Installée à Lorgues

I arrived in my new hometown on the 27th, and immediately fell in love. Talk about picturesque! Each building painted in variations of the same golden and rose hues and adorned with classically French wooden shutters in bright blues, greens, and reds. My new apartment is probably my most adorable one yet, split on three levels (kitchen at entry, living room and office, and bedroom/bathroom at top). C’est tout petit… that is to say, small but cozy.



The vibrantly blue shutters and multicolored shower tiles are the icing on the cake; while it may sound a bit odd, in a way, they make my day every time I see them. My landlords (a middle aged couple) are two more of the most welcoming people I have met so far. I pay 300euros per month for the heat, electricity, water and rent, which is not entirely horrible in comparison to what I paid in the states, or what others have paid in the states for a room with a sink and refrigerator. It is in a small town, sure, but 5 minutes walking to my job, 2 minutes from the Laundromat, and 7 minutes from the large town grocery store (3 minutes from the bank, local boulangerie, and épicerie). I absolutely love the feeling of coming home to my own place for a change. I am sure it will get lonely at times, being as this is the first time in my life that I will be living completely alone. But I will have plenty of good old quality time with myself.

I went wandering about Lorgues upon my arrival, attempting to get to know the spider web layout of the medieval town, and after thinking I was completely lost, found that in an hour and a half, I had walked almost the entire periphery and made it home safe and sound. It is an easy place to wander and an easy place to let oneself get lost in the history of the surrounding buildings. There are plaques everywhere from the 12th and 13th centuries, and these buildings, rather than lying in ruins are still in active use as housing or storefronts.




I checked in with my High School to put a face to my name and also in hopes of getting paperwork out of the way. I knew I was a good bit anxious, but felt that there was nothing I could do but smile and try to keep up with conversation the best I could. They were surprisingly warm and welcoming, with an air of… (who would have guessed it?)…”C’est normale!” I actually think those words were uttered by one of the English professors as he gave me a tour of the school. It is absolutely enormous… though I suppose no bigger than Marian Catholic in Chicago Heights. There are 850 students in the high school and 700 in the middle school. As for the other professors, they were very excited to meet me and have me on board, and seemed to accept me as one of their own from that initial moment onward. My French was complimented a few times, which conversely made me more nervous and conscious of mistakes, but I suppose others come with no comprehension of the language, so some is better than none, and a great deal is better than some. The professors promised to speak nothing but French with me, while I am to speak nothing but English with the students. The same professor to give me the tour then invited me on a number of upcoming gatherings and outings with the others, which I happily and graciously accepted. I feel confident that this year is indeed going to be a great one.

Aventures languistiques

This past Saturday, Erwan, Patricia’s son, continued his parent’s tradition of hospitality (and NOT at ALL at the recommendation of his parents... all on his own). We took me along to discover the nightlife in Monaco, where he works at the Casino for security, and so passes much of his time. As one can imagine, there is not much nightlife in Sospel. He dressed in jeans, leaving me to feel a bit overdressed in my birthday present from Kelly, but I did not regret wearing it for half a second. What better setting for a silk scarf-inspired cocktail dress than the French Riviera? I was nervous, as I always am when conversing with someone new in French. I am always self-conscious about understanding and being understood. There are few things more unnerving for me than hearing (or saying) “pardon, encore??” over and over again in conversation with someone I barely know. I suppose that it is why I detest the bar scene in general. I like actually getting to know people, as opposed to assuming things from the bits of conversation I manage to salvage amidst the breaks in the thumping noise.

I digress… we took in a drink before dining, and of course, I stood frozen at the edge of the bar, half hoping he would just order for me, magically knowing what I wanted, regardless of the fact that I did not know what I had a taste for. I always get nervous, even in the States, when at a bar, because I feel sufficiently undereducated about alcohol and drink concoctions. Now add to that, a language barrier, not knowing what the bar has to offer, and not knowing what they drinks they do well… a bit stressful, even if it seems silly. I figured you could never go wrong with wine in France, and I was correct in my judgment; it was fantastic. We sat with our drinks, conversing, to my pleasant surprise, quite smoothly, occasionally interrupted by a few games of quick charades. We managed to make it through talk of Sospel to future travels, to past jobs, to economics to politics and then to learning languages. He neither understands nor speaks English, so I felt like a part of a secret club as we talked about the Brits across from us with them oblivious of our conversation. I suppose I have always desired to learn a foreign language for that very reason. Sneaky? Perhaps.

Anyway, in watching the Brits, I discovered that it takes me 3 to 5 seconds to transition from French to English. Even knowing that they were speaking English, I would take it for French with all the background noise for that short span of time.

We finished our drinks and wandered over to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. One of the best things about this region, just as I remembered from the last time I visited, is its proximity to Italy, which in turn has a heavy influence on the food. Three times now on this trip alone I have gorged myself on fantastic French-style Italian food...I must say, the best combination to ever hit the pallet of THIS “gourgette.” Following some final sips of coffee…mmm… we met up with some of hi s friends to get our feet wet with the local nightlife festivities We traversed from bar to bar for about an hour and a half in search of the perfect spot and finally settled on Flashman’s, a pub/nightclub near the casino. Talk about expensive drinks—12 euros for a screwdriver so strong it was almost undrinkable. At least they give you your money’s worth of alcohol… you know you aren’t getting jipped. I danced with a few of the girls in the group and chatted with a few of his friends, and we departed after Erwan’s return from his quest for a phone number. All in all, a very fun night, peppered with humorously awkward moments and social differences,. I was able to experience what my European counterpart 20-somthings do with their spare time. They dance to loudly played mixes of American music.

Souvenirs de Sospel; La Seconde Guerre

When I applied to be a teacher’s assistant for English on the French Consulate’s website, I was given the option of choosing three locations for teaching. I was already headed abroad to spend 3 months in Paris, so I thought to apply for someplace else and see more of france. I knew I had some family acquaintances in Nice, France, so I wrote that as my first choice. After that, it was a toss-up; I chose Guadeloupe and La Reunion, because frankly, who would turn down an opportunity to live in paradise? I was assigned to my first choice, but with a twist. It turns out that Nice is the largest city in the region, and so that is the general title for placement. I was stationed in the VAR region (the other is the Alpes-Maritimes, where the Alps hit the Mediterranean) and I had no idea that this was just the beginning of a long string of discoveries in my favor.

I have long desired to travel through the small towns that my grandfather knew in his travels in the Second Great War. I say “travels” when really it was more like fighting and forging ahead. He was an officer in Headquarters 1st Division in the 517th Airborne. They were the elite of the elite in regards to paratroopers, causing endless headaches for the German troops, as well as for their own commanding officers. Courageous to the point of what some might call crazy, these men became the most decorated unit in the entire US Airborne in the Second World War, unfortunately losing so many of their forces that the unit was disbanded after the war. The memories of these heroic soldiers live on in the minds of those still with us today, with their families, and with those abroad whose gratitude for freedom is unwavering. The 517th Airborne jumped only once in the war once abroad, forging the rest of their path to close in on Hilter’s forces on foot in the Battle des Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge). The area of this one and only jump is located in southern France, in fact, in the VAR and Alpes-Maritimes regions.

As it turns out, my family’s acquaintances in the region house a museum solely dedicated to the 517th in Le Muy, France in the VAR region, and another in Sospel in the Alpes-Maritimes. Both parties informed me of my incredibly close proximity to all the towns through which my grandfather fought and helped to liberate from Nazi grasp. I am, in fact, in the heart of it all. I am able to spend a great deal of time while here in the presence of my grandfather, of whom I have an immeasurable amount of admiration and adoration. His final resting place is on the property of our good friends Patricia and Roland, whose land overlooks Sospel and the surrounding Alpes. He has a spectacular view, one might say. Patricia and Roland own their own collection (museum in progress) of World War II memorabilia, especially of the 517th and are active players in the fight to keep the memory of the war alive in the hearts and minds of this generation. They recently hosted the festivities held in Sospel for a group of 517th veterans traveling from town to town for the 65th anniversary of their jump, and who have helped me immensely to establish myself here in France.

The following are images of the monument situated on their property dedicated to the 517th and all those who helped to liberate the Alps-Maritimes region in 1945. It is composed of WWII arifacts unearthed by Roland in the surrounding mountains. It seems the forests have not so soon forgotten the soldiers who fell amidst their trees.












The last image is of the memorial plaque in Sospel proper on the Pont de la Liberation dedicated to Company F of the 517th for their courageous efforts in the town.

dream sequence revisé

Sospel, while a small town with small town ways, has truly been a haven for my wandering, anxious mind…and for that I am truly grateful. In my time to relax, I feel as though I can actively feel my mind searching for something I forgot to do, something I forgot to say, and time and time again, it turns up empty-handed. Granted Patou and Roland have given me absolutely nothing to worry about, and well, I cannot even begin to repay them for their kindness and endless aid.

I will say, however, that while awake I find nothing to worry about, my mind manages to betray me while I sleep. It has so far managed to conjure up, in all forms of vivid illumination, my most recent string of guilty feelings, however suppressed they might have been. While Froide might have found this entertaining, I do not. I would rather not be plagued with ill feelings during the only part of the 24 hour period we call a day, when a little much-needed, jet-lagged shut-eye is actually possible. I do, however, appreciate the physiological conundrum that these stirrings bring to light—a bit on a challenge, if you will, to (a) settle any outstanding grievances with the persons involved, or if this proves to be an unattainable goal, option (b)—learning about ZEN and the healing powers of yoga and meditation---serves as an equally difficult and rewarding alternative.

Vanessa des Sources

This country is breathtaking; truly the countryside. The entire experience is a contiuation of “Jean de Florette”…right down to the groups of elderly people conversing casually, yet with an air of importance, at tables and beside benches alongside the river that runs through the town. Everyone knows everyone, even if it is through distant relatives or friends, and an hour at the weekly market is time to see the extended family--that is to say, everyone. It is a bit like a blockparty in Chicato in its early hours; people sauntering lazily, greeting each other as though they haven’t seen each other in months. They exchange the usual “how are yous.” “Ça va toi?” “Oui, et toi?” “Bah oui, maois tu sais, tous sont toujours bien.” Then they plunge into talk of “how is the family?” and “what happened with/to whoever” Then follows gossip about family/neighbors/acquaintances, finished with, “Fin, je te laisse. I have to be on my way.” Somehow, the whole interaction is so much more appealing to me in a french setting thani n the US… perhaps it is because I find everything more appealing in the French language.


I find it entertaining how certain human interactions do not really change form with the culture or language. I suppose it is simply human nature—our desire to fit in, to feel appreciated, needed, missed, and loved, to boost our confidence, moral, and importance. We are competitive, yet as being so, we are also dependant on others to feel complete. It takes a very different kind of person to take to the hills an never interact with others—they are usually viewed as either very pious (hermit monks, etc), or simply a bit off the rocker (i.e. Thoreau and Walden Pond). I am certain that some devout Thoreau followers would argue with me for days over that last statement, as it is a bit shallow in content and seems to discredit his work. Honestly, though, someone who cannot find a way to interact with his fellow homosapiens in everyday life and sees fit to leave such a social setting to be completely solitary, (revolutionary thinker or simpleton) he is typically seen as crazy.

Dream Sequence

While I have much else to write about, this will be brief. I find that it is bizarre and yet logical that when faced with an all together foreign situation, especially one of a different language, one's dreams can comprise themselves of past guilts. All of my dreams have been largely focused on events and people about whom I have guilty feelings.

The path is made by walking

I cannot express it--somehow, I do not feel nervous. I am on my way to the single longest journey I have ever taken, and it is one to a foreign country across an ocean and a 10 hour flight from home. A 7 hour time difference separates me from family, friends, and pretty much everyone I know. Perhaps my lack of anxiety is due to the fact that I have lived the life of a roamer for the last year and a half. Perhaps it is because I know the language of the locals. I would like to believe that this strange sense of tranquility comes from an unshaken desire for self-discovery. I feel numb perhaps simply because I do not know what to feel...because I have misplaced my sense of self. I feel as though I have been going through the motions, always on edge, always preparing for the other shoe to drop. I have grown immune to anxiety in a sense (not that I do not have my occasional freak-outs). For the first time in my life, I am eager to journey on my own, not for the sake of running away from commitment, but rather to define myself, to know myself more fully so that I may better serve my commitments. I feel that this is either a dangerous statement, or a mature one (can it be both?). This is not to say that I am ready for a lifetime commitment, only that I want to give 100% in my relationships and up till now I have been incapable of doing so for fear of losing my Independence. I understand now that my own independence is created by my own personal approach to life and to my choices. It is the strength to stand up for one's self but the humility to admit to one's faults. It is not simply a constant rebellion--in which case one becomes a slave to one's close-minded logic and lacks the ability to actually feel with an open heart and mind. Regardless of the commitment I choose to make, I want to embody a knowledge of myself that allots me with the tools I need to shape my independence. Such tools are those of perseverance of body and mind, a balance of humility and pride, open-mindedness and forgiveness, integrity (both professional and personal, because in either case, it is a reflection of one's true personality), curiosity for culture and creativity, and an unquenched thirst for adventure and new experiences, be it across the globe or in my own back yard.

"Traveler, There is no path./ The path is made by walking."