Chubby men in paint-splattered uniforms, scratched plastic goggles, and thick black ear muffs have been drilling the same piece of brick since I returned to work on Tuesday. On Thursday, a coworker likened their electric screwdrivers to the dental instrument that sucks out saliva and gum-flavored toothpaste. On Friday, the loan counselor resorted to popping pills for her headache and, yesterday, called in sick. Over the weekend, our new financial consultant lost her mother to kidney failure, and then the Financial Aid Coordinator decorated her office with pink and purple orchids. Today, our computer technician very likely burst a vein when glass chips pierced through her office window, while, a few steps away, my boss stares intensely at twenty-two colourful manouevering dots on a verdant expanse - otherwise known as the World Cup. This monotonous drill could be soothing if it were more rhythmically regular like the beeping of a reversing truck. But it is not. And now, it is drowning out the wavering voices of anxious parents who have resorted to selling the family cow to pay for an obligatory meal plan. In a twisted ironic sort of way, I've missed Student Financial Services, office of complaints and petitions, sore backs and flabby buttocks, frightened students and pissed-off parents. It's good to be back.
Leaving France is now a semi-opaque blur, summed up in two words: overweight suitcases. I was neither sad to bid farewell nor reluctant to do so. My last few weeks were spent drooling as I napped among roses and peonies at the Pavillon Vendome, and competing with naked old ladies in a 7-euro turquoise bikini, blue as the Mediterranean Sea. I suppose I added new meaning to the term "skinny-dipping" after devouring mile-long baguettes and herb-embellished goat cheese, baked salmon and grilled beef, and ancient wine and bubbly champagne for a glorious six months. I found redemption for awkward conversations with a question whose answer lay on the other side of the Atlantic: what are you going to miss most about France? It was a question that I myself struggled to answer, not because there was too much to miss but because there was too much I would not miss: the cigarettes between every forefinger and middle finger; the pizza delivery guy on his roaring motorcyle; the "ni hao!"s and blatant racial ignorance ("don't they still smoke opium in China?"); the literature class of pederasty, cursed cities, blasphemous depictions of Christ, suicidal writers, and film directors run over fifty times by a vehicle; the wannabe-popstar neighbours singing to Lady Gaga at 2AM before heading to the Wohoo for a drink or two, and the spiritual Sahara of religious cynicism, political secularism and a severely misunderstood Catholic church, weathered by decades of worldly politics and tainted by human sin.
As I settle into a full-time job on this side of the Atlantic, the things I miss about France are becoming painfully apparent. Instead of pain-aux-chocolats and croissants for breakfast, I'm living on Kellogg's and soggy carrots. Instead of the daily market buzz under my apartment, I wake up to the groan of a bright orange lawnmower driven by yet another chubby man with plastic goggles and ear muffs; the patterns he weaves across the field are, at best, pretty. Instead of fish and shrimp stalls under quaint ferries at the old port of Marseille and the Algerian in his long African gown selling wooden rabbits and African masks, I find myself pushing a metal trolley around Roche Bros, bumping into angry old men with tubes in their noses, refraining from spitting out the cubes of free American cheese, and avoiding pale minced beef.
At social gatherings, the first thing intellectuals often ask me after noticing a discord between my epicanthic folds, accent and residency status is: where's home? After six months of early retirement and an uncouth awakening to the "real world," this question doesn't get any easier to answer. No, France is not home, at least not for me. England isn't either. Boston could come close. Some even say that home is simply where the heart is. Well, I say that life is a jaunt. I am a nomad, and my home is in Heaven.
Would you care to join me?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Man
A wrinkly old homeless man sits on the edge of my street. He sits in the same place, in the same position, with the same little paper-cup torn around the edges and the same smile. Unlike the other homeless people, he doesn't beg, doesn't stretch out his hands and cry, "please, mademoiselle, please!" as he sees you approaching from afar. He simply nods and replies, "Eh, bonjour" when I greet him with, "Bonjour, Monsieur!"
And yet, what irony it is, that he might be the only homeless person that I have seen and have neglected to give food or money to. How easy it is to respond to outright humiliation than to humility, to begging than to patience, to loud cries and gesture than to a peaceful nod.
Today, on my way to the local market to stock up on the week's groceries, we exchanged greetings ("Bonjour, Monsieur!" "Eh, bonjour"); I walked on, and he stayed in the same place. But on my way back, I accidentally ignored him as I was hauling 2 kilos of fresh strawberries and a multicoloured array of plastic bags past his eyes.
For lunch, I made a chicken-and-sweetcorn sandwich and a tossed salad. As I was crunching on my salad and staring at the sandwich, God challenged me: "Go out and give that man your sandwich." I knew that my sense of hunger was only a tip-of-the-tongue taste of what the homeless man feels daily. I was filled with the desire to ask the man what he wanted to eat, to invite him to dinner with me at a cosy restaurant, and love on him. I wanted to ask him what brought him here, where he was before, how he feels to be sitting on his behind all day. I wanted to tell him that I admired him for crouching on the ground for so long, waiting patiently. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry for not helping him sooner. I wanted to help him find a job. I wanted to tell him to order anything on the menu and as much as he wanted, even though I have overdrafted this month.
But, I didn't. I finished my salad and ate the sandwich; I am writing about what I was thinking of doing but never did.
On Mondays, I don't have class. It's a day where I have all the time in the world to talk to homeless people, homeless people who don't exist in the serenity of Wellesley. But, I'm not doing that today. Why? Frankly, because I'm afraid. My French isn't good enough either. I know that I'll just forget everything I want to say and just tell him to follow Jesus. I want to be a good witness. I want to be an instrument of peace. But, why this fear? Why this discouragement, all of a sudden?
I am so used to passing homeless people, greeting them at most with a smile and a look in the eyes. But, rarely have I stopped to talk to them. And yet, of all the times that God has said "I AM WITH YOU" in the Bible, hasn't it been most of all at times like these, when we struggle with fear, when we are stepping into the unknown, when we are grasping for his hand in the dark, when natural disasters like a volcanic eruption on an island we rarely think about causes the entire world to stop?
God, let me be an instrument of your peace. Grant me your courage and your wisdom as I step out as the bearer of your image and try to love just a little bit like the way you love me.
And yet, what irony it is, that he might be the only homeless person that I have seen and have neglected to give food or money to. How easy it is to respond to outright humiliation than to humility, to begging than to patience, to loud cries and gesture than to a peaceful nod.
Today, on my way to the local market to stock up on the week's groceries, we exchanged greetings ("Bonjour, Monsieur!" "Eh, bonjour"); I walked on, and he stayed in the same place. But on my way back, I accidentally ignored him as I was hauling 2 kilos of fresh strawberries and a multicoloured array of plastic bags past his eyes.
For lunch, I made a chicken-and-sweetcorn sandwich and a tossed salad. As I was crunching on my salad and staring at the sandwich, God challenged me: "Go out and give that man your sandwich." I knew that my sense of hunger was only a tip-of-the-tongue taste of what the homeless man feels daily. I was filled with the desire to ask the man what he wanted to eat, to invite him to dinner with me at a cosy restaurant, and love on him. I wanted to ask him what brought him here, where he was before, how he feels to be sitting on his behind all day. I wanted to tell him that I admired him for crouching on the ground for so long, waiting patiently. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry for not helping him sooner. I wanted to help him find a job. I wanted to tell him to order anything on the menu and as much as he wanted, even though I have overdrafted this month.
But, I didn't. I finished my salad and ate the sandwich; I am writing about what I was thinking of doing but never did.
On Mondays, I don't have class. It's a day where I have all the time in the world to talk to homeless people, homeless people who don't exist in the serenity of Wellesley. But, I'm not doing that today. Why? Frankly, because I'm afraid. My French isn't good enough either. I know that I'll just forget everything I want to say and just tell him to follow Jesus. I want to be a good witness. I want to be an instrument of peace. But, why this fear? Why this discouragement, all of a sudden?
I am so used to passing homeless people, greeting them at most with a smile and a look in the eyes. But, rarely have I stopped to talk to them. And yet, of all the times that God has said "I AM WITH YOU" in the Bible, hasn't it been most of all at times like these, when we struggle with fear, when we are stepping into the unknown, when we are grasping for his hand in the dark, when natural disasters like a volcanic eruption on an island we rarely think about causes the entire world to stop?
God, let me be an instrument of your peace. Grant me your courage and your wisdom as I step out as the bearer of your image and try to love just a little bit like the way you love me.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Enough
...complaining, sadness, despondency of heavy heart, desire for what is not mine, greed, laziness, méchanceté, deceit.
I will rejoice. I will be glad. I am content. Today's a sunny day even if it rains.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Par Hasard
You don't need to learn about human trafficking to know the depravity of human nature.
In my solitude, I have lost the ability to make friends. They have forgotten me.
But self-pity devours the soul.
So I will sit still and wait. I will watch the same birds diving up and down the same piece of azure, in and out of the same cotton ball of gray, until the cage door opens and I believe that I can fly.
***
In my solitude, I have lost the ability to make friends. They have forgotten me.
But self-pity devours the soul.
So I will sit still and wait. I will watch the same birds diving up and down the same piece of azure, in and out of the same cotton ball of gray, until the cage door opens and I believe that I can fly.
***
What do you do during your last seven weeks in a city to which you'll never return, a country in which you'll never reside, a culture you never understood, people who were never close enough to be called friends?
***
Are you afraid of loneliness?
***
Childhood friends are dating. Current friends are marrying. Honeymoon at sunset. Happy Anniversary. Congratulations.
I still don't know what he looks like or smells like, if he snores when he sleeps, slurps when he eats, and taps the steering wheel to every beat on the radio.
I still don't know what he looks like or smells like, if he snores when he sleeps, slurps when he eats, and taps the steering wheel to every beat on the radio.
Is my hair not yet long enough for him to rescue me from the tower? Have I not yet slept long enough for him to gallop to my side and kiss me awake? Must I eat the poisonous apple and die before he can give me life?
Indeed, I am neither Rapunzel nor Sleeping Beauty nor Snow White. But will mine be a fairy tale or a tragedy, a dream or reality?
***
My sense of entitlement must be revolting.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Living Cemetery
The day after the roof top experience, I joined the group for a hike. We ended up in a dainty uninhabited village with a tiny graveyard. I meandered past the few tombstones and discovered that this was the burial place of some of the persecuted French protestants during Louis XIV's anti-protestantism purge. I found a mother and her son buried next to each other, the mother's tombstone embellished with "Dieu est amour" (God is love) while her son's "l'Eternel est mon berger" (the Lord is my shepherd). I passed two other tombstones and found buried side-by-side Monsieur and Madame de Cazenove (most likely related to the still-living Monsieur de Cazenove) also with their favorite verses neatly engrained in the marble.
I've always been afraid of cemeteries, where dead bodies decay under fertile soil. Yet, as I wandered past the tombstones of these children of God, the peace I felt literally transcended understanding. I was reacting so contrary to nature that I was confused.
Later on, though, I realized the tangible verity of eternal life. I had felt such comforting peace because I had, in fact, been walking among the living.
Rooftop at Night
During the first night at the castle, one of the Youth Interns took me up to the highest point of the castle: the attic library. We climbed up the "Blistery Tower," stumbled across the roof in the rain, and mounted another flight of wooden stairs. I heard his voice but could not see him, for the room was darker than night. I heard him walk on before me with his hands stretched out in front of him like a zombie, mumbling, "If I remember correctly, the light switch is...here."
As if at the snap of a finger, light flooded the room, evaded the darkness, and brought sight. There, in front of us, sat five enormous wooden chests of age-old letters batched together with crispy ropes, tattered Bibles and dusty New Testament books, and stained newspapers with headlines about the economy during the Great Depression. He couldn't contain himself, opening up one chest after another, grabbing one book after another from the faithful old shelf, and calling me over to see a Bible from the 1400s or a geology textbook from the 1600s or a wrinkled black-and-white photo from the war. I had no words to say; I tried to capture the room with my camera. But neither words nor pictures could justify the verity of history.
We came down from the attic and stopped to crawl on top of the roof. There, we stood in wonder, staring at the dimly-lit towns situated on top of precarious cliffs in the distance. Nothing disturbed the silence except the light breeze in our hair, the gentle rain pitter-pattering on our jackets, and my occasional snifffle. If I had found a sleeping bag, I would have slept on the roof in the rain that night. I just did not want to come down.
***
Some say that the hardest part of a hike is the ascension but at the top you'll find that the view was worth all the pain, sweat and blood.
No, I disagree.
The hardest part, in fact, is leaving the solitude, peace, and beauty of the peak and returning to endless deadlines, superficial coffee dates and unproductive meetings, to our broken friendships of jealousy, selfish ambition and betrayals, to the attractive model who vomits herself skinny and cries herself to sleep, to the wealthy businessman who drinks himself to sleep, to the drug-dealers who wake up screaming from a nightmare, to beggars whose helpless eyes we avoid. The hardest part is having to leave somewhere seemingly perfect for a descent towards what often feels like Hell.
No, I disagree.
The hardest part, in fact, is leaving the solitude, peace, and beauty of the peak and returning to endless deadlines, superficial coffee dates and unproductive meetings, to our broken friendships of jealousy, selfish ambition and betrayals, to the attractive model who vomits herself skinny and cries herself to sleep, to the wealthy businessman who drinks himself to sleep, to the drug-dealers who wake up screaming from a nightmare, to beggars whose helpless eyes we avoid. The hardest part is having to leave somewhere seemingly perfect for a descent towards what often feels like Hell.
And yet, wasn't that what Jesus did for us? Jesus, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, who has no need for the selfish love, meager help, and superficial praise of human beings, chose to give up His heavenly crown for a crown of thorns, give up His throne of glory to die naked on the cross, give up His power to save himself for man's powerlessness in the face of death.
Why, Jesus, why? Why did you die for people like me, who profess to always remember you and yet forget you, who promise to obey you and yet disobey you, who are willing to listen to your voice and yet ignore you, who tells others to trust in you and yet doubt you ourselves, who condemn Peter for denying you three times and yet deny you daily? Why do you love people like me, who hide your glory, who steal your fame, who take the credit for what you've done, simply for our own fifteen minutes?
And yet I hear you say, "so that by my crown of thorns, you worship a God not of gold or silver but of humility and sacrificial love. So that by my shameful death on the cross, you are no longer held hostage by guilt, shame and self-condemnation. So that by giving up the power to save my own life, I save you and give you eternal life."
If you find another King like Jesus, another God like my God, I will give you my soul. For now, my entirety belongs to Him.
Octogenarian Bachelor
To mark the beginning of my third month in France, I spent the weekend on a church retreat in Cevennes, a mountainous region about two hours outside of Aix-en-Provence. We stayed in Monsieur de Cazenove's fifteenth century stone castle, ate cereal and drank English tea in a fifteenth century dining hall with gold-framed portraits of fifteenth-century ancestors, played Apples to Apples with the kids in front a crackling temperamental fifteenth-century fireplace, fell asleep to the muffled piano melody of "Humoresque" seeping through the walls, and floated off to Lala-land on fifteenth-century pillows.
Still a bachelor in his late seventies (or eighties), Monsieur de Cazenove lives alone, spending most of his time in his petite study room, decorated with Persian rugs and Chinese tapestry, the walls lined with hardback novels, dusty science textbooks from the Enlightenment period ("Lumières"), and Bibles dating all the way back to the 1400s. On his desk rest a glass of red wine and a plate of stale bread and melting cheese.
After dinner on the first evening, I went on a search for this humble figure and finally found him at the castle entrance digging through another stash of books. I slowly approached him from behind, whispering, "Monsieur de Cazenove?" but he didn't seem to hear me. I cleared my throat and tried again, but to no avail. Finally, I forked up enough courage to shout at the old man: "MONSIEUR DE CAZENOVE." He immediately spun around, and I felt presumptuous.
I tip-toed forward awkwardly, my fingers laced together, like those of a nervous bride walking down the aisle. His gentle grey eyes looked down at me, waiting patiently for my question. I attempted to smile but my dry lips stuck to my teeth. I smiled again, this time asking: "Est-ce que vous connaissez Wellesley College?" I wanted to know if his family had anything to do with the Cazenove dorm that I had been living in for the past three years. His eyes shifted to the side as he tried to make sense of what I had said. I had most likely butchered every word, even "Wellesley College," which I had tried to pronounce in a French accent.
"Ah! Wellesley!" I could almost hear the snap of the light switch in his brain, as our language barrier crumbled and fell onto the cold stone steps. "Venez, venez." He beckoned me to follow him. I almost curtsied, but then I remembered that we were in 2010.
Monsieur de Cazenove muttered to himself as he dug through his pile of magazines and newspapers. Finally, out of the sporadic mutterings came an epiphanic "Ah ha!" He handed me a 2006 issue of the Wellesley magazine and told me to flip to page 5. A black-and-white photo of a smiling Monsieur de Cazenove flanked by two Wellesley women on each side reflected the dim candle light. The girls had studied abroad in France on the Wellesley-in-Aix program and, on their return, had written an article entitled "The Cazenove Connection."
I've never wondered why I was assigned to the Cazenove dorm my first year, never wondered why I stubbornly wanted to stay in the same dorm. Sometimes, some things in life just remind me of how short-sighted I am as a human being and how far God sees into the future. Sometimes, some things in life remind me of how witty God is. His sense of humour has no comparison.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Confession
To those of you who I have misled into
thinking that "Marianne is having such a great time in France!", I
lied.
To those of you at home (wherever that is), at Wellesley, at work, at church, who might be thinking that I have forgotten all about you and don't need you and don't care about our friendship: please don't believe it.
To those of you who think that study abroad is a break from school: prepare to dive into real life and swim as fast as you can.
Recently, a conversation gave me the opportunity to summarize the past three weeks:
":) Hope France is going well :)"
"Thanks! It's harder than I expected it to be, but God is good! =)" I replied, trying to sound positive.
"Harder academically, or what?"
To those of you at home (wherever that is), at Wellesley, at work, at church, who might be thinking that I have forgotten all about you and don't need you and don't care about our friendship: please don't believe it.
To those of you who think that study abroad is a break from school: prepare to dive into real life and swim as fast as you can.
Recently, a conversation gave me the opportunity to summarize the past three weeks:
":) Hope France is going well :)"
"Thanks! It's harder than I expected it to be, but God is good! =)" I replied, trying to sound positive.
"Harder academically, or what?"
"Harder everything really.
Relationally, it’s been hard to forge close
intimate friendships with the time given and the relatively more closed French
culture. I've also had a hard time getting along with one of my closer friends
who has hurt me a lot since we got to France and has refused to apologize for
any of it but becomes defensive or nonchalant each time we talk about it.
Academically, it's been straining and discouraging
too. The classes have been disappointing and very long (3 hours each) but at
the same time I can't seem to be able to write a French essay the way it should
be written (they have a very strict structure). I recently switched out of one
of my literature courses because it was just too disorganized, the professor
hardly taught anything, and the books and one film we discussed had to do with
homosexuality, pederasty, men raping infants, betrayal of people and of owns
own country, and all-around blasphemy. As much as I tried to read the books
from the point of view of a literary critique, I found myself shouting
"shut up" every two pages of one of the books.
Spiritually, I have been okay. God has been sustaining
me although I often feel like He loves and blesses other people more than He
loves me, especially the friend or sister in Christ whom I don't talk to
anymore, whom people at the French church seek out by asking me. Sometimes,
when I'm tilting my buttocks up in the air to avoid sitting on the
toilet-seat-less and soap-less toilets at the university, I evaluate my life
and feel like I'm in Hell. But, sometimes, I'm just so happy to be away from
everything and alone with God in this desert, this hiding place, where only God
only witnesses everything. I feel like God has made this time in France a time
for Him to get rid of a lot of my fears, pride, selfish ambitions and desires.
I think that, through these disappointments by friends and human beings and how
none of my friends can help me when I need help, He wants me to depend on Him
and Him alone, to find my source of strength and comfort and confidence in Him,
to step out in faith in Him and not in myself and definitely not in other
people. With that said, I find it very tempting to simply trust no-one which is
no better than trusting everyone.
All in all, God is answering my prayers, which I
prayed without knowing their impact and seriousness. Right now, I just
want a break or a chance to start over or a way to get out of the sticky
situations I've squeezed myself into. And above all I would love a renewed
passion for the French language and French culture.
Luckily, I'm going on a church retreat with the
English-speaking international church this weekend so I'm praying that i will
come back refreshed and recharged and rejoicing, ready to tackle my first
midterm (3 hours) and finish up the last 10 weeks in France with a bang."*
Voila, my real study abroad experience. Off to
pack now. In two hours, I will have wings to fly away from this cage, this
broken rollercoaster stuck in mid-air, this choke on a fish-bone, this burp
while you're sneezing, this cough while you're yawning, this constipation, this
numbness and lackluster passivity of heart, mind, and soul.
God, start the engine. God, rekindle the flame.
God, breathe life into me.
*Edited
Mono-
After my history class in Marseille on Wednesday, I
saw the little girl with the pink t-shirt and bright green trousers again,
except this time she was wearing a navy blue t-shirt and loose tan trousers,
second-hand clothes from a brother or a male cousin, perhaps.
***
Before muddy green mold starts growing on my blog, I shall submit another post of redemption.
Recently, I have found little motivation to write. As the novelty of tourism wears off like steam condensing on a bathroom mirror, I have begun to see myself more clearly from a French perspective.
I am in foreign country, a more-or-less monocultural country, a country where assimilation has replaced integration, where Asia and Africa are countries, where hyphenated identities do not exist, where my epicanthic folds, onion nose, and flat pancake of a face not only define my ethnicity, my culture, and my language, but also immediately stuff me in a box along with students from Mainland China, the Korean boss of the Cantonese-Korean-Japanese-Vietnamese restaurant, as well as the splatter of Cambodian, Indonesian, Filipino, and Malaysian immigrants.
Here, in France, everything is
one-dimensional. Mono-identity, mono-cultural, mono-ethnic. Even the big and
famous national Target-imitation is called Monoprix. (The other one is entitled
Carrefour, meaning crossroads. Another big convenience store is called Casino,
probably because you have to gamble all your money away on the week's groceries
and a packet of cigarettes. The best way to understand the state of a society
or a country is by looking at the names of its supermarkets and convenience
stores.)
I recently participated in a French cooking class where I learned how to peel potatoes, chop eggplants, crush garlic, and create the most important element of a Provencal salad: the vinaigrette. While waiting for the concoction to flourish in the oven, I tackled the awkward silence by asking the chef a question that I pose to every successful career professional: did you always want to be a cook (or a doctor, lawyer, social activist, painter…)?
The most interesting part of the conversation went like this:
"Oh, you know, I have a Japanese assistant." She winks at me.
"Ah!" I reply in a surprised tone.
"And, I also have a Vietnamese friend. They're so wonderful!" She beams at me, showing her gold molar.
"Ah!" I beam back at her.
I recently participated in a French cooking class where I learned how to peel potatoes, chop eggplants, crush garlic, and create the most important element of a Provencal salad: the vinaigrette. While waiting for the concoction to flourish in the oven, I tackled the awkward silence by asking the chef a question that I pose to every successful career professional: did you always want to be a cook (or a doctor, lawyer, social activist, painter…)?
The most interesting part of the conversation went like this:
"Oh, you know, I have a Japanese assistant." She winks at me.
"Ah!" I reply in a surprised tone.
"And, I also have a Vietnamese friend. They're so wonderful!" She beams at me, showing her gold molar.
"Ah!" I beam back at her.
***
Granted, I have taken this opportunity to discover
my roots, buying tofu, soy sauce, black vinegar and sesame oil from the local
Asian products store and resisting the temptation to ask for the rice cooker on
the highest shelf. The store also sells other "oriental" products,
such as pancakes from Lebanon, Turkish delights, curry powder, Tunisian pastry,
figs, dates, dried prunes, apricots, almonds, peanuts, rice, cornmeal, and
Provencale desserts. At the beginning of the semester, I thanked God for this
shop. But, since then, due to bad service, I have vowed never to return. Here
is an example of bad service:
I, the trusting customer prepared to give away some hard-earned money, grab a brown paper bag to fill it with rice from China.
"Madame, madame!" His voice explodes from the other end of the store, accompanied by heavy mono-rhythmic footsteps, polluting the tranquil aroma of curry and ginger. "No, you cannot do that. We do that."
"Ah! Ok."
He snatches the little brown bag from my hands. Stunned, I thank him, thinking he's going to scoop me some rice. But he plunges the scooper into the sack of basmati rice, twists it closed, and holds it up to another customer. "Enough?"
I decide to make for the cashier and leave as soon as I could. The other shopkeeper, a very kind lady, asks him, "Are you helping this young lady (me)?"
"No." He shouts back.
She leads me over to the rice and scoops a sack-full of Chinese rice and heads back to the cashier with me. I ended up not buying anything because they weren't willing to accept credit card payments for anything under 10 euros.
I, the trusting customer prepared to give away some hard-earned money, grab a brown paper bag to fill it with rice from China.
"Madame, madame!" His voice explodes from the other end of the store, accompanied by heavy mono-rhythmic footsteps, polluting the tranquil aroma of curry and ginger. "No, you cannot do that. We do that."
"Ah! Ok."
He snatches the little brown bag from my hands. Stunned, I thank him, thinking he's going to scoop me some rice. But he plunges the scooper into the sack of basmati rice, twists it closed, and holds it up to another customer. "Enough?"
I decide to make for the cashier and leave as soon as I could. The other shopkeeper, a very kind lady, asks him, "Are you helping this young lady (me)?"
"No." He shouts back.
She leads me over to the rice and scoops a sack-full of Chinese rice and heads back to the cashier with me. I ended up not buying anything because they weren't willing to accept credit card payments for anything under 10 euros.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Pink T-shirt and Bright Green Trousers
And so begins the second month of life in downtown Aix-en-Provence, amidst the hustle and bustle of people in a rush, vibrating cell phones, beeps of cashier machines, yells of market venders, the splish-splash of ancient water fountains, deep groans of the faithful old bell in the bell-tower under construction...invisible, monotonous, obscure to the local villager. Here, ignored for so long that they become unseen, are the relics of history, of the blood of martyrs; the fragrance of philosophers, idealists, dreamers, kings, queens, and artists fighting to paint into being each of their dreams in an oblivious reality. Nobody notices the ground, that hellish piece of grey below, contaminated with decaying fish guts and putrifying flesh of cows and discoloured rotting spinach.
Half-an-hour away, in France's port capital, Marseille, the oldest and most diverse city in France, nobody notices the ground either, neither the Algerian immigrants nor the chubby Muslim man selling his deathly sweet Tunisian pastry. This afternoon, the weather decided to surprise us and began splattering us with a confetti of rain - rain on your wedding day. The group of us decided to stop off at the Tunisian bakery and find shelter. As I waited for the others to enter, I peered through the glass window at chewy pink powdered cubes, ginormous coconut macaroons with bright red cherries on top, thick orange webs of sticky fried dough, diamonds of baclavas, chunky brown almond cakes...mum, voila the new Harrods of Tunisien pastry.
I lurched back in self-defense, certain a cursed thief had been slitting a hole in my pink fluorescent bag.
She leaned lazily against the window, dressed in a tiny pink t-shirt and bright green cotton trousers. Mud, dust and dirt embellished her little tanned cheeks, her cherry-sized lips cracked. Her eyes caught mine: eyes so pitiful, so fearful, so beautiful. I looked at her for a long time. Long black eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings; two thin furry caterpillars above her eyelids wrinkled and dipped away from each other to form an upside down "V." She turned to peer through the window, her tiny fingers wrapped around the sides of her head. She looked at me and pointed to the chunky brown almond cakes, mumbling inaudibly.
"Tu veux quoi?" I leaned towards her to ask her what she wanted.
"Ça." She pointed again to the cake behind the glass now steaming up, as more people entered and the confetti of rain turned into a fridge.
"D'accord." I opened the shop door and looked at her. She stood upright, fear turning into hope. Where were her parents? I wondered.
"Ou sont tes parents?"
"Ils ne sont pas la," came the squeaky reply. Perfect answer - vague as a black dot on white canvas.
The others were inside, waiting for me. I looked at her for the last time, before I swallowed, looked down, and went in. The chubby waiter in a white coat came over with a tiny ceramic plate and metal tongs, ready to capture my pastry at the point of a finger. I walked over to the brown almond cakes and caught her leaning against the glass door. The sky was falling, white clouds greying like Benjamin Button's hair. She was still waiting.
"I never give anything to them. It's all a scam."
"I just wish I could do something to help them in the long-term."
"I saw him smoking."
"I was gonna buy something for her too."
"They usually get fed."
"I would buy her something healthier."
I didn't know whether to leave immediately with the cake, or if it was impolite, or if I seemed like a goody-two-shoes to my friends. The chubby waiter stood opposite me, watching me as I picked at my coconut macaroon, pride and shame dueling inside my head, my heart cascading down Niagara Falls.
"The time it takes us to debate whether or not it's a scam, or how or if we can do anything long-term, or what they're going to spend the money on...a hungry person might have died..." I piped up, as I choked on my coconut macaroon, always arguing against everybody else, alone with my own little convictions, Miss Goody Two Shoes.
Silence. "...Or something," I added.
As hard as it was to move during the awkward silence, I decided to let the talkers talk. I wrapped the brown almond cake in some tissue, pushed my chair back as it scraped the colourful mosaic below with a screech, and stepped outside. A gust of wind blew my head to the right. Nobody. I forced my head to the left. Nobody. With a sigh of guilt and defeat, I returned to the table and looked at the cubes and oblongs and coconut macaroons and glazed cherries. Just a little too late.
"She wasn't there?"
I couldn't cry in a Tunisian restaurant. (I couldn't cry in a restaurant, period. With the exception of Chinese restaurants when the food is...) But the clouds seemed to understand. Their tears slid off black, brown, pink, green, red, blue, black, white, and stained the streets, hanging mini-Christmas lights outside shop windows and dropping pearls on peony petals.
With my unfinished coconut macaroon and untouched brown almond cake, I stepped out into the rain, looking for her one last time. She had disappeared. Nobody had noticed her, this girl who lives off the ground and who lives on the ground. I saw her fear turn into hope when I had said "d'accord" and agreed to buy her a cake. I witnessed her patience for that piece of almond cake. But I didn't see her disappointment.
In downtown Aix-en-Provence, in Marseille, in big bustling cities, in concrete jungles of shooting skyscrapers populated by caffeinated robots, inside the trains worming through underground tunnels populated by wide-eyed corpses, in every street where obese elbows rub together and elephant legs jostle and shuffle, where the morning newspaper tumbles from a pot belly and hairy swollen fingers and hovers unrecycled without destiny...where are the human beings?
Where are they, the sculptor's masterpieces, princes and princesses of his glorious breathtaking eternal kingdom where unconditional love, undeniable truth, and unabandoned grace reign? Where are they, the human beings to whom He gave not simply a skeleton but a heart, a soul, the breath of Life? To whom He gave freely what was never deserved, for whom His hands and feet were pierced, veins bursting, nerves splitting, bones shattering, knives through flesh? Where is the giving of what is not deserved? Where is Love?
Have we forgotten that nothing makes us more deserving of that brown almond cake than the little girl with muddy cheeks? Have our brains stolen our hearts? Have our desires for wealth, sex, and glory overtaken us so deeply that we have lost our souls along with our dignity, our virginity, and our identity? I refuse to believe it. I just refuse to believe it.
Maybe I'm a dreamer in an oblivious reality. Or maybe, there's hope.
*****
Afterthoughts
1) For all the sans-abris ("without-shelter") out there:
"In the shelter of your presence you hide them from the intrigues of men;
in your dwelling you keep them safe from accusing tongues." Psalm 31:20
2) If it rains on your wedding day, it's not bad luck. True love beats rain any day. Especially, one would hope, on your wedding day. That said, I hope to get married under the sun, which could be anywhere - even Antarctica. But I digress.
3) French dressing, albeit scrumptious, is in fact not French. I cannot find it anywhere, not even the local Monoprix.
4) I finally bought one of those naked grilled chickens spinning on a metal pole at the Halal boucherie. The poor thing was the last one there, alone in the infernal oven, before I saved it for 5,50 euros...and shredded it for my salad dinner.
Half-an-hour away, in France's port capital, Marseille, the oldest and most diverse city in France, nobody notices the ground either, neither the Algerian immigrants nor the chubby Muslim man selling his deathly sweet Tunisian pastry. This afternoon, the weather decided to surprise us and began splattering us with a confetti of rain - rain on your wedding day. The group of us decided to stop off at the Tunisian bakery and find shelter. As I waited for the others to enter, I peered through the glass window at chewy pink powdered cubes, ginormous coconut macaroons with bright red cherries on top, thick orange webs of sticky fried dough, diamonds of baclavas, chunky brown almond cakes...mum, voila the new Harrods of Tunisien pastry.
a gentle tug at the hem of my dress
I lurched back in self-defense, certain a cursed thief had been slitting a hole in my pink fluorescent bag.
She leaned lazily against the window, dressed in a tiny pink t-shirt and bright green cotton trousers. Mud, dust and dirt embellished her little tanned cheeks, her cherry-sized lips cracked. Her eyes caught mine: eyes so pitiful, so fearful, so beautiful. I looked at her for a long time. Long black eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings; two thin furry caterpillars above her eyelids wrinkled and dipped away from each other to form an upside down "V." She turned to peer through the window, her tiny fingers wrapped around the sides of her head. She looked at me and pointed to the chunky brown almond cakes, mumbling inaudibly.
"Tu veux quoi?" I leaned towards her to ask her what she wanted.
"Ça." She pointed again to the cake behind the glass now steaming up, as more people entered and the confetti of rain turned into a fridge.
"D'accord." I opened the shop door and looked at her. She stood upright, fear turning into hope. Where were her parents? I wondered.
"Ou sont tes parents?"
"Ils ne sont pas la," came the squeaky reply. Perfect answer - vague as a black dot on white canvas.
The others were inside, waiting for me. I looked at her for the last time, before I swallowed, looked down, and went in. The chubby waiter in a white coat came over with a tiny ceramic plate and metal tongs, ready to capture my pastry at the point of a finger. I walked over to the brown almond cakes and caught her leaning against the glass door. The sky was falling, white clouds greying like Benjamin Button's hair. She was still waiting.
"I never give anything to them. It's all a scam."
"I just wish I could do something to help them in the long-term."
"I saw him smoking."
"I was gonna buy something for her too."
"They usually get fed."
"I would buy her something healthier."
I didn't know whether to leave immediately with the cake, or if it was impolite, or if I seemed like a goody-two-shoes to my friends. The chubby waiter stood opposite me, watching me as I picked at my coconut macaroon, pride and shame dueling inside my head, my heart cascading down Niagara Falls.
"The time it takes us to debate whether or not it's a scam, or how or if we can do anything long-term, or what they're going to spend the money on...a hungry person might have died..." I piped up, as I choked on my coconut macaroon, always arguing against everybody else, alone with my own little convictions, Miss Goody Two Shoes.
Silence. "...Or something," I added.
As hard as it was to move during the awkward silence, I decided to let the talkers talk. I wrapped the brown almond cake in some tissue, pushed my chair back as it scraped the colourful mosaic below with a screech, and stepped outside. A gust of wind blew my head to the right. Nobody. I forced my head to the left. Nobody. With a sigh of guilt and defeat, I returned to the table and looked at the cubes and oblongs and coconut macaroons and glazed cherries. Just a little too late.
"She wasn't there?"
I couldn't cry in a Tunisian restaurant. (I couldn't cry in a restaurant, period. With the exception of Chinese restaurants when the food is...) But the clouds seemed to understand. Their tears slid off black, brown, pink, green, red, blue, black, white, and stained the streets, hanging mini-Christmas lights outside shop windows and dropping pearls on peony petals.
With my unfinished coconut macaroon and untouched brown almond cake, I stepped out into the rain, looking for her one last time. She had disappeared. Nobody had noticed her, this girl who lives off the ground and who lives on the ground. I saw her fear turn into hope when I had said "d'accord" and agreed to buy her a cake. I witnessed her patience for that piece of almond cake. But I didn't see her disappointment.
In downtown Aix-en-Provence, in Marseille, in big bustling cities, in concrete jungles of shooting skyscrapers populated by caffeinated robots, inside the trains worming through underground tunnels populated by wide-eyed corpses, in every street where obese elbows rub together and elephant legs jostle and shuffle, where the morning newspaper tumbles from a pot belly and hairy swollen fingers and hovers unrecycled without destiny...where are the human beings?
Where are they, the sculptor's masterpieces, princes and princesses of his glorious breathtaking eternal kingdom where unconditional love, undeniable truth, and unabandoned grace reign? Where are they, the human beings to whom He gave not simply a skeleton but a heart, a soul, the breath of Life? To whom He gave freely what was never deserved, for whom His hands and feet were pierced, veins bursting, nerves splitting, bones shattering, knives through flesh? Where is the giving of what is not deserved? Where is Love?
Have we forgotten that nothing makes us more deserving of that brown almond cake than the little girl with muddy cheeks? Have our brains stolen our hearts? Have our desires for wealth, sex, and glory overtaken us so deeply that we have lost our souls along with our dignity, our virginity, and our identity? I refuse to believe it. I just refuse to believe it.
Maybe I'm a dreamer in an oblivious reality. Or maybe, there's hope.
*****
Afterthoughts
1) For all the sans-abris ("without-shelter") out there:
"In the shelter of your presence you hide them from the intrigues of men;
in your dwelling you keep them safe from accusing tongues." Psalm 31:20
2) If it rains on your wedding day, it's not bad luck. True love beats rain any day. Especially, one would hope, on your wedding day. That said, I hope to get married under the sun, which could be anywhere - even Antarctica. But I digress.
3) French dressing, albeit scrumptious, is in fact not French. I cannot find it anywhere, not even the local Monoprix.
4) I finally bought one of those naked grilled chickens spinning on a metal pole at the Halal boucherie. The poor thing was the last one there, alone in the infernal oven, before I saved it for 5,50 euros...and shredded it for my salad dinner.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Sociology 101
If there was anything that I should have remembered from Sociology 102 but did not, it was that every puny little social bubble has its own set of rules, customs, and vocabulary. If there is anything that I should learn about life in a foreign country, it's that at the end of the day, you've just got to laugh.
La Banque
I won a 130 euro scholarship from the Wellesley Club of France to learn something about French culture. The president gave the check to me during an evening of fine wine and triangular sandwiches, and spring rolls fried by a French-speaking Asian maid. Two days ago, I went to BNP Paribas to deposit the check into my new French bank account (every student in the program gets one).
I was met with a long line of crying babies, dusty construction workers, mismatched colours, and white hair. But not before long, it was my turn. I was about to open my mouth when I felt a poke against my waist - it tickled. I fidgeted and looked behind me - nothing. But the poke continued. A loud whisper echoed behind my shoulder, and I turned around again. This time, I looked down and found the culprit: a hunched-back old lady with a bright red raincoat and a smattering of white hair on a pink balding head.
"I'm sorry, but I just want to ask for a name." Translated: Let me go first.
Nostrils flaring and avoiding eye contact, I said, "O.K." and lazily extended my hand towards the cashier. The old dame noticed my annoyance and cowered back behind me. "No, go ahead," I reply, "allez-y." She shakes her head with a fake smile. I repeat, "non, allez-y." "Are you sure?" she asks. "OUI."
She shuffles up to the counter and starts telling the cashier that she has a rendez-vous at 5PM. The lady behind the desk gives me a nod and a knowing smile before leaving her desk to find the name the old lady had mumbled inside naked gums. Twenty minutes later, the old lady shuffled away into the rain.
This time, another old lady manouvered in front of me, whistling a self-composed melody. But the lady at the desk told her that I had been waiting for a long time. "Oh," she replied, turning her head towards me. I stepped up to the counter and took centre stage, while the jukebox continued to play its unknown tune.
It turned out that all I needed to do to deposit a check was sign the back, stick it in a sealable envelope, and throw it in the check deposit under the green-and-white sign saying: "Cheques Express."
La Boucherie
I have decided to buy my meat from a Halal butcher on Rue Cordeliers, a 7-minute walk (or a 3-minute run) from where I live. Their meat tends to be cleaner, they're willing to mince it for me, and they don't sell pork. The girls from last semester told me how to say "minced" in French (hachée), and I was set to go.
On the same day as the banking incident, I visited this hole-in-the-wall to buy some minced chicken meat. Mum had divulged her famous chicken meatball soup, and I was impatient to try it out. Besides, I hadn't eaten meat for days. I was welcomed by the herbal aroma of greasy grilled chicken, endlessly spinning on a skinny metal stick. I resisted.
The butcher, the skinniest butcher I've ever seen, had his black NY beanie on as always. He was speaking to a chubby gentleman with a white moustache, when I interrupted.
"Would you by any chance have minced chicken meat?"
"How much?"
"Errm...200 grams?"
"We don't do that here. (He pointed to the neatly cut chicken breasts on fake plastic grass). How many pieces of chicken do you want?"
"Oh...errm...three?"
"Okay, you want them minced?"
"Yes? Please?"
Apparently, I had to tell him how many pieces of chicken breast I wanted minced. Buying minced chicken meat is different from buying minced beef, because I had asked for 200 grams of minced beef last time and he had said, "Bon."
During the 2-minute wait for my chicken breasts to become minced chicken, the chubby gentleman forked up a conversation with me that went like this:
"You can chop the chicken into pieces too."
"Oh, okay."
"You don't know how to chop chicken?"
"No."
Pause.
"Are you Irish?"
"What?"
"Are you Irish?"
"What?"
I thought I had heard wrong. Had he said "Japanese?" He continued:
"Korean?"
"No."
"Chinese?"
"OUI." Nervous giggle.
"Oh, you don't look Chinese. You're much taller."
"Oh!" Laughter, in total disbelief.
Monoprix
It was a very busy evening at Monoprix, filled from wall to wall with its usual symphony of monotonous rhythmic beeps, cell phone vibrations, text message melodies, and the hum of shoppers' chatter. I looked for a check-out with the least number of people, but then found a handsome young cashier at check-out #1.
I decided to use my new debit card: Carte Bleue. Not to show off, but because I didn't have enough cash. He turned and announced the amount; I gave him my Monoprix card (carte de fidélité) and my debit card. Then he gave my debit card back to me and pointed to the little gray machine with colorful buttons under my chin.
"Oh." I swiped the card - nothing.
"You stick it up."
"Oh." I stuck the card up and then pulled it out immediately.
"No, all the way to the end and keep it there."
"Oh." This time it worked, and I followed the instructions on the neon green screen. Meanwhile, the handsome young man exchanged glances and corner-of-the-lip smiles with the blond teenager behind me, whose eyes were bigger than my nose and bluer than the sky.
La Banque
I won a 130 euro scholarship from the Wellesley Club of France to learn something about French culture. The president gave the check to me during an evening of fine wine and triangular sandwiches, and spring rolls fried by a French-speaking Asian maid. Two days ago, I went to BNP Paribas to deposit the check into my new French bank account (every student in the program gets one).
I was met with a long line of crying babies, dusty construction workers, mismatched colours, and white hair. But not before long, it was my turn. I was about to open my mouth when I felt a poke against my waist - it tickled. I fidgeted and looked behind me - nothing. But the poke continued. A loud whisper echoed behind my shoulder, and I turned around again. This time, I looked down and found the culprit: a hunched-back old lady with a bright red raincoat and a smattering of white hair on a pink balding head.
"I'm sorry, but I just want to ask for a name." Translated: Let me go first.
Nostrils flaring and avoiding eye contact, I said, "O.K." and lazily extended my hand towards the cashier. The old dame noticed my annoyance and cowered back behind me. "No, go ahead," I reply, "allez-y." She shakes her head with a fake smile. I repeat, "non, allez-y." "Are you sure?" she asks. "OUI."
She shuffles up to the counter and starts telling the cashier that she has a rendez-vous at 5PM. The lady behind the desk gives me a nod and a knowing smile before leaving her desk to find the name the old lady had mumbled inside naked gums. Twenty minutes later, the old lady shuffled away into the rain.
This time, another old lady manouvered in front of me, whistling a self-composed melody. But the lady at the desk told her that I had been waiting for a long time. "Oh," she replied, turning her head towards me. I stepped up to the counter and took centre stage, while the jukebox continued to play its unknown tune.
It turned out that all I needed to do to deposit a check was sign the back, stick it in a sealable envelope, and throw it in the check deposit under the green-and-white sign saying: "Cheques Express."
La Boucherie
I have decided to buy my meat from a Halal butcher on Rue Cordeliers, a 7-minute walk (or a 3-minute run) from where I live. Their meat tends to be cleaner, they're willing to mince it for me, and they don't sell pork. The girls from last semester told me how to say "minced" in French (hachée), and I was set to go.
On the same day as the banking incident, I visited this hole-in-the-wall to buy some minced chicken meat. Mum had divulged her famous chicken meatball soup, and I was impatient to try it out. Besides, I hadn't eaten meat for days. I was welcomed by the herbal aroma of greasy grilled chicken, endlessly spinning on a skinny metal stick. I resisted.
The butcher, the skinniest butcher I've ever seen, had his black NY beanie on as always. He was speaking to a chubby gentleman with a white moustache, when I interrupted.
"Would you by any chance have minced chicken meat?"
"How much?"
"Errm...200 grams?"
"We don't do that here. (He pointed to the neatly cut chicken breasts on fake plastic grass). How many pieces of chicken do you want?"
"Oh...errm...three?"
"Okay, you want them minced?"
"Yes? Please?"
Apparently, I had to tell him how many pieces of chicken breast I wanted minced. Buying minced chicken meat is different from buying minced beef, because I had asked for 200 grams of minced beef last time and he had said, "Bon."
During the 2-minute wait for my chicken breasts to become minced chicken, the chubby gentleman forked up a conversation with me that went like this:
"You can chop the chicken into pieces too."
"Oh, okay."
"You don't know how to chop chicken?"
"No."
Pause.
"Are you Irish?"
"What?"
"Are you Irish?"
"What?"
I thought I had heard wrong. Had he said "Japanese?" He continued:
"Korean?"
"No."
"Chinese?"
"OUI." Nervous giggle.
"Oh, you don't look Chinese. You're much taller."
"Oh!" Laughter, in total disbelief.
Monoprix
It was a very busy evening at Monoprix, filled from wall to wall with its usual symphony of monotonous rhythmic beeps, cell phone vibrations, text message melodies, and the hum of shoppers' chatter. I looked for a check-out with the least number of people, but then found a handsome young cashier at check-out #1.
I decided to use my new debit card: Carte Bleue. Not to show off, but because I didn't have enough cash. He turned and announced the amount; I gave him my Monoprix card (carte de fidélité) and my debit card. Then he gave my debit card back to me and pointed to the little gray machine with colorful buttons under my chin.
"Oh." I swiped the card - nothing.
"You stick it up."
"Oh." I stuck the card up and then pulled it out immediately.
"No, all the way to the end and keep it there."
"Oh." This time it worked, and I followed the instructions on the neon green screen. Meanwhile, the handsome young man exchanged glances and corner-of-the-lip smiles with the blond teenager behind me, whose eyes were bigger than my nose and bluer than the sky.
Full-stop
Concrete jungles of skyscrapers and Times Squares overwhelm me. I find them oppressive despite the material freedom of retail therapy, dark despite the myriad neon lights, an eyesore despite the quirky design. And, they block out the sun.
Mountains are a different story:
The bus jolted and threw me in the air like a pancake on Shrove Tuesday. My head scraped the scratched plastic window, setting off a deafening alarm in my right ear. My stubby nose banged the balding head in front of me and smelt grease. The sky turned green and furry, the grass a melange of grays. Thus began the teeth-chattering ascent towards Puyloubier, a humble village at the summit of Sainte-Victoire.
For a brief moment, the pancake fell back into the pan, and the pan on the stove. The bus found smooth ground, then stopped. I squinted through the raindrops outside, through the shadow of the fog, as if entering a giant's castle in the sky.
Mountains are a different story:
The bus jolted and threw me in the air like a pancake on Shrove Tuesday. My head scraped the scratched plastic window, setting off a deafening alarm in my right ear. My stubby nose banged the balding head in front of me and smelt grease. The sky turned green and furry, the grass a melange of grays. Thus began the teeth-chattering ascent towards Puyloubier, a humble village at the summit of Sainte-Victoire.
For a brief moment, the pancake fell back into the pan, and the pan on the stove. The bus found smooth ground, then stopped. I squinted through the raindrops outside, through the shadow of the fog, as if entering a giant's castle in the sky.
And there he lay, the dormant beast, above the miniscule pavillions and creamy orange cubes, above the neon-pink slide and wet wooden swing, above the rain-soaked leaves and tree bark buried in soil, above the dusty white van carrying the whole town's mail. There he lay on his empty stomach, the ravenous monster, his spikey back blackened by acid rain and bleached with pigeon poo, enveiled in steamy clouds. Spurts of verdant pubic hair had exploded under his armpits and chin, along the sides of his face; tiny terracotta pimples were clinging on, ready to erupt.
For an eternal moment, I was Jonah inside the gaping mouth of a famished brute. I was Dante trapped in a fantastical purgatory, an abyss of raw foliage below and an undisturbed barbarian corpse above.
I was overwhelmed by this creature. With the body odour of our faithful driver filling the cabin, I realized that all the overwhelming skyscrapers, Times Squares, Eiffel Towers, television towers, lighthouses could never compare to this masterpiece, built not by the hands of men but by the breath of God. We have theories of how mountains are formed, but no-one has ever built a mountain whose grandeur has no comparison except its creator alone. And yet the best had hardly begun.
By the grace of God, I realized that the creator of the mountains is the same creator who created me, who knew my name before He said "let there be light," and knitted me in my mother's womb, who tweaked every nerve in my body and set my heart beating at conception. The same creator of that gargantuan creature on which rests the tranquil town of Puyloubier is my creator. No human being can make me except my creator alone. And, He loves me. I'm not sure if I should have added a question mark at the end of the previous sentence, or an exclamation mark, or both. But I will leave it as is: a period, a full-stop. I will stop questioning, stop doubting, and rest here in His love, let myself drown in it, and breathe.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Perfect Change
If my last post seemed too plaintive, this post is the redemption, for every cloud has a silver lining.
Forgetting to give thanks is simple; continuing to give thanks is hard. During my week of failures, self-defeat, and loneliness, I hardly noticed God's little gifts:
On gloomy Thursday, waiting for the bus was an ordeal. Squished behind a mob of black trenchcoats and leather heels, I tried to look busy and conceal the pain in my uterus. I decided to get out the money for the bus: 1,10 euros. But, as if a gloomy day plus period pains were not enough, I found that I only had a 20 euro bill and a bunch of bronze coins in my wallet. Paranoid from previous experiences of giving a large note to a bus driver, I decided to count my change.
1 centime, 2 centimes, 5 centimes, 10 centimes...I kept my head lowered, embarrassed by my resemblance to a homeless man, humiliated by self-pity. 80 centimes... 85 ... 90 ...100 ... 105 ... 107 ...109 ...110 centimes. There were no more coins left; my wallet floated in my palms. 110 centimes? That's 1,10 euros. That's my bus ticket home!
The bus pulled up at the curve. I stashed my wallet back in my bag, stepped up to the tiny plastic ticket counter, and dumped the pile of bronze under the driver's nose. "Sorry, this is all I have, but it's 1,10 euros." He nodded, closed the door, and the bus-stop outside disappeared.
****
Waking up home-sick on a Saturday morning is not exactly the best way to start off a day. The handsome young man in my dream and his gallant love for me turned into a nightmare, and I didn't get to watch the movie I wanted to watch on Friday evening due to last-minute changes, my pet peeve. And, I was drinking in the smoke from the bread I had burned the night before.
But, thanks to open windows and an ingenious invention called Skype, Saturday morning was not so bad after all. At 9h00, my smiling parents appeared on my laptop screen. I laughed, cried, laughed, cried, laughed, cried, laughed. At 12h00, I reconnected with them and showed them the lunch I had made, while they showed me their dinner. I laughed again. I felt loved.
****
During my first night in Aix, I prayed that this apartment would be used for God's glory, and the word "refuge" threw itself to the forefront of my contemplation. At the time, it seemed random, so I stamped a huge "IGNORE" sign on it.
During the wee hours of Thursday night (or Friday morning at 5h00), I awoke to violent door-banging, door-kicking, and screaming outside. My neighbour and her friend had come back from a bar and discovered that the roommate had locked the door from the inside before passing out drunk on the couch. Tipsy herself, my neighbour threw herself against her door faster than the TGV, bellowing "Open the f***ing door!"
I kept my eyes closed, trying to fall asleep again. But, God had other plans. Let them in. WHAT? No way, not here, not while she is so angry. Innkeeper. What has that got to do with this? After a short back-and-forth with God, I lost. I got up, opened the door, and squinted into the light. "Is everything okay?" I whispered. My neighbour turned around, her curls dangling over the corner of her eyes, her thong peeking out of her tight black jeans. Her friend, cowering under the staircase, flicked her eyes up at me in hope.
"Well, um, if you want, you can sleep here for the night."
"Are you sure?" asked my neighbour, as she strode in, the clacking of her boots echoing in the early morning air.
"Thanks, Marianne. I owe you big time," the other said as she unfurled her body and pulled herself up. She lay down on the couch, while my neighbour took the other bed in the room. There happened to be extra blankets in the wardrobe, too.
After a glass of tap water and a quick text message, the two began to snore incessantly. I thought about Mary and Joseph, the innkeeper, the stable...before I skipped away to lala-land too.
Forgetting to give thanks is simple; continuing to give thanks is hard. During my week of failures, self-defeat, and loneliness, I hardly noticed God's little gifts:
On gloomy Thursday, waiting for the bus was an ordeal. Squished behind a mob of black trenchcoats and leather heels, I tried to look busy and conceal the pain in my uterus. I decided to get out the money for the bus: 1,10 euros. But, as if a gloomy day plus period pains were not enough, I found that I only had a 20 euro bill and a bunch of bronze coins in my wallet. Paranoid from previous experiences of giving a large note to a bus driver, I decided to count my change.
1 centime, 2 centimes, 5 centimes, 10 centimes...I kept my head lowered, embarrassed by my resemblance to a homeless man, humiliated by self-pity. 80 centimes... 85 ... 90 ...100 ... 105 ... 107 ...109 ...110 centimes. There were no more coins left; my wallet floated in my palms. 110 centimes? That's 1,10 euros. That's my bus ticket home!
The bus pulled up at the curve. I stashed my wallet back in my bag, stepped up to the tiny plastic ticket counter, and dumped the pile of bronze under the driver's nose. "Sorry, this is all I have, but it's 1,10 euros." He nodded, closed the door, and the bus-stop outside disappeared.
****
Waking up home-sick on a Saturday morning is not exactly the best way to start off a day. The handsome young man in my dream and his gallant love for me turned into a nightmare, and I didn't get to watch the movie I wanted to watch on Friday evening due to last-minute changes, my pet peeve. And, I was drinking in the smoke from the bread I had burned the night before.
But, thanks to open windows and an ingenious invention called Skype, Saturday morning was not so bad after all. At 9h00, my smiling parents appeared on my laptop screen. I laughed, cried, laughed, cried, laughed, cried, laughed. At 12h00, I reconnected with them and showed them the lunch I had made, while they showed me their dinner. I laughed again. I felt loved.
****
During my first night in Aix, I prayed that this apartment would be used for God's glory, and the word "refuge" threw itself to the forefront of my contemplation. At the time, it seemed random, so I stamped a huge "IGNORE" sign on it.
During the wee hours of Thursday night (or Friday morning at 5h00), I awoke to violent door-banging, door-kicking, and screaming outside. My neighbour and her friend had come back from a bar and discovered that the roommate had locked the door from the inside before passing out drunk on the couch. Tipsy herself, my neighbour threw herself against her door faster than the TGV, bellowing "Open the f***ing door!"
I kept my eyes closed, trying to fall asleep again. But, God had other plans. Let them in. WHAT? No way, not here, not while she is so angry. Innkeeper. What has that got to do with this? After a short back-and-forth with God, I lost. I got up, opened the door, and squinted into the light. "Is everything okay?" I whispered. My neighbour turned around, her curls dangling over the corner of her eyes, her thong peeking out of her tight black jeans. Her friend, cowering under the staircase, flicked her eyes up at me in hope.
"Well, um, if you want, you can sleep here for the night."
"Are you sure?" asked my neighbour, as she strode in, the clacking of her boots echoing in the early morning air.
"Thanks, Marianne. I owe you big time," the other said as she unfurled her body and pulled herself up. She lay down on the couch, while my neighbour took the other bed in the room. There happened to be extra blankets in the wardrobe, too.
After a glass of tap water and a quick text message, the two began to snore incessantly. I thought about Mary and Joseph, the innkeeper, the stable...before I skipped away to lala-land too.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sour Milk
Last Saturday, during a hiking trip up Mount Sainte-Victoire, I forgot my homemade chicken sandwich.
Monday morning, in Ethnology of France class, the preppy pal behind me focused more on making his high-school sweetheart giggle during the three hours than on the professor. Maybe he thought it was Ethnology of Love.
Wednesday evening, my tuna-tomato mix exploded in the microwave, and the lettuce and coriander died in the fridge.
Yesterday morning, my trail mix also exploded in my bag; I discovered that my 9h30 class actually started at 9h00, and - while waiting for the bus - I remembered that I was a woman (the French call it "les regles"...not that it's regular at all).
And finally, today. Today, my doorknob fell off; my boiled eggs turned out liquidy; I burned the broccoli; the half-finished bottle of milk turned sour. And, while stuffing my last croissant into a gaping jaw that I no longer recognize, I realized that I had devoured 10 croissants, 10 pain-au-chocolat AND 10 shortbread cookies all within the last three days.
Welcome to my week of failures, mishaps, and unexpected interruptions. Hardly a relaxing week at all, nor a week to be thankful for. Or so it seems.
Halfway through my second buttered croissant, I felt fat and unbeautiful. On the third, I remembered the mistake I had made in Translation class, the silent-but-violent snickers behind me, and the emotional melting pot of humiliation, anger, and forgiveness as I lowered my head and pretended to erase something. The irony was that they were all students in my program, students from proud expensive universities in America, speaking Franglais. As I swallowed the third devilish delight, the word "pride" fought its way through the buzz in my brain to the throne-room of my consciousness. Not theirs, but mine.
I realized that studying abroad in France was not simply to become trilingual, to make French friends, and perchance to fall head-over-heels in love with a Frenchman and have my beautiful French children calling me "maman! maman!" all day. I realized, out of an awakening to my own pride, that living in a foreign country is officially one of the most humbling tasks I have ever taken on in my entire 20 years of life. It isn't just learning a new language that requires humility. Rather, it is the process of adapting to another country, another culture, another society and social atmosphere that requires humility. It is the process of adjusting my perspectives and goals, from wondering why the hell people never understand me to trying to understand them. It is the process of learning to be thankful for the gift before it arrives, to hope for the light at the end of the tunnel before it appears, and to rejoice, praise, laugh, dance, sing in the rain. It is the process of realizing that my life is not about me, that the world actually revolves around the Sun (or the Son), and that everyday, every breathing moment, every sunrise and sunset, every breeze and drop of rain, every white cloud and blue sky, every friend - and even every enemy - is a gift from above. This requires humility.
And finally, living in a foreign country is the process of realizing that fear is reserved for God only, that there is nothing else to fear except Him, nothing else to depend on except Him, no-one else to love as deeply as Him. Only God has the ability, the power, the grace to transform us in all dimensions. And only Jesus Christ has the power to fill the empty stomach and the empty heart, to still the trembling lip and the shivering soul, to heal the paralyzed beggar with his toddler in the rain and mend the bruised and broken heart. And all of this by His His life-giving Word, the power of His Holy Spirit, and His undeniable presence.
Yes, this week was tough, nothing went my way, and I felt like a failure. But maybe it's time to stop relying on myself as if I need no help at all. Maybe it's time to chuck these puny little plans out the window and follow God's plans that are, I imagine, bigger and better than I could ever imagine.
Monday morning, in Ethnology of France class, the preppy pal behind me focused more on making his high-school sweetheart giggle during the three hours than on the professor. Maybe he thought it was Ethnology of Love.
Wednesday evening, my tuna-tomato mix exploded in the microwave, and the lettuce and coriander died in the fridge.
Yesterday morning, my trail mix also exploded in my bag; I discovered that my 9h30 class actually started at 9h00, and - while waiting for the bus - I remembered that I was a woman (the French call it "les regles"...not that it's regular at all).
And finally, today. Today, my doorknob fell off; my boiled eggs turned out liquidy; I burned the broccoli; the half-finished bottle of milk turned sour. And, while stuffing my last croissant into a gaping jaw that I no longer recognize, I realized that I had devoured 10 croissants, 10 pain-au-chocolat AND 10 shortbread cookies all within the last three days.
Welcome to my week of failures, mishaps, and unexpected interruptions. Hardly a relaxing week at all, nor a week to be thankful for. Or so it seems.
I ate dinner alone last night, staring at the smiley pink elephant on the wall. Its head tilted sideways toward Meccah; its tiny round eyes shone bright; the sides of its mouth curved up into a grin, and its trunk pointed at the sunset. Outside, the rain splattered on the shutters like rice falling into a tin can, its pitter-patter like impatient fingers on a wooden desk, or a businessman's rhythmic toe-tapping in a 52-floor elevator to the 52nd floor. It was a perfect occasion to be gloomy.
Halfway through my second buttered croissant, I felt fat and unbeautiful. On the third, I remembered the mistake I had made in Translation class, the silent-but-violent snickers behind me, and the emotional melting pot of humiliation, anger, and forgiveness as I lowered my head and pretended to erase something. The irony was that they were all students in my program, students from proud expensive universities in America, speaking Franglais. As I swallowed the third devilish delight, the word "pride" fought its way through the buzz in my brain to the throne-room of my consciousness. Not theirs, but mine.
I realized that studying abroad in France was not simply to become trilingual, to make French friends, and perchance to fall head-over-heels in love with a Frenchman and have my beautiful French children calling me "maman! maman!" all day. I realized, out of an awakening to my own pride, that living in a foreign country is officially one of the most humbling tasks I have ever taken on in my entire 20 years of life. It isn't just learning a new language that requires humility. Rather, it is the process of adapting to another country, another culture, another society and social atmosphere that requires humility. It is the process of adjusting my perspectives and goals, from wondering why the hell people never understand me to trying to understand them. It is the process of learning to be thankful for the gift before it arrives, to hope for the light at the end of the tunnel before it appears, and to rejoice, praise, laugh, dance, sing in the rain. It is the process of realizing that my life is not about me, that the world actually revolves around the Sun (or the Son), and that everyday, every breathing moment, every sunrise and sunset, every breeze and drop of rain, every white cloud and blue sky, every friend - and even every enemy - is a gift from above. This requires humility.
And finally, living in a foreign country is the process of realizing that fear is reserved for God only, that there is nothing else to fear except Him, nothing else to depend on except Him, no-one else to love as deeply as Him. Only God has the ability, the power, the grace to transform us in all dimensions. And only Jesus Christ has the power to fill the empty stomach and the empty heart, to still the trembling lip and the shivering soul, to heal the paralyzed beggar with his toddler in the rain and mend the bruised and broken heart. And all of this by His His life-giving Word, the power of His Holy Spirit, and His undeniable presence.
Yes, this week was tough, nothing went my way, and I felt like a failure. But maybe it's time to stop relying on myself as if I need no help at all. Maybe it's time to chuck these puny little plans out the window and follow God's plans that are, I imagine, bigger and better than I could ever imagine.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Giving Thanks to God At Midnight
Tonight, there was a birthday party for Ben, the only boy in the group. He's a very interesting person, a good singer and actor, very good at French, Jewish and exploring secular quakerism. I stayed a little longer than expected. It was past 23h00; all the stores had closed, and the restaurants were wiping off their tables and stacking their chairs.
Before we went our separate ways, Tiffany and Leslie gave me a quick self-defense 101. At around 23h20, they headed back to the Maisonette and I trekked back here. I gripped my keys in one hand, my cell phone in the other. And I was praying all the way. I was scared.
I had one more corner to turn when I heard a thick untame "HEY!" and drunk giggles. At first, I thought it was coming from the shop I was striding past. Then all of a sudden, something smacked my forehead from above and fell to the ground. Thinking that a pin had pierced my skin, I gently touched my forehead but found no injury. Two more attempts. They missed. Still, they continued to laugh the loser's laugh. I was shaken; I was furious; I wanted to curse the hell outta them, give them the finger and shout 'up yours, you f***ing immature a**holes,' but I didn't. I walked on as the hoarse cry and boozy laughter of bystanders strayed away behind me like lost sheep.
As I entered the apartment, the noise grew louder and louder. Were they outside? Or was it in my head?
Immediately, I ran to close the window and draw the curtains. I opened up iTunes and started my favorite Christian songs.
I wondered for a moment why God hadn't protected me. But, in fact, He had. They were on the third/fourth floor and not nipping at my heels. They hadn't dropped a brick on my head, dumped alcohol out the window, or spat at me. And, I was literally 30 seconds away from my apartment (although 30 seconds had never felt longer). I wasn't injured. I wasn't close to death. I was merely close to mockery, and my pride hurt.
Death didn't come knocking on the door tonight. And, thanks to Jesus, it never will. I'm still alive and always will be. I have, live, experience, cherish life, life abundant, and life eternal.
Thanks for your prayers. God is here. He is alive. And He is moving. Fast.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Aix-static!
After 3 hours on the TGV, we arrived at beautiful Aix-en-Provence on Friday afternoon. TGV stands for "Train a Grande Vitesse," which basically means "high-speed train" or, more literally, "train at great speed."
Aix is a captivating city, with mediterranean-style architecture and designs focused on yellow, brown and okre and squeaky wooden window shutters. Between 9 and 12 each morning, vendors nimbly set up tents and stalls to market their fresh fruits and vegetables and just-baked bread. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, more vendors come into town and construct their own make-shift stalls of flowers, soap, jewelry, clothing, shoes, bags, books, and music. The town is hardly silent. The hum of villagers fills the town like steam covers the mirror while I take a shower.
The streets here are narrow and slanted with a confusing yet quaint gridlock-less structure. Cars and motorcycles beep their way through, parting the sea of pedestrians carrying plastic bags from Monoprix or simply a baguette from the local bakery. Street signs are nailed high up into stone walls, while an ancient fountain spouts effervescence in the centre of the square. Here, getting lost is simply an excuse for exploration.
Already, I've discovered another Christian library behind the large three-floor Monoprix, as well as La Corbeille d'Orient that sells a wide range of Asian ingredients, including my favorite type of vinegar (Chinese black vinegar), soy sauce, Chinese white rice, and thin wheat noodles. I boiled some noodles and mixed them in with stir-fried eggs, tomatoes, spinach, and chopped-up frankfurters. And of course, I added some soy sauce and Chinese black vinegar, as well as sugar and salt. It was marvelous, if I may say so myself.
I thank God SO SO SO SO much for blessing me with a HUGE apartment. It is a space for two students, but I said that I wanted to live on my own, so Madame put my name in the studio lottery, and I was randomly (or not so randomly in God's eyes) gifted with this ENORMOUS space. I have two beds, which I pieced together, as well as a long futon (which the French call "clic-clac" because of the sound the metal makes when one is pulling out the bed), a wooden table in the middle of the room and four chairs, very contemporary drawers and closet, a kitchen with an oven, 6 stove-tops, a microwave, a kettle, a large fridge, and another table, and a restroom with heating. The girls who lived here before me left me a warm and welcoming message, as well as lots of information about the city and its outskirts, stationary, books and dictionaries, pots and pans, cutlery, hairdryer, ironing board, irons, vacuum, lights, phone, Wi-Fi, storage space, a large rug, a clothes rack, mini-Christmas trees...I could go on and on. My first evening here was a night of discoveries. It felt like Christmas all over again.
In addition, the girls in the building are also Wellesley girls who were here last semester. They have shown me around everywhere, including a very serene park with mini waterfalls and a verdant horizontal and vertical expanse. They told me where the cheapest bread is, where the cheapest croissant aux amandes (croissant with almonds) is sold, where the Chinese shop was, where I can buy my minutes for the cellphone, and advised me about interactions with the French as well as their ups-and-downs here. Thankfully, it has mostly been up!
Classes at the Fac (abbreviation for university here) start tomorrow. My first and only class tomorrow is the Anthropology/ Ethnology of France, which will last for 3 hours from 10h00 to 13h00 and take place in a large amphitheatre. Please pray that I'll be able to fork up conversation with some understanding and social French students before and after class, and that I'll concentrate on the material during class.
Today, I took Tiffany and Audrey (a Harvard student) to a morning protestant service called Le Chemin. It is similar to a pentecostal service: a lot of prayer, speaking in tongues, and centered on the power of the Holy Spirit. I was moved by the worship, as well as touched by Jesus during Communion. Speaking of Communion, the bread was absolutely fresh and the wine was definitely NOT grape juice. Afterwards, we turned around to speak to the two people sitting behind us, who - by divine coincidence - happened to know Madame! What are the chances.
In the evening, Tiffany and I went to ICCP, an English-speaking international community of believers. The pastor just happens to live opposite me on the very same street! What are the chances.
Aix Awesomeness #1: All shops close on Sunday. It's like the whole town takes a Sabbath together. Streets are abandoned except the occasional grunt of a motorcycle and the few followers of Jesus Christ fighting the wind on their way to God's house.
The best is yet to come!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)