I
Once more, my bags are packed. On Wednesday morning, I leave for greener pastures: quieter neighborhoods where I might not be so shy about my French (it will most likely be better than the locals' English).
I have spent the last few days in a combination of moping, sleeping, packing, laundry and wandering my neighborhood. Unable to keep food inside this miserable house, I've faced the challenge of scratching for affordable sustenance several times a day. As a result, I walked for hours a day, to the point of mindless fatigue. My feet have hardened at the heels and baby toes; my lower back aches the moment I sling on my satchel.
And here's where the luxury of living here kicks in: if I want, I can stay in and listen to the beating of the rain against my window and skylight, finish off a 5 euro bottle of wine and a miraculous 1 euro slice of bûcheron chèvre that I squirreled away as contraband in my room, and watch back episodes of Mad Men.
II
Today was Laundry Day. The laundromats are shockingly expensive here--4 euro for a tiny load--so Amy and I loaded up our copious laundry (I had no more shirts or pants left) and managed to wedge it into three machines. The place was loaded with English speakers, either expats or long-stay tourists.
But carrying one's overflowing laundry hamper down the street in a ridiculous laundry-day outfit (linen capri pants, a second-day shirt with a flowy collar, a silk scarf and a duster length wool coat, finished off with ballet flats: with my blonde French braid, I looked like Mozart), one feels rather smug walking past the gawking tourists. It's the way I always feel when I come out of my doors in the morning and drop my keys into my bag. These little things mark me as a local.
It's becoming easier to blend in. I wear less makeup. I've even picked up a few new ways to wear a scarf.
Too bad the illusion is shattered as soon as I open my mouth.
III
Amy and I have agreed that we feel quite intelligent and continental when we are together and switch effortlessly between French and English. There's something quite appealing about chattering to each other in our mother tongue, then asking the proprietor of the cave for a recommendation in a petit Côtes du Rhône in nearly perfect French.
As there is about sitting next to American tourists at Angelina and switching back and forth during the course of our conversation, sometimes mid-sentence, with no trouble.
Very encouraging, too, to speak in both at an intimate dinner party of international students. Even if everyone else at the table spoke at least one more language than Amy and me. But we're native Anglophones; certainly that should earn us a bit of leniency in the multilingual department.
IV
Addicted to Ladurée macarons. I realize it's shamefully clichéd, but I promise you that they're the best I've yet tasted. In addition to the ordinary assortment--chocolate, butter caramel, pistachio, strawberry--they come in flavors like cassis and violet, orange blossom, rose petal, fig and date, mimosa. They also come in beautiful boxes that I plan to use later to package gifts.
It doesn't help that the 6ème location is about two blocks from my current residence, or that the premises are divinely cute.
In other food fetishes: wine, as expected. The French don't seem to have an equivalent of our Two-Buck-Chuck or Searidge, something churned in incredible bulk and meant for those who don't care what their wine tastes like. A p'tit rouge or p'tit blanc, a basic table or house wine, though nothing to write home about, tastes quite decent. One pretty much can't go wrong here, even with a 3 euro bottle, or a carafe of the house Bordeaux at the simplest café.
Finally: all things marron. Yes, chestnut.
I never really cared about chestnut in the States. I liked it well enough when it appeared in a dish or dessert by chance, but would never stop to order it. Here, where it's used much more frequently, I actively choose the flavor in yogurt, candies, spreads, desserts. I suppose it's a desire for something Different. Or perhaps it is treated with more respect here, which makes its applications more delicious.
V
Working on the novel, decent chunks yesterday and today. Had a large and messy epiphany about it after writing a difficult scene: that went out the window, along with other sizable chunks from elsewhere. I've gutted a large section of plot. But one must remove what does not ultimately belong in order to restore the whole body to health.
I think the most valuable thing about my MFA was that it taught me not to be afraid of revision. Not even if it means doubling my work.
VI
Haven't taken any pictures at all yet. I realize that, before I leave this house, I must document my haunts in this neighborhood. The weather, in sharp contrast to my halcyon, azure and fleecy-clouded first days here, has been dreary. But that's no excuse; in fact, overcast weather often makes for sharper pictures.
So I promise: tomorrow, I will play the zealous tourist and let you get lost with me for a while.
VII
Missing several people a great deal. If you're reading this and currently living in the United States, this most likely means you.
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