Boy and I have been working out our issues on the DL for the past few weeks, and yesterday was our first official date. Not sure if that makes us officially together again or not, but it doesn’t matter much anyway. I knew things were back to normal when he started laying out the ridiculously obnoxious duck farts in the car. You know things are good with Boy when he’s okay with you stewing in his fart clouds on the way home.

We went to see Up (not in 3D. Because everyone I know gets sick from 3D and is consequently LAME) and it was the greatest Pixar experience ever. We laughed so hard. That’s probably my favorite thing about Boy. That he laughs unabashedly at animated movies like a small child, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything that funny, like he just could not be having a better time. It’s hard not to watch him instead of the movie when he gets like that. Even people in the theatre with us are amused at such genuine laughter.

Up was incredible. I’ve never seen an animated movie that pulls you in and engages you so thoroughly, then takes you for a ride, and then drops you off somewhere near where you started but feeling like life is just a little more bearable. I love how Pixar manages that.

I’m gonna leave this thought unfinished.. I think it’s better that way.

Are you ready for too much information? If you’re not…get ready. Here it comes.

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So, here’s what’s what:

The last few weeks of my trip played host to every ridiculous insecurity two people can harbor in a relationship, and consequently the boyfriend and I were not on speaking terms. I knew what this meant, but I was determined to enjoy this trip anyway.

I visited Paris and London (details to come!) and both visits were amazing. I had the chance to meet some wonderful people and see things I never thought I’d see.

I flew home from London.

My family was knee-deep in moving preparations.

My boyfriend was noticably absent.

And the absolute state of panic that comes with returning to reality from an extended vacation set in like no other.

Boy and I broke up about 3 hours after I landed in Los Angeles.

And I preceeded to spend the next month hiding in my hole and burying myself in other things to do, like pack and then move and then boss people around regarding where three foot tall prints of my toddler face should be hung.

When I’m in a state like this, it’s nearly impossible for me to do anything creative (like blogging…or taking pictures..hense the lack of updates.) But it’s been a month, and I’m workin’ it out, so it’s back to work for me.

Speaking of work. No one ever tells you how unenjoyable working is when you could be traipsing around London again! I love my job, but it’s no jog through Trafalgar Square, ya know?

Will write again soon. With pictures. I promise.

Dear Blog,
Um…hi. I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I have a lot to tell you about the last leg of my trip, coming home, my new singledom, and a hectic move one block west. Are you going to hate me if I say that I don’t have time right now, though? ..I don’t have time write now. I’m sorry. We will catch up tomorrow. I promise.

-Carsen

On Tuesday, I said my final ‘goodbye’ to Maryse and Jean-Claude and took the train to Paris. New trip, new homestay, new world. Paris is ridiculously beautiful, and the history behind everything you touch is astounding. It’s remarkable.

In comparison, the south of France seems like an entirely different country. Everyone here moves at the same pace as New Yorkers, which means no one stops to say ‘hello’ (unless you’re buying something from them, or they’re trying to hit on you..)  It’s been a bit difficult, because I was so used to how it was in the south: everyone’s friendly, you can easily ask for directions, things are very easy to find, etc.

The biggest difference between here and Grasse (so far,) is my hosts. My host here is lovely and friendly, but she is more professional about the homestay. It’s more like a B&B/Homestay hybrid. It’s nice, but she charges more money to show you around Paris which makes the experience forced.  We’ve had a few good chats, though. I think she likes me. The noise level here has been the hardest thing to adjust to. We are in a relatively quiet, virtually tourist-free neighborhood. But the building I’m in makes every little movement in the apartment above me sound like someone in re-arranging an entire room full of furniture. This is particularly noticeable because I go to bed around 11, so that I can wake up early and get to museums. The rest of Paris, however, does not go to bed until much later. I’m pretty sure my host doesn’t sleep at all. I swear I can hear her ripping things up at 1 hour at intervals throughout the night. Needless to say, the paper ripping and furniture arranging going on at 2 AM has not made for restful sleep.  So, I’ve whipped out the earplugs. Popped them in to see if they work, and I will have you know that I have been sitting here typing for several minutes now and I cannot hear my fingers hit the keyboard. I cannot hear the banging going on upstairs, and I cannot hear my host having a gossip dinner with her friend in the next room. My head is completely silent, and it feels so good.

So, I’ll update tomorrow about Paris. I have to take a nap.

One. – It turns out, you can live life without actually living life. I had no idea. It also turns out that life, contrary to what I have grown up being told, does not have to be as difficult as it has been.

Two. – The life I lived in Los Angeles was only part of what I wanted for myself. I’m not in school right now, and I really want to be. My job is wonderful, but not a career path. Moving forward is what matters here, and I’ll be doing that when I get home.

Three. – I do know myself as well as I thought I did this whole time.

Four. – I am not as mature as I thought I was. And I am perfectly content with that.

Five. – My boyfriend. He is that wonderful. It takes a good man to know when to be my support, it takes an even better one to support without me having to ask. Sometimes he only says half of what he means, sometimes he says things and I have no idea what he means at all, and sometimes he says nothing and makes perfect sense. It’s ridiculous, but we’re workin’ it out. Some distance and several quiet nights where all I could think about was how badly I wanted to tell him what I saw and share it with him have made that very clear.

Six. – My family. My sister will be my sister even if I do not like her all the time. Even if I am still harboring childhood bitterness ten years from now, she will still be my sister and we will still be friends. She will still be the first person I idolized growing up.  I do not know why, but my father and I cannot seem to comprehend each other. I think it might be because we are too similar, and that is very scary for both of us. I DO like my brother! And I love my mother, even if she drives me crazy and live in a house full of people who openly do not.  With all of the crazy floating around, we might never find a balance that makes this life peaceful when we all co-exist, but maybe we can find some with a little space. Maybe we’re so weird that getting closer is not the trick, maybe we have to get a little further apart.

Seven. – Speech is a bit overrated. I arrived in France with survival French, some basic knowledge, and a rough sketch of the culture. The French I do know is awfully handy, but the greatest moments I have had have been when I couldn’t use words. When I couldn’t get my point across, and I didn’t know how else to do it, and I had to get creative. Note pad and pen, pointing, jumping up and down and flailing my arms to immitate what I am trying to say. French people – they like you better when you are less inhibited. People in general, I’m guessing, will like this news. Also, you would be amazed and how much can be said with a facial expression or one word. Or how much conversation can be sparked by walking around with something interesting in your hand. Or how many friends one can make with people who do not speak a common language with you. It’s amazing how much conversation can happen when you learn to stop talking.

Eight. – You should try – try very hard – not to care most of the time. Very few things are worth caring about. An overblown fight with my dad that is just not worth continuing is just that — not worth continuing. Someone, somewhere in the world hates me for the fun of it? Well, that sucks, but I can’t fix everything so I guess I’ll learn to live with it. . If I run around caring about EVERYTHING on the planet, I will be my mother in ten years.  I do not want to be my mother. For the record, though, I also don’t want to be so focused on not becoming my mother that I accidentally become exactly my father. I’d appreciate some traits from both of them, but I’m watching my back on both sides.

Nine. – Relax. It’s okay. The world goes around the exact same way even if you do not have a productive day or make tons of money all the time or if you sleep until 2 PM on a Wednesday.

Ten. – Sex and nudity and all that? Yeah, those things are only a gigantic taboo in America. We like to teach our people that nudity is weird, sex is bad and unhealthy, and that you are weird if you do not believe that. That is such a ridiculous thing to teach people. It’s natural, it’s inevitable, and it is NOT that big of a deal.

This trip to France was meant to be my escape from home, my little slice of heaven, my space to live and learn. It turned out to be a month of lessons, strange thoughts, and  tiny observations. I needed this trip. I had no idea how much until I got here, but I needed it.

Perhaps I should preface this by saying that I NEVER do this. I’d also like to say that I am writing this in between bites of mid-day breakfast pizza and shots of orange juice, so we all know where I’m going with this.

Sure,  I have a glass of wine with dinner. Sure, maybe two or three. Maybe I’m feeling tipsy.

Easter, however, was very different. I have no shame because I’m in Europe and I can legally drink here and if I didn’t have some fun drunk in Europe stories to tell my friends they would all be tremendously disappointed in me. I have no shame, but I do have some regret. Especially today. The morning after. Dun dun dun. Click to continue reading Easter. Oh, Easter.

During dinner with Jean-Claude and Maryse,  they usually get swept in to the political stories aired on local news and forget all about anything else. This is totally fine by me, but I can’t usually understand much of what they are talking about because my French lessons didn’t cover political lingo.

Click to continue reading Fruit Art

I am no stranger to the long-distance relationship game. I was in a (ridiculous, joke of a) long-distance relationship for the better part of four years. I was young (too young,)  and stupid and told a boy some lies about who I was to impress him. What started out as innocent as that turned in to a rollercoaster ride for years where we played the long-distance game, repeatedly broke each others’ hearts, and finally moved on with our lives. We worked better apart, and that was the terrible truth.

About a year ago, after being without the long distance boy for quite a while, I met a nice boy who was almost exactly my polar opposite. Christian to my atheist, chocolate lover to my disdain for the stuff, death metal to my indie/folk. Needless to say I liked him instantly. The first six months were rough: he lost a job, got in to a car accident, ran out of money, wasn’t sure if he would finish school. Our relationship was so hot and cold because of all of the commotion, and there were times where I thought it wasn’t going to work. Neither one of us is one to quit, fortunately, and we got through it in one piece. You learn a lot about a person when you see how they handle life when terrible situations are placed upon them. I saw how he handled it : Not always well, not always so strong, but so incredibly persistent. And kind. Everyone is prone to losing their shit, but he kept it together the best he could and managed to continue being a good person. I loved that I was there to help him through it, that I saw what kind of man he really was, and that we still wanted to be together after that. The commotion started to pack up and move out. And then I left for a three-month trip to Europe.

Given our experience with crisis management and my lengthy experience with making long-distance work, I honestly thought that being this far away wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe that was naive of me. Maybe I just had a lot of faith that things were going to work out. Maybe I’m f-ing nuts.  We used to be so close, I used to see him all the time and hear about his day, and we used to pride ourselves on keeping things as balanced as possible so that one person doesn’t end up doing all of the work. All of the sudden, I feel like I’m in it alone. I know he’s just keeping busy so that he doesn’t feel bad, but I feel like I’m not in his life anymore. I’m an afterthought at the end of his day, when we talk for however long he can before he starts to pass out on the keyboard. I’m not even a consideration on the weekend anymore, when we’re lucky if we talk for an hour between Friday and Sunday. It makes me really sad that I’m not much of an inclusion anymore.  It’s the thing that, more than any other aspect, makes me feel a full 6,000 miles away from home.

Before I came to France, I did some research on French culture and took the time to read about half of a very wonderful book from a Canadian couple who came to France and lived here for two years while writing a book all about the French. I feel like I came here prepared to witness the differences between my culture and the French culture, and anything I wasn’t  sure about I could ask about or  just try to be as subtle as possible. This research was part of my quest to avoid being the dreaded, ugly American.

Click to continue reading The Ugly American