Bad Day in Paradise

Alors, je me suis reveille de mauvaise humeur. (Or, for the English-speaking, I woke up in something of a bad mood.) How, you might ask, can one be in a bad mood in such a beautiful place? I don't know. I'm gifted with a naturally sour disposition? Maybe. That and a lack of sleep certainly account for part of my crabbiness this morning. Though I think I've just run into the rough patch our program directors told us (or the students, at least) to expect a few days into foreign travel: the shine has begun to fade as what was new has become familiar, and beneath that veneer little fissures of reality have broken through. For instance, this morning on my way to get the day's baguette and breakfast pastries, I was walking down the street behind a well-dressed couple, and the stink of mingled old sweat and too-strong cologne blowing off them was potent enough that I had to turn my head. Ugh, I thought, and wrinkled my nose.

I then arrived at my favorite little patisserie and promptly mis-ordered (much to my embarrassment) and left with a flush, only realizing once out the door that because stores don't offer customers bags in which to carry out their purchases, I was now stuck carrying a bare baguette through town. Where would I set the bread while I had my morning coffee? Surely I couldn't just lay it down on a dirty cafe table top (these are often dusted with the ashes of the last patron's cigarettes). I decided I'd break the baguette so it would fit into my purse (crumbs in my purse being preferable to a dirty sandwich at lunchtime). I wondered if breaking one's baguette was some sort of French sin, but decided they probably wouldn't expect less of an American anyway.

My intention was to next find a cafe and have a cup of coffee while I did my reading for tomorrow's class. I have this little problem with cowardice when it comes to dining alone here. I have yet to figure out whether manners dictate that you simply sit down at one of the sidewalk tables and wait for a waiter to come take your order, or if it's proper to instead enter the cafe, place your order, then go outside. But I don't know how to say, "I'd like to eat outside" -- or at least I couldn't remember how to say it this morning. I paused outside a couple of different cafes to observe what other people did, but it was unclear to me whether they were entering the cafes to order or to buy cigarettes (many of the cafes double as tabac shops, selling cigarettes and cigars from behind the counter right alongside coffee, beer, tea, etc.). And there was the problem of the baguette. So, frustrated, I gave up on morning coffee and walked home in an even darker mood.

None of this is a disaster, but as I walked home and thought about why I was so sour, I realized that I'm a bit homesick. Now, I know that sounds ridiculous. I've only been here a few days, and this place is gorgeous, and, really, we're all having the time of our lives. Beneath that, however, I'm more than a little disappointed in my linguistic limitations. I feel us moving about on the edge of life here, unable to really break through. We observe our neighbors, the other patrons at cafes and grocery stores, the children running through the park; but, like window shoppers looking through the glass at the lovely things on the other side, we remain observers here, not participants. If I could have figured out how to ask the proper way to enter a cafe and order (inside or outside?), I would have had my morning coffee, my few precious minutes alone, before coming home to the noise of the children and their demands. If I were proficient enough in French to carry on a a real conversation, perhaps I wouldn't spend most of my excursions into town feeling embarrassed and insufficient.

For the next hour I silently fumed about the apartment. I wanted a Starbucks. I wanted a washing machine (I spent part of the morning washing my shirts and our undergarments in the bathtub, using a travel-sized bottle of shampoo in place of detergent). I wanted a freakin' babysitter.

And then I remembered the students' orientation meeting, and Naomi and Ross, our directors, telling the group that this moment would come. That a little frustration and homesick is bound to be part of the experience of foreign travel, and that one has to expect it. So, I thought, another milestone of the trip come and survived.

I'll admit that I'm still working on getting over myself and my sour mood this morning. I think a good, long walk will cure it, and as soon as I push "publish" here, that's where I'm headed. I'll load up the children, a couple bottles of water to keep us from wilting under the ever-warmer temperatures we're having here, and we'll get moving. Walking, I've found over and over again in my life so far, is nearly always the right cure for whatever troubles me. There is still more joy than I can imagine to be found here, I know, and the dark cloud I've been under this morning will pass. It's all just part of the experience.