Les Vacances Contemplatives

I feel charged with recounting energy after a progressive dinner in the foyer (common room) this evening. It wasn’t progressive in terms of the food, but rather in the way that people tend to steadily stream in while I cook on my camper’s stove behind the snack counter each evening. This is a simple tradition I began when I realized there are certain exceptions to the astounding quality of French food, in this case coming in the form of a forgettable supper in the canteen some weeks ago. Not wanting the students to think I was avoiding them at mealtime, I’ve since stocked my foyer cabinet with tasty baguettes, spices, and several gallons of olive oil, defying the allure of McDonald’s français with my spatula in one hand and herbes de Provence in the other. Despite attempts to start preparing ingredients just when the students have left for their canteen dinner, the window of cooking tranquility is often narrow as many return after only 10 minutes, having inhaled their meal at a rate that would qualify them for Olympic-level eating competitions. Being a lowly assistant I cannot unlock the glass doors to let them in, so they patiently wait and watch with utter fascination as this American paces back and forth in his natural habitat, foraging for food and producing combinations they would not imagine serving to their worst enemy. As a person who’s very new to frequent cooking I take no offense—it’s downright hilarious to be observed in this way, and more often than not the students work hard to find ways to make me laugh through the muted glass. When the surveyeurs finally let them in, a few of them always line up at the counter to see what I’m up to and patiently grace me with some practice in French conversation. To date, these are some of my fondest memories of being in France.

So nostalgic, that last sentence! In truth it’s pretty far from over, which is awesome. The novelty of being an American at Charles Allies has started to wear off, and I don’t mind that at all. It means I’m steadily assimilating into my home. Home’s a strong word--one I didn’t think I’d find myself using in association with Pézenas. At first, this village seemed to be such a temporary and strange place for me that I never thought I’d get settled into it. It took a long absence for me to realize how attached I’d become. After my first 4 weeks of work, schools throughout France closed for the Toussain holiday, a gaping void of 15 days vacation starting 20 October for which I would have traded my left kidney to have during my high school days in Wisconsin (a decision I might have regretted later, but only after hundreds of hours of blissfully jumping into enormous leaf piles and dreaming of Brett Favre touchdown passes). I ask you to hold back your sympathy when I say that, due to a series of weather-related circumstances and a stroke of luck in the online-plane-ticket-pricing game, I found myself in the Canary Islands for seven days out of this not-so-much-earned holiday. What can I say? It was freakin’ sweet! I laid out on the sand next to the mountains, jumped in the Atlantic for some much-needed snorkeling/fish gazing, and took note of the “bikinis-optional” culture of Spanish beaches (for research purposes only). Easily the most amazing experience was my first-ever scuba diving expedition, which is one of those things I’ve always wanted to do, and now that I’ve done it I’m positive that I want it to be a big part of my life when I get back to the States. This is a tangent I might explore in later writings as it was truly eye-opening, and exponentially increased sales of Jacques Cousteau books in Pézenas.

After four days in paradise, though, I felt something that I never thought I would feel in such a situation: beyond the luster of palm trees and sun, the bustling activity of people on the holiday of their lives, I felt…lonely? What? With what fortune had provided me—this amazing experience in a faraway land that so many people would give so much to have—my extroverted side began to long for someone to share the beauty with. Particularly with a great deal of honeymooning couples out and about, I missed Nikki, my girlfriend and my heart, a lot. But really any one of my friends or family members would have completely changed the experience, a person to look at and say, “that’s so cool!” when the sunset painted the clouds a deep pink like I’d never seen against the darkening menace of an oncoming storm in the middle of the Atlantic. Unless you recently stole a bunch of money from me, if you’re reading this now let me say this: I wish you could’ve been there. I am so lucky to have had the chance to witness so much natural beauty in such a remote part of the world.

If anyone asks me what it was like to visit the Canary Islands, without hesitation I’ll always say, honestly, unforgettable. But the most enduring experience, perhaps, was returning to my once-strange village of Pézenas. My friend and fellow assistant, Pablo, had driven me to his home city of Barcelona to catch the flight, and gave me a ride back as well after spending time with his family while I was away. It was a joy to talk to him again for the first time in such a long time, in English no less after feeling so isolated having no knowledge of Spanish in the Canaries! We wound down the familiar main road that slices through the vineyards that had me so captivated when I first arrived over seven weeks before. Instead of giving me an adrenaline rush this time, however, my pulse steadied, as I knew that the familiar cafés, boulangeries, and cobblestone alleyways were just around the corner. Pablo dropped me off next to Charles Allies, at the entrance with the wall I always have to jump over because I keep forgetting to ask for the key, and the stairs that are not evenly measured and cause me to slip and fall time and time again. Even with a 50-pound pack, I couldn’t help but smile this time as I pulled myself back up and cursed the stair engineer’s failure through my grin. Trodding up to the third floor of the dormitories to my beloved 14’ x 8’ penthouse, I opened the door and felt a wave of relief. Though I was alone, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I heard the bells ringing, the students yelling, and life returning to campus. While I know my time here is fleeting, it’s good to know that I’ll miss it when it’s all over. 1700 miles from the Midwestern United States, I’m somewhere I never thought I’d be: Home.