Strega Nona and the Exploding Cucina

Cooking pasta for the first time in my new place.

I feel a bit like Big Anthony.

Some of the other students at my residence and I have dinner together practically every night in the common kitchen. Everyone brings their own dinner and we talk for an hour or so about the day or our native countries, and inevitably plans are made. A pancake breakfast followed by a picnic at the park where we were annihilated with pantry staples during orientation week. Mass at the 801 year old cathedral. A week-long road trip around France.

I know I shouldn't wish to get used to this, that I should wander around for the next two years in a constant state of amazement and wonder. But I am getting used to it, and that too feels kind of nice. I'm not going to separate my life into wonderful bits and monotony.

For years, I wanted nothing more than to leave Southern California for the rest of the world. But when I watch people's eyes light up when I tell them where I'm from, images of the happiest and glitziest and sunniest place on the planet projected upon their minds, it occurs to me that ultimately, these dream destinations are just pieces of land that have grown abstract over the course of human civilization.

Waxing pseudo-philosophical, I know. I just mean that sure, France is France, with its romantic bready cheesy baggage. And how wonderful it is that I get to live here like it's not all of that, like it's just another place - another collection of dirt and plants and rock and humans and animals and insects - on a mass of rock and lava spinning in an edgeless vacuum.

Strega Nona and the Exploding Cucina

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Whirlwinds

I've been away for a long time, and I'm sorry.
But I have a really good excuse! Really, I do.

Have you ever been swept away by life - and I don't mean in a romantic way - where you barely have time to pause and reflect? Things are constantly happening and errands must be run and knowledge must be learned and friends must be made and how the hell am I supposed to make copies of my visa if I haven't received my student card for the copier yet.

Immigration is kind of a hassle. Even the temporary kind.

Still, everything's been a whirlwind of excitement and unexpected friendliness and brain stimulation.

I have no photos and no videos of it all, which, in today's world, seems like a serious loss. I'd rather see it as an indication of something extraordinary, something from which it is impossible to detach oneself.

I will, I think, find one weekend or another to take some photos.

Sometimes I think that this little old city, with its old ladies dragging wicker grocery carts and crumbling walls, is the ultimate gateway drug to the rest of Europe.

P.S. Last night, I dreamed that the director of PotC 4 had also made "Cars 2," and then I gave up on the fandom because of how low it had fallen.

Whirlwinds

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Look at All the Phoques I Give

I am suddenly overcome by a paralyzing fear of grocery shopping. It occurs to me that in a few weeks, I will be forced to find food in a foreign language.

How do I know I won't accidentally poison myself by adding detergent to my cereal?

With six years of French classes under my belt, you'd think reading labels would be easy. You are wrong. 

A few days ago I went in for my visa appointment. The guard said, "Bonjour." I replied in kind, because in stressful situations my brain reverts to mirroring. I once entered a store and welcomed the saleswoman who had just greeted me. 

Back to the guard. I thought this would be the end of it, but the terrifying snowball of simple conversation had begun its roll. He continued, "Ca va?" This shouldn't be too hard, I thought, this is French I stuff. But while I had the brainpower to think that entire sentence in the two second conversational pause, this is what came out of my mouth, "Ca va. Et tu?"

Et tu.

I had momentarily forgotten this was not a production of Julius Caesar. 

I've been worried about my linguistic abilities of late. Alternating to a new language, whose word for baby seal, phoque, offends me, is probably not a good idea (imagine the racy soap opera that would be my life as a French arctic conservationist). I can barely handle English.

A few months ago, I asked my sisters if they were hungry. 

Input: Are you hungry?                        Output: Ya huh?

I don't give a phoque. 

Well okay, maybe one. 

While volunteering for the LA Film Festival this year, I spent several hours opening theater doors. You learn a lot about people when you open doors for them, such as how embarrassed they are about having doors opened for them or how little etiquette their parents taught them or even the subjectivity of etiquette because what if thanking someone for opening a door isn't offensive somewhere in the world. I mean, some cultures have never created a wheel, because it was never necessary. 

Just let that sink in.

Responding to thanks is always nerve-wracking for me. Usually I just nod and hum two notes - Mm hmm - that I assume convey both humility and acceptance of their gratitude, because to do more would be asking too much of my anxiety-ridden mind. But here I was, a representative of the film festival. I had to put more effort into it, so I alternated between, "You're welcome," which Barney the dinosaur taught me, and "No problem," which I learned in middle school was what the cool kids said. The following is not an exact transcription.

You're welcome.

No problem.

You're welcome.

No problem.

You're welcome. 

No problem.

You're welcome.

No problem.

You're welcome.

No problem.

Your problem.

Help.

Look at All the Phoques I Give

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C'est la Vie

My molars have probably been reduced to half their size these past three months. I am a living mortar and pestle. Study in France, they said. You'll nibble at baguettes as you bike around the Eiffel Tower, a small mountain of croissants hidden in your beret, they said.

So far, my journey to the land of cheese, love, and ship-hair has not been so ideal. In addition to school registration and securing housing, I am in the midst of preparing paperwork for my visa.

If I ever get to be a tyrant or despot (a reasonable goal, I think), I will punish my enemies with forms.

Thou hast been sentenced to ten years

Fillingeth out forms

Thou shalt not maketh e'en one single mistake 

Thou shalt not createth e'en one unclear letter or number

Forsooth! If thou dost, thou shalt filleth out four of the same forms in its stead.

It's not that my fingers have cramped. It's not that my eyes are strained reading the fine print. It's that I always write my name on the line that says, "Name," then look down to the next line.

FIRST NAME

Every. Single. Time. 

C'est la Vie

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Forgive My Metaphors (They Know Not What They Do)

I take it back. Life isn't an emotional roller coaster.

If it is, how come I'm going through a creative high at the same time the hardest decision of my life so far hacks away at my spirit bit by bit?

Maybe life is a badly-designed set of monkey bars, with bars that hang higher than you can reach on the tips of your toes, then so low you could step onto them, and then both high and low at once?

I've lain awake into the wee hours of the morning every night of the past week. Glued to my bed, I'm forced to face my most pressing concerns. Insomnia wears me down, but I maybe secretly sort of look forward to each night? Because the hours just after midnight are now the magical hours, when the problems of an unlimited fictional universe dwarf my own. My notebook is littered with blindly jotted ideas.

On a side note, my mind dreamt up the coolest looking violin last night.

I mean, it sounded like a violin. It looked like someone had glued five washboards together and given them hinges. With horse hair strings connecting them.

P.S. If life is a box of chocolates, then I'm eating the one with lumpy nougat filling.

Forgive My Metaphors (They Know Not What They Do)

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