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.

School's (Almost) Out for Summer

I apologize for the massive gap in my blog writing schedule.  Somehow, between work and play and endless romantic comedy- and sitcom-watching on Netflix, I let my writing habits become non-habits, and I ended up here...not having published anything online in a while.  (If it makes you feel better, my novel has fallen to a similar fate.  I haven't looked at it since Spring Break.  Which was in March.  Two months ago.)

A few other habits have fallen by the wayside, too.  I already wasn't walking/running because of my ankle, but determined to stay in shape, I was doing 200 ab exercises every other day for a while.  Which pretty much stopped as soon as I got to the beach.  I was also cooking for myself at some point in the past, but honestly, I can't remember the last time I used the stove.  I even stopped going to sleep at my normal obnoxiously-reasonable bedtime of 9:30.  Because I just can't take going to sleep at the same time as an eight year old anymore.

On Wednesday, I woke up from a dream in which I had given birth to a rather large baby (painlessly) on a Sunday and wandered the school on a Monday looking for a sub...for that day and the twelve weeks following.  Apparently, I hadn't set up any kind of maternity leave.  Apparently, I hadn't known I was pregnant until there was a three-month-old coming out of me.

While my therapist is going to have a field day with that dream and its potential meanings, I woke up thinking one thing: God almighty, it needs to be summer already.  Of course, I then spent the better part of my teeth-brushing that morning also thinking about what I would do if I really did have a baby that way, and whether or not someone can really not know they're pregnant, and wondering at what point I give up on the co-parenting ideal and adopt a kid on my own.

Because I can get some pretty serious thinking done in two minutes.

Or maybe I just brush my teeth too long.

Or maybe I should just get back to the story.

Last Saturday night, while laying on an air mattress in my parents' spare bedroom (slash workout slash craft room) as it poured like the dickens outside, I came to the realization that I don't have that one friend that I can call at any time and who would drop everything and do something with me.  Maybe a lot of people don't have that friend (because they have a significant other for that?), but I had several of that friend in college, and since I've moved back to New Orleans, I've always relied on my roommates to keep me company on boring, rainy nights.  And now that I live alone (and/or in my parents' spare bedroom on AirBnB weekends), I have to rely on my cat, who is not as good of a conversationalist as you think he'd be.  For all the whining and meowing he does in the morning when he wants me to feed him, he's particularly uninterested in extended contact with me most of the time.  Which is why I love cats.  And also why I need human interaction.

In the end, I decided two things: (1) I need to find another perpetually single woman in New Orleans to be my best friend until we both meet our dream guy at the exact same time, and (2) I should get out more.  I mean, I'm an extrovert.  Being alone for large swaths of time has never been an ideal situation for me.  So, in addition to attempting to be more open to events going on around the city, I emailed a few places about volunteer opportunities.  The one that looks most promising is a nursing home in my neighborhood.  Because I think I could benefit from having someone in my life old enough to have no filter and no tolerance for short-sighted bullshit.  Sometimes the truth is more palatable when it's wrapped in wrinkles.

Of course, I emailed them barely more than a month before I leave the country and spend three weeks in Quebec City speaking French and contributing my savings to the Canadian economy.

Did you know that the Canadian dollar is only worth 77 American cents?  It's like a built-in 23% discount (I have no idea if I did that math right).  I'm considering just packing two sets of clothes and revamping my wardrobe when I get there.  Then again, you should probably take my considerations with a grain of salt.  Other things I've considered recently include:

- Having every person I know set me up on a date with someone they know (and then writing a book about how badly it goes)

- Moving to California and risking earthquakes, wildfires, and people who reek of B.O. and weed to escape the Neverland of "lost boys" that is New Orleans (and then realizing California might not be my best move for that)

- Purchasing the school/large plot of land across the street from my house and developing it (with all of the millions of dollars I don't have)

- Getting knocked up by a kind, wealthy soul so that I can afford to raise a baby and not have to worry about whether or not I want to be with the father forever (and then realizing money isn't the only thing keeping me from attempting motherhood)

Regardless of what I pack, I'm really pumped for the summer.  Three weeks in Canada to get my French fluency back, maybe a weekend in San Diego at the beach, time with friends and family and books and books and books.  Who knows?  Maybe I'll finish my novel revisions and work on getting it published.  Maybe I'll start another novel.  Maybe I'll finally tackle my backyard.  Maybe I'll finally find that perpetually single best friend that's also on a teacher schedule and doesn't mind that I'm ditching her for three-plus weeks to go do fun things somewhere else, even though she'd never leave me.

That's what I love most about summer: potential.

Also: not working.

The Short Version

Boy meets girl.  Boy and girl have kickass time in the wee hours of the morning in various parts of the French Quarter.  Boy returns home to a state far far away.  Boy and girl try to keep things going, but it's harder than they thought.  Boy and girl acknowledge that it won't work.  Boy and girl stop talking.

Boy meets girl.  Boy is funny but talks over girl.  Boy cooks delicious tacos but boy is condescending and competitive and pretty much an asshole.  Girl struggles with whether to set him straight or just let him go quietly.  Girl tells him that she thinks they want different things.  Boy asks what she wants.  Girl can't think of anything that doesn't sound like an insult to boy, so she doesn't respond.  Boy and girl stop talking.

Boy meets girl.  Boy invites girl to a basketball game.  Girl enjoys basketball game.  Boy enjoys basketball game.  Boy and girl have nothing to talk about.  Girl thanks boy.  Days later, boy asks girl how her weekend was.  Girl does not respond.  Girl feels shitty about not responding.

Boy meets girl.  Boy and girl stay up until 3:30 in the morning dancing and talking and hanging out with boy's friends.  Boy seems to really like girl.  Girl thinks she might like boy.  Boy is tall and handsome and, most importantly, respectful and thoughtful.  Boy asks for girl's number.  Girl asks when they should get drinks.  Boy and girl eat french fries and drink beer and laugh about knowing none of the answers in trivia.  Boy says he had a good time.  Girl says the same.  Boy and girl text for a week.  Girl tells boy to let her know if he wants to get together this week.   Boy makes a joke and doesn't answer the question.  Girl is fed up with boys.

Love in the Time of Sprained Ankles

The last three weeks have been eventful ones, to say the least.  Big things have happened, things you'd think I'd want to write about.  But outside of my last post about P, I've been putting off writing.  Because I was waiting for a lesson of some kind to be learned.  Or a hint towards the future.  Or something that makes all of it (or even some of it) make sense.  But I have none of those things.  So I write without wisdom and hope for clarity.

***

Three weeks ago, I met a guy named P on Bourbon Street, and we spent thirteen hours together wandering the quarter and getting to know one another, and I couldn't believe my luck, meeting a guy like that.  We've managed to keep up texting since then, but real conversation has eluded us.  When he calls, the dialogue is short.  When I call, I get voicemail.  I heard a lot less from him this week.  He says it was the week from hell at work.  He still wants me to visit, he says, but I need to be able to walk without crutches first, and I don't know when that will be.  So, the visit keeps getting pushed back, and the messages get fewer and farther between.  This weekend, we almost haven't talked at all.  So who knows.

Two weeks ago, I sprained my ankle.  I jumped up to block a ball, and when I came down, the guy's foot was underneath mine.  My ankle rolled, and it felt like my leg had snapped in half.  There was a lot of shrieking and crying (all me), and there were a lot of people standing around uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with tears that loud, that pained.  The ER visit only took an hour in sum, but the two weeks since have been hard.  There has been a lot of frustration, and there have been a lot of tears, and I have fallen multiple times.  But people have been wonderful, and I'm becoming better at accepting help every day.  I hate the fact that I can't get around on my own, that I can't play sports or run or even get to another room without crutches, but I'm grateful that I can finally see some of the bones and veins in my foot again.  The swelling is finally going down, and I'm hoping and praying that means I'll be healed enough to walk soon.

A week ago, I rented a knee scooter from a medical supply company in Jefferson, and I scootered my way through the Mardi Gras weekend.  My right thigh was crazy sore on Monday and is now twice its original size, but my heart is a little fuller, too.  People are notorious at Mardi Gras for being territorial and unmoving, but crowds opened seamlessly when I needed to walk through, and everyone had a story for me about the time they got injured and had to use crutches or a knee scooter.  I was a "trooper," they said time and time again.  A police officer even let us follow the Thoth parade, so we could get to a friend's house more easily.  Students shouted hello to me from the sidewalk.  A teenage girl told me she liked my hair.  And throughout the weekend, I kept thinking to myself, What an amazing place this is.  Where else can you go to a jazz mass and then step outside and spent seven hours in the sun catching beads with friends and getting to know the strangers around you?

Four days ago, I gave up on talking exclusively to P, who'd been mostly unresponsive during the week, and set up two Tinder dates.  I had coffee with a bashful school psychologist in town for a conference.  I had sushi with a local engineer who made me laugh for two hours.  The psychologist was a one-time thing (he was into it, I wasn't), but the engineer called me the next day and we talked on the phone for thirty minutes about everything from potentially-explosive scented candles to sailboats.  I'm not sure when, but I think I'll see him again.  And while I'm slightly uncomfortable with "seeing" more than one person at a time, it might be good for me.  It might give me some perspective.

Yesterday, I finished the first draft of my novel.  I had been putting off writing the last chapter for more than a week, unsure of how the story should end, but after talking to my therapist on Wednesday and to the school psychologist about his grandparents on Thursday, and reading the perfect quote about love and death in a novel on Friday, I knew what needed to happen.  So, it's done.  I don't really know what to do now, but I know I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Today, I struggled up the steps to the choir loft. I struggled around the grocery store on a poorly-engineered electric scooter. I struggled with getting my bags into the house (one broke on the way up). I struggled with finding exercises that didn't put too much stress on my ankle but that would keep me in shape. I struggled with writing this post (this is start-from-scratch draft #3).

But tonight, I have dinner planned with my family who loves me, and I'll come home to lay in bed with a cat who loves me, and I'll get ready for another day of work with students who love me.  And as frustrating as the ankle is and as confusing as the long distance to California thing can be, I'll be alright.  Because every day is just another day.  And there are a whole lot of people who love me.

The Holiday

Honestly, it was like I stepped into the pages of a romantic comedy.  You know the kind, where the girl randomly meets the boy, and they instantly hit it off.  And neither one of them saw it coming.



This weekend was a fairly tame one.  Friday night, I went to dinner with friends stopping by on their cross-country move before I fell asleep with a book.  Half upright.  With the lights on.  With my dress, tights, and cardigan on.  Saturday night was much of the same.  I watched multiple hours of iZombie on Netflix before deciding I would be too freaked out to sleep if I watched even one more episode and fell asleep in bed with my book again.  But in pajamas this time, at least.

Only, Saturday night, as I was worrying that I would actually lose sleep over zombies (my imagination lacks rational thinking, ignore it), I thought to myself, You know what, this is stupid.  I could use a man in my life if for no other reason than that I sleep better knowing someone else will be there to help me fight off the zombies.  So, as any reasonable person would do to prepare for an (all in the head) zombie attack, I installed Tinder.  Again.

It makes me think about that quote about insanity.  You know, the one about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.  (Oh?  You were thinking the zombie thing was crazy?  Yeah, that, too.)

Nonetheless, I waited for the app to download, put in a short blurb that represented my personality and interests to some degree, uploaded some old pictures, and started swiping.  I ended up matching with more than 20 people between Saturday and Sunday night.  I talked to several of them for a while, made a few dates, and hoped these dates wouldn't suck as much as the last round.  I matched with a couple of tourists, and most of the conversations didn't go anywhere.  I do sometimes see men from other parts of the country visiting and think, Damn, I need to move away to wherever they're from, but rarely do I bother right-swiping them.  Because what's the point?  They live somewhere else.

But there was this one guy.  We'll call him P.  (Because his name starts with a P.)

He went to one of the best tech schools in the country.  He has a really nice smile.  He has a really nice everything.  Smart and attractive?  How could I pass that up?

So I swiped right.  And we talked briefly.  And he invited me to come and hang out with him and his friends in the Quarter.

And I thought about my less-than-thrilling Friday and Saturday nights.  And I thought about the last time I'd done something spontaneous and a little risky.  And I thought about how I could use a little excitement in my life right now.  And I decided to go for it.

(Keep in mind, I also texted a friend of mine a screenshot of the guy's Tinder profile and told her to call the cops if she didn't hear from me again in the next 12 hours.  Because I'm a responsible risk taker.)

So, at five minutes to midnight on what would normally be a school night (after drinking a sleepy time tea because I'd had every intention of going to bed), I got dressed again, put on a little mascara, got into my car, and drove to the Quarter.  It took us almost half an hour to find each other.  He didn't know where I was.  He didn't know where he was.  Eventually, we settled on a location, and then we changed the location, and then he walked the opposite way of the location....all of which finally led to me running down Bourbon street in my boots and skinny jeans to find him.  (Technically, I spent the final block walking to catch my breath so he wouldn't know I'd run most of the way.  It's hard to explain to a stranger why you just ran down a crowded street to meet him.  For you, though, I will: cold + bourbon st + waiting + 12:30am = bleh.)

I found him, leaning against a pillar below a Bourbon street balcony, wearing a gray suit that was a little too thin for the temperature.  He was a little shorter than expected, a little taller than me, but what I noticed first were his eyes.  And then his smile.  And then the fact that I was super attracted to him, even though we'd barely exchanged a sentence in person.

This doesn't normally happen to me.  I'm not normally out meeting strangers in the Quarter at midnight, much less finding myself magnetized by one.

We went back and forth about where to go before I decided to take him the 8 blocks to Frenchmen Street, which actually turned out to be 16 blocks in forty-something degree weather.  My bad.  But I barely noticed.  It's funny how you can meet someone and just have stuff to talk about.

We spent all of maybe half an hour in Cafe Negril on Frenchmen before the not-so-good music and the not-so-subtle volume level drove us back out on the street with go cups.  It was probably 1:30am by this point.  Maybe 2.  The crowd was thin.  It was cold.  We'd already talked politics, music, school, family, hometown, you name it, but we kept talking.

A short walk brought us to Molly's, the closest bar with noticeable heat, and we sat for another hour or two, talking about anything and everything that came to mind and adding a couple more drinks to our total.  He held my hands in his to warm them.  We kissed.  A lot.  And we had a decision to make.

Now, I'm not that kind of girl, but I was tempted to hop in a cab with him and head straight to my house.  Thankfully, his brain was working better than mine, and we didn't.  We finished off our drinks and headed back out into the cold.  We made out in front of Jackson Square (to keep ourselves warm, of course) until a taxi brought us to Deja Vu Cafe, where I drank water and he drank Purple Haze, and we talked and kissed and talked and kissed, and he changed his flight to stay a few hours longer, to give us a few more hours.  But we couldn't feasibly stay out in the Quarter any longer.  It was at least 5am by this point.  It was already later than I'd stayed out in a long time.  Than I'd stayed out maybe ever.

I wasn't tired, though.  Dopamine is no joke.

We went back to the place he and his friends were staying to pick up his things, we sang two Disney songs with them (because why not), and then we left.

We got to my house after 6am.  We were in bed by 6:30.  We slept and talked, on and off, all morning and into the afternoon, until the alarm went off, and it was time to take him to the airport for his 4 o'clock flight.

Thirteen hours, and I didn't want him to go.  Thirteen hours, and he'd said I should move to California.  Thirteen hours, and we were both wishing it was more.

The car ride to the airport was awkward.  It felt weird to acknowledge my disappointment--I literally hadn't even known he'd existed the day before.  So I stayed quiet, for the most part.  He didn't talk much either.  When I pulled up to the departure hall, he kissed me and told me to visit.  To keep in touch.  He got his things out of the trunk.  We said goodbye through the back door before he closed it (literally, the word "bye"), and I drove off, wondering whether the thirteen hours of talking and kissing and realizing that the other person was pretty freaking awesome was worth the massive ache in my chest.  Wondering whether I'd actually keep in touch.  Whether I'd actually visit.  Whether he really wanted me to do either.  He'd been so affectionate all morning.  He'd been so quiet in the car.

I got home and went for a run.  I'd say to clear my head, but really, just to dull one kind of ache with another.  To mull over when I became the girl that ached after thirteen hours.  To try and figure out why this incredible guy--this smart and handsome and funny guy--had to live four states away.  Eighteen hundred miles away.

And just when I'd nearly decided that I'd cut my losses and leave it for the memory books, he texted me.  And sent me a picture of us from that morning outside of Deja Vu Cafe.  "First meeting memory captured," he wrote.

And hope springs eternal.

The morning--all of it--began to remind me of that Christmas movie, The Holiday.  The one where Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz switch houses and each fall in love with a guy who lives in a totally different country.  The movie ends with a New Year's scene.  You don't know what's going to happen to them.  You can't imagine they'll be able to overcome the country and ocean between them.  But they're enjoying their time together all the same.

The romantic in me loves it.  The pragmatic in me hates that they're putting off the inevitable.


I have no idea what to expect in the days and weeks and months to come.  I like him, but I don't have the funds to visit him regularly.  And it seems unlikely either one of us would move.  And on top of all of that, we've only just met.  Thirteen hours together.  That hardly gives us enough to go on.

Still, even if it bombs in a catastrophically emotional way, and I weep--majorly weep--like Jude Law's character in the movie, I'd drive down to the Quarter at midnight all over again.  In a heartbeat.  Because what's life, if you don't feel a little?

It's a New Year

You know when you're in transition and you're already missing all the old things you haven't even left yet and you're wary of all the new things you know very little about?  That's how I was feeling today at work, even though nothing is set in stone.  It's not even set in Jello.  It's a maybe transition.  There's a chance that I might be doomed or lucky enough to teach science to 4th and 5th graders forever in the same classroom and in mostly the same way for the rest of my days.  But there's also a chance that my principal will let me start this really cool new position doing math and science extension with high performing students, and I am totally psyched at the thought of it.  It's right up my alley, and it's exactly what the school needs right now.

I spend a lot of time thinking about all the things I'll miss about having the same class every day, and all the things I'll miss about hanging out with kids at recess duty, and all the things I'll miss about all the bullshit and the substance that makes most of my days end with a satisfied sigh.  There are some things I'd certainly love to leave behind (grades are pretty much the only thing I can think of right now, mostly because I'm yelping with joy at the prospect), and there's a ton of cool stuff that might lay ahead: teaching math again, using problem- and application-based learning, seeing high-performing kids challenged and excited and engaged.



I felt this way a little bit about my recent transition into becoming a 30-something, too.  There was plenty of anticipation leading up to the event, and I wasn't sure what I would miss about my twenties, but I felt like surely I would miss something.  Freedom?  Metabolism?  Elastic skin?  I created a scavenger hunt to distract me from my impending doom, but it worked out even better than that.  It reminded me of exactly why I should be excited, not worried, about getting older.  It was fun.  It was exciting.  It made me laugh.  It brought people together.  I didn't finish it, but I didn't even care.

My first twenty years weren't much to write home about.  It wasn't bad or traumatic or anything, but whenever I watch movies where people are longing for the glory days of high school, I just don't get it.  If you'd known me as a high schooler or even a college student, you would know there wasn't much to be nostalgic about:

1. My hair was blah.
2. I extremely skinny and flat-chested until I was fifteen, and when I finally got boobs, I also quickly gained more weight than looks good on my face/frame.
3. I was EXTREMELY shy.
4. I studied ALL the time.
5. I was way more stressed out than I should have been.
6. I had way less fun than I should have had.
7. I took way less risks than I wish I'd taken.

And then, after playing it safe through childhood and adolescence, I came into my twenties ready, desperate even, for something new.  I wanted to try new things! meet new people! discover a new, more exciting version of myself!  I tried salsa, kickball, improv, tango, singing, running, going to therapy, dating a lawyer, dating a shorter guy, dating a bartender, dating an ex-boyfriend, online dating, living in the riverbend, living uptown, living in mid city, buying a house, traveling to Europe, traveling to Canada, traveling to Morocco, traveling by myself, traveling with friends, becoming a badass aunt, becoming a (hopefully good) godmother, writing a blog, writing a novel, adopting a cat, playing volleyball, making out with strangers, dancing until the wee hours of the morning, drinking bourbon, saying what I need to say, standing up for myself, acting more like my mom than I'm sometimes comfortable with, and being more like the person I want to be every day.

And I am extremely proud of myself these last ten years.  I've become emboldened.  If you had told me ten years ago that I would feel this way about myself, I would have probably thanked you but inwardly scoffed, and then retreated to my room, where I'd have put on a movie but stared at the wall instead, wishing that I was like that.  Doing things.  Meeting people.  Taking risks.

In the last ten years, I've let myself have way more fun than I ever did in my first twenty on this Earth.  My teenage version of excitement was staying up an extra hour to watch Whose Line Is It Anyway.  Last week, I pointed to a guy in a crowd at a New Year's Eve party and proceeded to dance with him for a straight hour without ever catching his name (he kept saying it, but he was from Mexico, and between his accent and the general roar of the party, I could only figure out that his name ended in the letter o).  And when, at the end of the night, in an ill-executed attempt to get my friend and I go to home with him (never gonna happen), he asked me if he could give me "an extremely good kiss," and I let him.  And you know what?  It was an extremely good kiss.  And a long one, too.  And the first time I've ever been kissed on New Year's.  But definitely not the last.

A part of me worries that living this way as a 30 year old is a recipe for disaster.  I'm worried that while I'm out dancing with strangers, I'll miss all of the actual prospects (if they still exist) for a "normal" life: marital bliss/frustration, kids, the works.  But if that were the case, I think more people would be worried for me.  And they're not.  And I like kissing strangers after five straight hours of dancing in my favorite sparkly dress.  I don't want to do it forever, but until I find something better, it suits me just fine.

I don't know if the excitement will end when I finally find someone I click with.  I don't know if commitment and excitement are mutually exclusive.  But I've been teaching for eight years now, and if I've learned anything about committing to something you love, it's that it won't always be fun.  In fact, it will suck a lot, maybe even most of the time, but that's not what you'll remember--you'll remember that year where your favorite homeroom called themselves "O'merica" because they loved your class so much, that kid who thanked you for not giving up on him, that note a student left in your mailbox one random morning that complimented your "unique sences of humor" (sic) and "all of the burns you give."  Because you're funny in a multi-faceted way and you know how to stick it to a kid in just the right way that he'll love you even more for it.

So, happy new year everybody.  Here's to another year of being me: teacher, learner, fun-haver, risk-taker.  May you be even more like yourself this year, too.