, no one is going to feel exactly the same way you felt. Perhaps going to the movies is supposed to be enjoyed solo...?

Unfortunately, holding hands with myself is not quite as fun.

gratitude

heartbeatyoo on tumblr via weheartit

This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for.....

• my mama and my papa
• my beautiful friends
• Skype
• Spotify
• good music in general
• good wine
• ...and my ability to finish an entire bottle by myself
• smart, intelligent conversation
• inspiring people who believe in something & stand up for a cause
• funny people (and a sense of humor in general)
  
• the postal service
• yoga podcasts on iTunes
• all of these experiences in France

namely, meeting people from all over the world; being able to share my language and culture with some of the best kids ever; learning about the French language and culture from a really unique standpoint; eating some of the best food I've had in my life; learning about myself and my strengths and limitations;

...I could go on.

• travel discounts for people under 25
• travelling all over this beautiful world
• and the opportunity to take time to figure things out
• good books and good writers
• cute boys. and flirting.
  
• cassoulet and tartelettes au citron
• the fact that so many people I know are doing great things
• et cetera
  

I'm pretty damn lucky.

quelle heure est-il?

thelifeisforthosewhodream.tumblr.com

The concept, the idea of time is one that has been written about many, many times. It's been mulled over by poets such as T.S. Eliot in his wonderful Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

It has been immortalized in songs, such as Fly Like An Eagle, by Steve Miller Band:

Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'
Into the future...

I guess that since time is quite an abstract concept, it would make sense that each country and each culture has a different idea of what it means. Perhaps the biggest adjustment to life in France so far has been getting used to its definition.

In some cases, I completely and wholeheartedly support how the French think of time as a precious and personal commodity. For example: school holidays, taking two hours for lunch, etc. Just the other day, some fellow professors of mine were speaking very passionately and rapidly in the staff room. When I asked someone to slow it down for me (ha!) and explain, it turns out that they were absolutely flabbergasted that the students would no longer be able to have their usual twenty minute recess between classes in the afternoon. Normally, the French middle school schedule includes two brief recesses (one in the morning, one in the afternoon), and a longer lunch. Due to an overcrowded cafeteria, lunchtime will now be extended for half an hour...but in doing so, the afternoon recess disappears. I mentioned that in the States, students in middle school typically get a little less than an hour's break in the middle of the day, and that's it. I can't even begin to tell you the looks of horror that I got. "But how do you learn, how do you concentrate?" A very valid point, my friends.

So yes, perhaps the French are on to something good with their concept of time. Perhaps. Because as much as I appreciate luxuriously long lunches, I do not appreciate waiting three weeks for a debit card. Nor do I appreciate the amount of time and paperwork it takes to become a legitimate citizen and worker in this country. Efficient, the system is not. If you want something important to be done, be prepared to wait a while. It's difficult to adjust to, especially coming from New York City, where everyone is always speeding through things and getting everything accomplished quickly. In New York, everyone is always goingoingoing.

I just finished reading Peter Mayle's A Year In Provence, and he, too, experienced the difficulty of dealing with the French and their fluid notion of time. For him, it was a source of frustration that his villa in Provence was in a constant state of disrepair, thanks to the various upgrades that had to be done. "Soon, soon" the workers all promised, but no one would give him specific dates. Mayle decided to distract himself with the warm sun, with good food, and with fabulous wine...

On that note, I'm off to Bordeaux.

a few thoughts on loneliness

just some storys on weheartit

For the most part, I like being alone. I know that sounds weird, but I do. And I like being alone more than most people do. It probably has something to do with the fact that I am an only child. I’m used to being by myself, with only my thoughts and imagination. I like the company I keep. As those alcohol advertisements ask, yes, I would have a drink with me.

I don’t, however, like being lonely. There is a difference.

Being alone means being comfortable with being by oneself. Being alone is generally a choice. I chose to go to the café by myself to have a coffee, I chose to go on a walk by myself to clear my head, I chose to spend the evening at home with my tea lights and Netflix and glass of wine. Sometimes being alone is also very, very necessary, especially after a long day at work. Being lonely…well, I guess you could say being lonely is a choice as well. I can choose to put myself out there and make friends, or not. I can control things like that. But sometimes—I can’t help it—it feels like I can’t control those things. Sometimes the fine line between being alone and being lonely gets blurred. All of a sudden, after a wonderful afternoon spent in the company of me, myself and I, it becomes nighttime. And nighttime is typically the loneliest of times.

As Matt & Kim sing, “In the daylight, anywhere feels like home.” Days, especially beautiful sunny days, are easy. There are plenty of things to do, plenty of places to go; days are full of distractions. Then cafés start shutting down, the sun begins to set. Everyone goes home, to their families, to their lovers and friends. I go home to an empty room and hang out with my good friend iTunes. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours, tossing and turning because all I wanted was to share a story or two with somebody, and maybe (just maybe!) get a smile and a hug.

As much as I like hanging out with myself, I think it’s time to see other people. I’m not breaking up with you; I just think we need to take a break. It’s not you, it’s me.

…What?

bibliophilia

from weheartit.com

I've always been an avid reader and writer. Even when time doesn't permit the freedom to actually engage in those pursuits on a regular, meaningful level, I still keep up with my daily New York Times browsings and weekly New Yorker enlightenings. So yes, even though I am part of a generation for which the appreciation of the written word is dying, I continue to be drawn to reading. So much so, in fact, that I get overwhelmed sometimes.

Why overwhelmed? I am currently reading (or attempting to read, rather) David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. All 1,000 pages of it. I had heard from various people that every single sentence of Wallace's is constructed with such care that it literally changes your world view, with every punctuation mark, every syntax choice. A bold statement, my friends, so I decided to check it out for myself.

What I'm finding out, as I read sentences two or three times in order to be sure I have the gist of it, is that literature is art. Honestly. Not that I didn't realize that before, to an extent, but this book is different. As my friends had said, Wallace plays with and manipulates the English language so skillfully, in ways that I have not read or seen before. He uses sentence structures that are beyond my comprehension. I am reading with a pencil in my hand, underlining phrases I like (as I often do), but also circling the words whose meaning escapes me.

That, I think, is the most overwhelming part: the fact that there are so many words in this language that I will never know--and I thought my vocabulary was pretty good! (I like how I chose to use the word "good" there; I'm sure I could have come up with a more advanced synonym...right?) And yet, despite the vast number of words in the English language (over 200,000 entries in the OED, with more being added year after year as terms such as "unfriend" enter the popular lexicon) there are phenomena for which our language lacks a precise word.

Such as (thanks, StumbleUpon):

• l'esprit d'escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated, it means "the spirit of the staircase."
• waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.
• meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.
• forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.
• gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.
• pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.
• pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else's humiliation.
• cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

And yet, somehow, we get by. Somehow we can still communicate and understand each other, even though our language--and other languages--are imprecise. Imprecise yet indispensable. Where did all these words come from?

At the risk of becoming a pochemuchka, I will stop here--only to experience l'esprit d'escalier a bit later, I'm sure. Ah well. At least I meraki-d.