A Miss Who Misses No Opportunity

So last night at my ritualistically horrible English lesson, my student Scratchy was so moved upon learning the reality of my French existence: a pitiful stipend of €15 a week while surviving off of bread, special K, and green beans from the can while having little purpose in my life other than dancing naked in my apartment to Lady Gaga, writing, and philandering shamelessly with the opposite sex, that he insisted he "show me France" next Thursday. He's on vacation for two weeks starting tomorrow, he insists, and, as he works full time as a mason, has "some money," and wants to pick me up at 9am and whizz me off into .. uh, France, on his motorcycle.

If my mom is reading from the Pacific her heart just skipped a beat. For what it's worth I asked him if he had a big helmet for me and protective gear.

What I'm hoping is that this means a fun filled day of sightseeing to little outlying French villages and hopefully some good food and wine on him. What I'm worried about is that it's going to be bugs in the face, sunburn, and an all day hostage situation. But weighing is for grocers! So I said "you bet your bottom dollar I'll go!" And he was like "...quoi?" and I was like "tout a fait, m'sieur!"

"Let your youth have free reign, it will never come again, so be BOLD and no repenting!"

Extra-Curricular

I would like to take this time to name my English student "Scratchy," after his late baby squirrel. He is my age, nice looking, a non smoker, and one of those rare specimens known as "French Surfers" from the South. Understandably he comes with an air of nostalgia for the male species back home in the islands, wearing T-shirts and sporting surfer guy hair.

While I have long suspected that the only reason he comes to my lessons, since I'm the world's worst English teacher, seriously, may well be our age proximity and my not entirely horrible cuteness quotient, today he surprised me by offering to take me on a visit to Dijon's surrounding areas "some Sunday," "when he has time."

He also had a lot to say about me potentially finding work in a vineyard. I shall investigate this.

And in secondary news, I've been thinking a lot about dreams this week. Windows to the subconscious? Vast reservoirs of cryptic info about life, spirituality, or human psychology just waiting to be deciphered? Or are we unaccountable for any of the trouble our brains get into when we let em' off the leash each night?

Lately I've been dreaming about having a pug dog puppy and forcing cuddles on his tiny squirming body. I don't generally like dogs; and I've always found ownership of the small pathetic ones kind of a perverse display of a desire to dominate a lesser and submissive being. I've also dreamt of surviving a zombie apocalypse by fleeing to the ocean and staying with a pod of dolphins for 8 days, befriending a tree that had skin instead of bark, and always, alllwaaays, dreams about Harry. He emerges, full of love an reciprocity, and my chest fills up with warm delicious sunbeams; until the the sight of my ceiling extinguishes them with a swift bucket of cold awareness.

La Bise that was Heard from Space

"Et pour les amoureux.." Says Stephan as he rings up our drinks at the register. Harry smiles nervously as I'm a little slow to pick up the French, like always.

The bad news: Scratchy the squirrel died night before last when the little heater in his night-time box inexplicably ceased to work. The following day, his owner and my English student, broke three fingers, one on one hand and two on the other, at his construction job while building a wall. The result: a teary eyed student struggling through the past tense for one painfully awkward hour on a rainy Dijonaise evening.

While recovering with a glass of wine with Harry in the aftermath, we talked about music and where it stops being music and starts to be noise- and art, and when it starts to be art and stops being stuff. (Any art student like myself or music student like Harry can answer "never" or "always" to the above and can easily spend an evening arguing about why either, neither, or both are dumb answers)

After words, in the street, I rubbed Harry's arm. He joked about some people being inefficient on bikes as they passed, seeing as there was only one on each and we'd recently become experts at piling on three. We shared a laugh. Then I asked if we could faire la bise. With a smile I added that it was "platonic enough."

So faire la bise we did, and, like usual, as my lips brushed against his left cheek my heart fluttered into space, and when I kissed his right it was all ready lost somewhere beyond Europa. He had touched my arm lightly. It was more poignant and more electric than all the kisses I've had in France to date. Then I dragged my sorry self up my formidable spiral stairs like I do every single night, wondering about love, about sex, the calories in a glass of wine, space travel, etc.

The Right Kind of Courage

I consider myself moderately courageous. I can approach a stranger, initiate a date, ask for kiss or toss a compliment; I can move to a foreign country where I don't know anyone or speak the language. I can fall in love. But, like most silly human beings, I can't, for the life of me, talk about my feelings with someone I care about.

Yes, I have brazenly asked Harry if he wants " to go make out." I've even casually tossed the "welp, lets go have sex" card on the table, which, granted, wasn't terribly easy. (Nor did either go over particularly well.) But when it comes to telling someone that you have feelings for them beyond friendship or physical attraction, something most everyone hopes to be told, why is it so impossible to find the right time, the right words, and the right kind of courage?

Last night, after giving an English lesson to a nice French guy that showed up with a squirrel in his pocket, (a soft, wonderful, baby squirrel named Scratchy) I went out with H and J for some drinks and squirrel talk. The night ended with the two of them "giving me a ride home" by all of us spending an hour giggling in the streets trying to pile onto one bike. It was a profoundly good time. We were so proud of ourselves and our team spirit when, finally, with me on the handle bars, Harry on the seat, and Jonas on the peddles, we managed to swerve around the Chapel St Michel laughing up a storm the whole way. That's some lovely novelty right there: a Hawaiian, a Frenchie, and a Brit rolling around an ancient French cathedral at 3am.

It's fun but it's starting to get a bit ouch inducing as well. And not just from the bruised butt after the handle bars. Each evening when I faire la bise with Jonas and give Harry a defeated handshake my heart gives a little whimper. Hiding affection seems so gosh darn criminal. Every inch of me wants to scream "YOU ARE LOVED! thank you for being you!" in the universal language of kissing, but instead, the laws of relationships force me to walk up my spiral stair case each night with an added ouch on every step.

I seemingly have no trouble with love and loving all sorts of people, all over the place. Why, when we have naturally so much love to give, is it so decidedly against the rules to be loved by more than one person?

"I wish I could tell you face to face instead of singing this stupid song, but yeah, I just think that we might get on..">link<