Tsunamis at Home, Stairs in France

On my toes here in France as I wait to hear word from my Hawaiian homeland. Trouble in Asia usually means trouble in the island chain, but the last few tsunami scares blew over with only several inches of raised sea levels, so you never can tell. Heres a video from a friend and fellow Hawaii dweller, Alex:

In other, not nearly so exciting or life threatening news, I went to my first dance class yesterday. And, an hour before the class, I fell down the stairs of the monk tower.

Let's face it, it was way overdue, but having happened only moments before my great hurtle into having a life abroad felt a little cruel and unnecessary. The result was growing a welt the size of second butt (or third boob) on my lover hip, the crimson color of what B called a "raw steak." See image below.

Of course I'm obligated to say it's much worse in reality. And this pic was taken yesterday- today it's like a big black rock. I'm both proud and worried for my internal bleeding.

Despite the pain and fear, I walked to my dance class all the same. I was so shy I stood outside the door for ten minutes until someone else came along and I entered with her. In spite of the throbbing, I jette'd and plee'd with all the vigor I could muster.

This morning, not surprisingly, I could barely walk. B took me to the pharmacy where I showed my third boob and was given all sorts of medication and salves.

Now to convalesce. In the mean time keep your fingers crossed for the ohana, the aina, and of course the Hawaiian phoque.

Forgive Me Legolas

Well I guess this is a... learning experience. Before this eccentric chapter of my life I always thought that casual sex and the now passé' term "friends with benefits" was only for the sexually deviant and hopeful high-schoolers. Well! Here I am, living with a guy that drives me absolutely BONKERS, (I couldn't even get him to sign the Humane Society boycott of Canadian food in protest of the seal clubbing because "it iz joost not important to [him]")and doing the roommates-that-sometimes-have-sex-thing. If only my virginous fat and pimpled younger self knew what the future held in France.

Not that it's any good, mind you. I insist all the lights are off so I can't see him and focus all will power on Ewan Mcgregor, forbidden professor, or of course, K thoughts. But the later usually leads to a kind of sadness. That's right past self. You who once kissed Orlando Bloom posters and daydreamed about Sonic the Hedgehog and Legolas: You knew about true love. And you would be ASHAMED.

But all this silliness aside, I have two adventures ahead of me. A) I found a ballet studio in centre ville, and I need to make a pilgrimage to Paris to visit the embassy.

In the U.S, when you need something notarized you go to the bank and pay a small fee. Here, when I explained what I needed to B, he thought I was way out of line asking for a bank. "Any-zing official and you must be going to the mayor!" and, bien sur, the mayor resides in the grand palace in centre ville. And yes, you even get to cower, bow, and seek an audience. Alas the lesser mayor of Dijon was no good, (I found out after doing it TWICE) and I must go to Paris.

SEAL DEFENCE INFO BELOW!

Click here to FIGHT FOR THE PHOQUE!

Rabbit Fur Shoes

So no post yesterday; I'll admit my chipper and resiliently optimistic outlook failed me and I had a minor B-like break down. I spent the day in bed and cried like a teenager. B had had shrimp several nights before which meant that there was a mountain of heads, legs n' tails piled by the door- and mixed with some old garbage and rotting meat I couldn't even even go near the area to escape. B spent the day in front of the tv, in itself infuriating, and, with no friends, no job, seemingly no direction and the smell of old shrimp creeping up the stairs, I lost it.

The sporadic moments I spent out of the bed and not so teary-eyed I passed desperately looking for something to get involved in. I looked at schools in Paris and sent emails to distant family members and French guys and girls via dating websites. Though I may be feeling better today, one thing is clear; I've got to get out of here.

Fortunately today had a rosier opening. I woke up to an email from appartager.com, a French website for searching for roommates. Four young people in a beautiful old house a few minutes out of centre ville had expressed a mild interest in my illiterate self to be their fifth. What an uplifting thought! A social life! A place away from shrimp carcasses! I sent them an email and am now waiting for the best.

In other news today B was suddenly overcome with a desire to paint his apartment. He uncharacteristically launched himself into the world and returned with a gallon of white paint. No complaint here, the orange of his living room had long burned my retinas. I spent the better part of the day helping him paint, and he paid me back with a veggie pizza in the soir. It's a big improvement I think; anything to make this place less shrimpy I'm gonna be in favor of.

a good roommate to the bitter end.

And a final interesting tid bit: while I sang French Disney songs for B, we some how got on the topic of Cinderella. Turns out, the "glass slipper" is actually a bad translation from an original French story. Don't quote me on this now, but apparently Cinderella originally left a rabbit fur slipper at the ball :)

Rapunzel

Frustration x 1 billion. I'm trapped in a medieval tower staring longingly out the window at the world beyond. Too bad my story's been told all ready or maybe I could make some money selling children's novels.

In a rare turn of events, B took me out to a cafe where we had a drink with his friends. THANK YOU GOD. It was the first time he's seen his contemporaries since I arrived in France a month ago and I practically clung like a sea urchin to the female in the bunch, talking her ear off in my French/English melange. Not only am I desperate for interaction beyond boring B, especially female, but I love sitting with a bunch of young people chatting away in French!

that little white umbrella on the right is where we sat and where I froze to death and contracted cancer via second hand smoke.

So what have I been doing to my better my life? I've joined a dating website, that's what! What's the plan?? Solicit the affectionate eye of another naive French man to later break the heart of gently so that I have another place to live. It worked the last time, right? Brilliant.

But seriously, that's only one of the for-the-most-part-pathetic efforts I have launched to stimulate a more exhilarating life abroad. I think I should get myself to Paris. So I've begun emailling students and other people my age I've found through social networking in attempt to create a support web, so that I may find a place to live / stuff to study / tasks to accomplish in the great city of romance.

In other news the sky is blue outside! And I HATE being inside when the sun is outside! Honestly I can't understand people my age who can sit inside all day in front of the tv/computer. (cough cough B cough cough) You know what kids? when you're old, that life is your only option. Sitting home alone without functional legs or eyes or ears or people that want anything to do with you. I'll watch tv then. For now, I'm in France, and I'm not gonna sit around waiting for my hair to get long enough for a prince to climb up. I'M GOING OUTSIDE!!!

Oh yeah, and look! A salad. B makes them. I've decided it's the only plus to living with the frustratingly boring guy.

Its got potatoes and a wedge of raw ham. How French!

Worried Mothers

Today, while I was taking a shower, or rather, attempting the freezing uncomfortable struggle that B calls "a shower," the buzzer started going off at our front door. Weird, you can't even get to our door without a key to open the one downstairs in the street. I'm naked in the tub though, so there isn't much I can do about it. While I cling to life against frost bite the person outside, seemingly very impatient, is pressing the door bell over and over and over again. B is, of course, asleep- and, as I've said before, if it don't wake the dead it aint gonna wake B.

By the time I was out of the tub and had a towel around myself the person was gone but had left a note under the door. It was from B's mom. oh yeah.. I did send her an enraged email last night about B lazing about all day.

The night before I lost my usual chipper and caring composure when B was still asleep at 9 pm. I was SO FRUSTRATED WITH HIM that I screamed and kicked a box across the room at him. He still didn't stir.

I simmered down a little, and, like I used to do with K when he was in a similar funk, I prepared an offering of food. That finally got him up. Then, while he ate, I asked him if it was his medication that made him so tired. When he said yes, I told him that he needed to change his prescription. The drugs weren't helping him if they were making him sleep away his life. He explained that they were good because he didn't have stress and worries while he was asleep. I insisted that the only cure for his depression in the long run is to lead an active lifestyle.

Then he gets irritated and whimpers "Pleeease Lea, I iz knowing what iz good for me, okay?"

Then I loose it. I yell at him that "No, you obviously have no idea what is good for you!" I try to explain further that drugs that make him sleep instead of facing his problems are only prolonging his depression. Then I storm out, cry, and write a frustrated letter to his mom. whoops.

So I send her text saying that the door is unlocked and she comes back. I hide upstairs while I hear her crying in the kitchen with B. Dang! Looks like I stirred things up a bit.

Fortunately when I showed my timid face in the door I learned that she had come for other reasons as well. While B had been spending his life asleep, he'd been neglecting his adult duties; paperwork involving hospital stuff and rent stuff and work stuff that I couldn't really understand, so his mom had come to get some of it straightened out.

I ended up having to take her around the town to various places in centre ville to drop off paper work for B. She tried to talk to me about his problems and I explained the best I could, but she doesn't speak any English and my French is still terrible.

Anyway! I did notice when she jokingly called me B's nurse. So that's my life abroad, I guess. Laaaaaame. I mean, hurray, I'm helping someone by living with them, I suppose, but I'm starting to feel like I've been baby sitting depressed jobless men for the last 6 years of my life.

So, to perk myself up, I posted some more adds around town as an English tutor and sent some emails to piano teachers asking if any would risk giving lessons to an illiterate. I look forward to a more active life! I do I do!!!