Quebec, Je t'aime

There are, in life, those occasional moments where you live completely in the present, untouched by life's future worries or past mistakes.  These moments come around far too rarely, but when they do arise--when they do peek their heads out like groundhogs without shadows--you've got to take them for all they're worth.

A few days ago during a break at my volunteering placement, one of the men working there asked if I was eager to return home (As-tu hâte de retourner chez toi?), and, after asking him to repeat it twice because I didn't understand the question the first two times, I had to admit that I wasn't.  Not even a little bit.  I'd spent my full three weeks ignoring the looming end date, and with only a few days to spare, I was wishing more than ever that there was more time.

At night, I had dreams about marrying a Quebecois and sticking around, nightmares about being invaded by zombies and Japanese minions, symbols (I assume) of change.  During the day, I dreamt about scrapping the rest of my summer plans and staying in Quebec until August.  Maybe even moving, permanently.

But there aren't enough funds in my bank account.  Or space in my host mother's house.  Or warmth in a Quebec winter.

My last day in Quebec was a quiet one.  We'd thought about going out with a bang--taking a trip to the rocky "beach" near the city or to the beautiful island close by--but we'd stayed out until 2am the night before and woke up tired and/or hung over, and it just made more sense to lay low.  For me, too, it made sense.  The thing I would miss most about Quebec wasn't really Quebec itself.  It was the incredible people I'd met during my time there.  It was the friendships that wouldn't be the same when I left.

My last night, I cried.  Twice, actually.  Once, when a friend came in to wish me goodnight and good bye, and once when two of my roommates came down to hang out one final time.  There I was, sitting on my bed next to two Mexican teenage girls, reading a card from everyone in the house and feeling my eyes pool with tears.  I cried.  My "little sister" cried. We hugged.  We laughed.  We spoke in English and French and Spanish (well, I listened to their Spanish).  We sang random bits from random songs.  We shared stories.  We promised to keep in touch.  We wished each other goodnight.

I hadn't expected to cry.  Honestly, tears felt like an overreaction to the situation.  But by the time I put my head to my pillow, it made sense.  My time in Quebec, and the people therein, meant more to me than I expected, and it was only right to mourn its passing.

So, in honor of the wonderful, kind people that I met during my time in Quebec, I'll say a few words about some of them.  I'll use first initials to preserve their potential desire for anonymity, even though some of them may never read how much I appreciated them.

J: The only man in the house we ever really came into contact with, he occasionally took on the role of the protective older brother.  But most of the time, J was just kind and thoughtful.  He made me feel welcome, and he made it easy to share our cultures and ourselves with one another.

T: One of the first people I met in Quebec, T is kind and welcoming, and she greeted me every morning with a smile.  Above everything else, I love how ambitious and spirited T is.  She has big plans for the future, and she makes friends quickly with all different kinds of people.  And she loves her university.  By god, does she love her university.

A: During our three weeks together, I was always impressed by how cool and self-assured A was.  She sported a short, bright blond cut, and she wore frog rain boots on cloudy days.  She was always a pleasure to talk to and spend time with, and I loved how enthusiastic she was about everything.  I want to be more like that.

M0: M is the best host mom ever, and I feel extraordinarily lucky to have been placed in her home.  She's funny and thoughtful and sweet and kind, and she truly wants nothing more than to get to know you and make you feel welcome.  She's been through a lot in her life--good and bad--and yet she approaches everything with a smile.  I hope to be a lot like her when I hit 60.

V: She would hate me to advertise this, but there was one morning near our school where a random guy walked up to her, weirdly stroked her upper arm, and then proclaimed in slightly-broken English how "elegant" he thought she was.  But he's right, she is.  Extraordinarily elegant.  Honestly, though, her elegance has little to do with her makeup or clothes or the awesome way she curls her hair and more to do with the sincerity that she brings to every conversation and interaction.  She is kind and fun to be with.  She approaches everything she does with purpose and thoughtfulness.  She speaks French well; before you know it, she'll be in the advanced class.

A: A shares that same elegance and purpose. She treats everyone she meets with kindness.  She's thoughtful about everything: her studies, her clothes, her words, her attitude, her friendships.  She always learns as much as she can, and as a result, her French has progressed so much in such a short amount of time.  What I love most about A is her optimism and authenticity.  When you're with her, you can't help but feel comfortable.  You can't help but smile.

M1: Somehow, I managed to befriend a load of Mexicans during my three weeks, and M was no exception to this rule.  Though she came a week after I did, we bonded quickly, to the point where she, M2, and I closed out most nights this past week laughing in the kitchen or singing High School Musical songs upstairs or watching Youtube videos until way too late on the deck.  She is kind and sweet and thoughtful, and she approaches every experience ready to learn and have fun.

S1: S was in the first class I was in, and within days, she, M2, and I became a team, a group, a non-exclusive clique known as the "Fête des Trois" (aka Party of Three, pronounced "fite day twah").  She's short in height but large in knowledge and kindness and humor, and I loved getting to know her.  Had she lived in our house, the Fête des Trois would have been truly inseparable.

S2: This is going to sound sort of self-aggrandizing, and I don't mean it that way, but I'm going to say it anyway.  I now understand how my students feel when they they leave my class.  For the last eight years, I've gotten these wonderful letters from students and parents alike explaining how much they loved my class and science and me, and until my visit to Quebec, I really couldn't sympathize.  I'd never felt that way about a teacher.  But S is a teacher unlike any any other.  He's kind and thoughtful and welcoming and funny--so funny-and dramatic and passionate about what he does.  He greets every student with a smile, and he teaches in such a way that makes you really want to learn.  Material-wise, his class was too easy for me, but I spent the last two weeks of my trip wishing I could be put back into his class.  My final day at the school, during a trip to the festivities for Quebec's St Jean holiday, we ended up hanging out and having ice cream together for like an hour, just him and the Fête des Trois.  I really do hope that I can bring to my classroom this fall even a third of what brings to his.

M2: I saved M2 for last because over a super short time, she became like my best friend in Quebec, like my little sister.  In fact, we've decided that she's going to marry my little brother (who is also 17) so that she can officially be part of the family.  M lived in the same house as me, and we spent the first week in the same class together (she's part three of the Fête des Trois).  Over our three weeks together, it became readily apparent that we had a million things in common and got along unexpectedly well, considering the age gap.  But she's mature and thoughtful for her age, and I like to think I'm young at heart.  She's kind and thoughtful and beautiful and smart and funny and loyal and faith-driven.  She's always smiling and laughing, and we could spend hours together and always find something to talk about.  I will miss her--I do miss her--exceedingly, and I really, really hope that we'll see each other again.  In the meantime, I'll keep wearing the bracelet she gave me and working on the makeup tricks she taught me and practicing the Spanish I learned in her company (Que quieres, eh?).  Sometimes, really, really great people come your way.  M2 is one of those really, really great people.

Each of these individuals added so much to my experience in Quebec, but collectively, they also gave me a new and improved sense of self and of the world.  I'm really going to miss being part of a program where everyone's excited to learn something.  I'm going to miss being part of a house where everyone wants to spend most of their waking hours together.  I'm going to miss being "one of the girls."  I'm going to miss all of it.

Since I started therapy almost four (!) years ago, I've grown so much as a person, and the biggest part of that has nothing to do with the therapy itself, but instead has everything to do with what it's reminded me over and over again: I am who I am, and the best thing I can do is appreciate that.

During our final hang out, M1, M2, and I shared all the things we appreciated about each other, and we made plans to see each other again.  "You have to invite me to your wedding," M2 said.  "Okay," I said, "but just know it probably won't be for a while."  "No," she said, "I think you're going to get married when you're 35."  "Hmm," I said, "35. I like that."

From time to time, I get the feeling that I'm not where I'm supposed to be.  That while the rest of the world is coupling up and reproducing, I'm wandering the desert chasing mirages.  Somehow, though, this trip has given me a lot of peace.  It's taught me that we're all exactly where we need to be.  We just need to keep walking in the right direction.

Quebec, Week 1

It has been an incredible week.

And I am dreading going home.

I arrived in Quebec last Saturday and arrived at the house of my "host mom," Marie, around 10pm.  I didn't know what to expect, but as soon as I arrived, I knew I'd love staying here.  Marie is even more kind and thoughtful than necessary, and the other women from my program who live in the house (of which there are five) are equally kind and thoughtful.  It's like I fell into a rainbow.

Of course, even rainbows take a while to get used to, and between cellphone issues and anxiety and excitement, it was 2am before I fell asleep Saturday night.

Sunday, it rained.  And rained.  And rained.  I had planned on arriving Saturday so that I could check out the city and settle in before class started on Monday, but instead, I sat in my room, then went to church, then checked out the nearby shopping center, then sat in my room, then had dinner with my "family" (Marie and the others) before returning to my room to sit around some more.

My Sunday in 1,000 pixels.

Monday morning started slowly, too.  All of the new people gathered in a room together, and it became readily apparent that I was one of the only students that already spoke French relatively fluently upon arrival.  We spent a long time waiting to take our oral exam, then we spent a long time waiting to pay for books, then we spent a long time walking around the building doing a tour, then we spent a long time waiting for the other half of the group to get their tour, then we spent a long time getting spoken to in mostly broken English about what we can/can't/should do while at the school (the main take away: don't speak anything but French).  Then we finally got our books and our class assignments, and someone took us to our rooms.

I was placed in the top class with a professor named Simon.  And I have to tell you--I couldn't have been placed with a better teacher.  He's witty, he's dramatic, he draws weird pictures on the board (like a picture of Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball singing Je fais de la démolitiooooooooon).  He makes class fun.  Even though it gets a little slow sometimes, and I yawn A LOT (it's cold and there's a lot of white noise thanks to the vents), there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

In addition, there's a whole contingent of students in my class that I've come to befriend and enjoy, none of whom are American.  Of the 16 people in our class, 9 speak Spanish as their first language (8 Mexican women and a guy from Ecuador).  There are two Brasilians.  There's a guy named Mohammed.  There are two people from England and one person from Ontario.  And then there's me.  I love it.  There are two women in particular in the class that I always sit with: Scarlett and Maria, who are both Mexican.  We do all our projects together and we always call ourselves the "Fete de Trois"...because in Quebec French, "fete" (party) sounds like "fight," and in all our glorious immaturity, we think the prononciation is hilarious.

Maria actually lives with my host mom, too, and I swear to you, she is a Mexican version of my sixteen year old self.  Okay, not exactly.  She dresses well and wears makeup and speaks three languages, but otherwise, she's the same as I was: big into the Catholic church, a sucker for romantic comedies, and a lover of all things sweet.  So, of course we've bonded.

Outside of class, I've been trying to take advantage of the activities the school offers.  Monday, we got a guided tour of the National Assembly of Quebec.  Wednesday, we went to a baseball game.  Thursday, we went out to Old Quebec and ate poutine (a fries/cheese/sauce combination famous in Quebec).  Truth be told, though, the activities have been kind of a let-down.  Monday, at least half of the tour was in English.  Wednesday, the baseball game was long and cold and expensive, and (because there are so many students who don't speak much French), the conversation was mostly in English again (despite school rules).  Thursday, there wasn't even a guide for the visit to Old Quebec.  We literally paid fifteen dollars to eat a $6 poutine and walk around together in the cold (mid-40s with high humidity).  I don't think I'm going to be partaking in those activities anymore.

Friday has been my favorite day so far.  In class, we gave presentations on films (okay, not my favorite) before going to the weekly award ceremony, where I got a "présente mention" for "grande implication et esprit d'équipe."  Which means I got an award for participating a lot and having an almost-obnoxious amount of team/class spirit.  In the afternoon, we played a game of Guerre de Clans (Quebec version of Family Feud) during which we laughed a lot (and during which my team won!).  After school, I went running and ran down to the river (literally down because there's a massive elevation difference between my house and the river), ran along the river, and then ran back up again.  Shower, dinner, and then we were off to the centre-ville for a huge outdoor show/theater experience in the old part of the city.

I wish you could've been at the spectacle.  It was literally one of the most moving experiences with art I've ever had.  The name of the show was "Où vas tu quand tu dors en marchant?" which means literally "Where do you go when you sleep while walking?" I expect the title was meant as a play on words, since it gave the feeling of a dream experience.  My surrealism professor in college would have peed his pants with excitement.

The show took place in 5 different locations all in the same general area in Vieux Quebec, and after you went through each station, you would walk to the next one.

The first place we went--called "Désordre" (disorder)--had these people dressed as police officers, and they made us walk through a TSA-like line while they shouted at us and warned us that we were at a point of no return.  If we passed through the arch, they said, we couldn't turn back.

And then we entered, and there was a man sitting on a ledge gently congratulating us on taking a leap of faith. And there was this amazing amalgamation of activities before us: a silent dance floor, where you wore headphones and danced beside strangers; a circular couch where you could lean back and look at the stars while someone whispered about how, even if every person on earth had their own star, there would still be trillions of stars left unclaimed; a series of camp fires; a place where you could drink chai tea and listen to someone read a passage from a book called "The Lost Art of Doing Nothing"; a place where you could go down a slide into a vat of styrofoam balls; a place where you could write your worries on a piece of paper and leave them behind on a chain link fence.

The second location we visited was called "Machineries," and it had this strange coal-miner-meets-steampunk-feel.  There were people making music with gears and cogs and metal trash lids, and a stage with a huge dancing marionette.  There were these people that were walking around with creepy human-looking puppets attached to the front and back of them, and if they came to you and you ran away, they'd chase after you.  But if you stayed and you were gentle (one man gave the creepy puppet a kiss on the cheek), they'd leave.

The third station was like a drive-in movie, except the screen showed these odd slow-motion videos of a person dancing or hitting a pinata or falling asleep, and the cars were rigged with lights, so that together they put on a kind of light show that corresponded with what was on the screen.  Honestly, it was mesmerizing.

The last station we made it to was called "Feter quoi?"  Wed walked in and there were people dressed in birthday hats blowing noise makers and welcoming us.  Then there was a woman dressed like someone from Brasilian Carnival dancing in a birthday cake.  Then there was this long, narrow opening, where we stood against either wall and people came through the middle dancing and playing matchmaker and doing the Chinese dragon dance and telling jokes.  Then there was a quiet area with Thai candle lanterns, where you could whisper your worries away.  On the way out, there was a karaoke stage that looked like a bathroom (where two girls had volunteered to sing a Maroon 5 song).

We missed the final station, and we got separated at one point, but eventually we made our way back together and stood for a couple of minutes on the sidewalk talking.  I'd say about half of the group liked it, while the other half weren't so keen--they thought it was weird, or they didn't "understand" it.  But, I explained, you're not supposed to understand it.  It's supposed to be a reflection of your subconscious, of the weird images and stories and juxtapositions that happen in dreams.

We ended the night on the Rue St Jean, drinking a beer and listening to a two-person band in an adjacent room playing 90s alternative rock music to an animated crowd.

Yesterday was my host mother's birthday party.  She turned 60, and by her reasoning, she needed at least sixty people there.  I don't know if sixty people showed up, but it was a nice crowd, and I think she had a great time.  She'd made maybe twenty different appetizers, and I tried pretty much every single kind (and liked all but the extra-fishy ones).  The other women from the program and I mostly stuck together at the edge of the party, but a few Quebecois introduced themselves and talked to us.  I talked a lot with two or three Quebecois--about the education system, about my family heritage, about the difference between Quebec and Louisiana, about where I learned French--and by the end of the night, I was worn out.  I went downstairs with a few friends, and we talked for a few hours in English.  Because sometimes your brain needs a break.

Today, Maria and I went to church, I watched a French movie, I went grocery shopping, and now I'm going to watch another French movie before all the students in the house from our program take our host mom out to dinner for her actual birthday.

Bref, I love it here.

But boy do I wish it were warmer.

Ou vas-tu quand tu dors en marchant? A view of one station from above.

"Drive in Movie"

"Drive in Movie"

Directions for each of the stations

Machineries--creepy puppets and all

Machineries--the way in

Désordre: The Wall of Abandoned Worries

The Wall of Abandoned Worries

Silent Dance Floor

Star View

Sunset in Quebec

Host home! (View from behind)

A view of the St Lawrence River from a lookout point

Stairs from the St Lawrence river up to the lookout point

St Lawrence River

Chateau Frontenac (swanky hotel)

View from Old Quebec

The stone wall surrounding Old Quebec

Base-ball in Quebec

Grammar mistake in someone's graffiti

Changes on the banks of the St Lawrence

St Lawrence River

St Lawrence River

Sculptures along the Quai de St Laurent

Risks and Regrets

Once upon a time there was a young girl named Rebekah.  She was seventeen years old, and she had just graduated from high school a few months before.  Behind her lay years of plain-faced anonymity and a life encompassed by family and academics.  Before her lay a new beginning.  College.  The land of infinite possibilities.

In the days leading up to her departure, she would often lay on her bed and write in her journal about the nothingness that had happened to her that day and dreamed about the somethingness that would happen to her in the near future.

Well, after reading the first 4 1/2 books of The Princess Diaries series, I figure I should probably start writing in my own journal, just in case something major happens, like becoming a princess, although not quite that extreme.  Maybe a first kiss, or...well, you know, something exciting.  And since I'm going to college, something new has got to happen.

Yes, that's correct.  Our dear protagonist Rebekah was nearing the end of her seventeenth year of life without so much as a peck on the lips.  She had even missed the age-old teenage experience of slow dancing with someone other than your father.  To perhaps illustrate her virginal innocence most clearly, she was still reading The Princess Diaries two weeks before college.

Days overtook days, and with a neatly packed pile of her belongings growing in the center of her room, Rebekah awaited the day that she would finally leave behind the oppressive shyness of her high school years and enter into a new era of her life: Rebekah, The Less Shy.

She spent most of her last week in New Orleans with her family, volunteering at a thrift shop with old women who were as equally celibate as her, and tubing with some people a few years her junior (to whom she was, by comparison, infinitely more advanced in wisdom).

This girl that went tubing with us, M--, is an attention seeker.  She's the kind of girl who'll talk about sex, etc. and stupid stuff --making her look like a fool--to get a guy's attention.  It's sad, and even sadder that I almost used to be like that (minus the sex talk).  My last year at camp was like that.  Immaturity is depressing to look back on, sometimes.

Depressing, indeed.

Believe it or not, even in those days, Rebekah was a devoted writer and reader.  She had recently completed three years of intensive study in creative writing, where she'd read hundreds of books and poems and written dozens of her own pieces.  Her focus on the craft added an unexpectedly thoughtful layer to her otherwise jejune character.

Oh my gosh!  I just finished All American Girl by Meg Cabot. I make fun of A-- for liking Anime characters, but am I any better? I'm in love with someone in a book--a fictional book.  Oh well...I'm sure there's someone out there to make my heart flip in the same way.

Another great book (though way more depressing and with much better writing) is The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury.  If I could only write with the precision and detail and emotional subtlety he does, I'd be psyched!  I have no idea where he gets his ideas, nor how he can balance tell and show.  I'm still trying to figure that out with Austen, too.  Such great writers!  How will I ever reach that level of talent?

Years later, as she typed about herself in the third person, she would wonder the same thing.


As excited as Rebekah was for college, she had her doubts.

College is going to be a good experience, though, I know.  Everyone keeps telling me this, but all of a sudden, now that I'm on the way, I'm not sure I'm exactly ready for college.  I'll just have to get ready because we get there Friday, and I move in on Saturday.

And she did.  Get ready, that is.  She spent five years at the University of Virginia, during which time she earned two degrees and made life-long friends and cracked her shell and dated a boy for a year and a half.   Though she didn't get any taller, she grew.

Fast forward nearly thirteen years.  Rebekah sits with poor posture at a table in the home she owns, pondering her upcoming trip to Quebec City.  She doesn't write in a journal anymore, but she does occasionally write blog posts that are so terrible she doesn't publish them for fear that people will realize that she's about as far from Bradbury and Austen as it gets.

I leave the city in three days.  I would say that I'm excited--and I totally am--but I'm also very nervous.  I've managed to bite my fingernails down to the quick, and I spend too much time pre-planning in my head how things will go.

Her thoughts turn with anxiety.  She worries she'll forget to pack something important.  She worries the security lines at the airport will be so long, she'll miss her flight.  She worries her rusty French will make her look foolish in conversation.  She worries it will be so cold that she won't be able to wear tank tops or shorts, and she'll lose what vaguely resembles a tan.

She is excited, but like thirteen years ago on the road to Virginia, she's scared, too.  It's too late to turn back, and she doesn't actually want to turn back, but every part of her reptilian brain screams, Why are you putting us through this?  Why couldn't you just stay at home and watch Netflix and hang out with your friends like everybody else?  Why do you feel this compulsive need to go to new places by yourself and risk loneliness and discomfort and isolation?  It reminds her that things could go terribly wrong.

You could hate Quebec City and the program.  You could feel oppressed by the distinct lack of single people without children in Decatur.  The guy in San Diego could be dating someone, and it could be super awkward to stay on his couch.  You could get lost and die.

She lets her brain reel through these feelings, fears of rejection and un-belonging, before remembering why she's going.


Because she's never taken a risk she regretted.


Sure, it's sucked being lonely in another country, being uncomfortable at a new school, being

overwhelmed by the responsibilities of home ownership, being rejected by men.  But the only things she really regrets in life are the times she could've taken a risk, and she didn't.  When she didn't dance with that boy in middle school.  When she didn't try that club in high school.  When she didn't go to that party in college.  When she didn't tell that man how she really felt.

Rebekah pauses and leans back in her chair, thinking about critical moments in her life, the risks and the payouts.  I'll just have to get ready, she reads again in her old journal.

She stands up.  She carries her suitcase to her room.  She starts packing.

She smiles to herself.  Let's do this.

Rebekah slow danced the shit out of this night.

Ah, Rebekah's boyish figure.

Awkward but happy.  Story of Rebekah's life.