One more note.

I'm going to be a grandmother! Ok, so it's not at all as bad as you think. And I'm probably way more excited than I need to be. My Delphi kid is taking a kid this fall pledging- happening this weekend. The duck gifts are on their way. I only hope they'll arrive before Squares on Wednesday!

Have fun, Actives!

For once I couldn't resist...

You will be smothered under a rug. You're a little
anti-social, and may want to start gaining new
social skills by making prank phone calls.


What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
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Immigrant frustration for Malta

BBC NEWS | Europe | Immigrant frustration for Malta

Blaming my formative years.

During five chilly minutes of profound thought this morning, I realised- while peering out through frosty car windows and trying not to hit a tree- that during my "formative" years, the majority of my scheduled events were on the quarter hour versus directly on the hour. I feel this should explain my reluctance to be on the hour to any event, or to be on the assigned time even.

However, in additional defense, my times in France have rather improved that fact- bus, train, metro schedules et al.

A friend works at the American Library in Paris- like the whole city, it seems to be a clash of cultures around every corner, or bookshelf- and once she told me about a new co-worker who was trying to arrange potlucks and such. The other workers went along with it but found it annoying. For most of them, this was work and their lives were separate.

In my limited experiences, I've found that for Americans- in our highly mobile, isolated, highly career/work-centered lives- potlucks and such are suppose to be good for company morale. But does this say that we just don't have lives, so the company needs to provide them for us? When did drama become a good thing at work? Even if I don't have a life, when did I say I wanted the company to provide one for me? Sure friends at work is nice, but drama -not so much. I prefer work being work, and my life -uneventful as it is- to be my own.

After finally finishing Les hirondelles du Kaboul, I found myself missing those old french lit courses at university. At the time, it was so annoying to have to force myself through multiple chapters each night, followed by that feeling of inadequacy the next morning in class discussion. But having Diane or even Jan there to explain the story, the text, the words and sentence structure, and the history behind the story, and the cultural influences that I couldn't begin to know, was just an amazing opportunity, that like most of university I didn't truly appreciate until it was almost gone. (I was the fool who procrastinated on organizing my study abroad till my senior year, so I have only myself to blame in this!)

However, I did some thinking- miraculously - while reading Les hirondelles and it seems to me that since Khadra grew up during the revolution in Algeria, he might not naturally write in French. Thus I should feel as comfortable reading a translation into English as reading one into French. (After all I am the one who broke down and bought the book I wanted in an English translation.) So I've decided that I'll look for a copy of Khadra's work in English. Though I should probably research what language he did actually write in.

Milk in a box.

It's been a year now.

Reading Erin's email earlier this week I think has brought it all back to me. As a result, it seems that I can't go one day without thinking how I miss France.

Ok, now, it's not the I-miss-France-can't believe-I'm-stuck-here-depression of senior year (which if you saw me was not a pretty I miss France), but rather the sigh-I-miss-France-wish-I-could-go-back-there-oh-sh*t-I'm-wasting-time-to-get-important-things-done-and-oh-yeah-what-was-I-just-thinking-about-how-are-you-today-sir,-did-you-find-everything-ok? kind of I miss France. All of which simply means, I miss France, but I'm pedaling at least 3/4 speed in the direction of my possible future.

So in honor of this almost anniversary of my first vacance solaire, here are memories of France.

Milk in a box! Freaky at first, but sweetly comforting at last.
30 minute train rides to another country.
Living in a hole- literally and geographically.
Middle Age city walls around every corner.
No straight streets in the whole city.
The CAF building, aka the Central Central Building at Pontiffroy.
CAF!
The Caisse!
St. Jaques and Centre St. Jaques.
Cobblestones, which necessitate cobblers!
Studio Onze, smaller than my american bedroom!
Lionel, the tech guy.
City buses which work even during the strike!
Trips to Cora!
Better still! Trips to IKEA!
Bus rides back from school, switching the radio halfway from Radio Bleue to Cherie!
The clothes rack that took up the remaining floor space in my studio on laundry day.
The handyman- bless him for everytime he had to fix a light in my studio.
ATAC and the chairs the cashiers got to sit on.
Dogs in the Centre St. Jaques.
The dalmatian who spent his days at Noir et Vert.
The Christmas ferris wheel.
All day Anne marathons with Louise, Bobby and Dyna.
12-hour-work-weeks.
3-hour train rides to visit Kristen. (It was an 1-1/2 hr by car.)
My French baby cell phone.
The Cameo!
The girl downstairs who played Evanescence non-stop till she found a boyfriend.
Kebab sandwiches.
My cafe and bakery around the corner.
World's best cereal from LeaderPrice.
Cheese!
Yummy homemade cafe au lait.
Nutella- it's not the same here. Where's the giant jar with the gold lid?!
Free movie posters every third month from the entertainment newsletter.
Fnac.
Milk in a box. (Meaning the UHT milk that doesn't need a fridge till it's opened.)

Time to stop. But good memories.