The Driving Force

Late last night I went out dancing with TMI and his friends. As is the norm of my life abroad, I had to overcome my shyness and discomfort of being in a group of someone else's French speaking friends, but I somehow managed to be at least part-way to comfortable. I was wearing a big sweater and not feeling particularly attractive, but I convinced myself to dance away my inhibitions and relax. I kept it up for 30 or 45 minutes and I was under the impression we were having fun. TMI is a wonderful dancer: fun and creative, and I was feeling overcome with pride and love. Finally, to avoid sweater + dance floor induced heat stroke, I stepped off to the side to take a break. He came after me.

...To tell me that I was dancing too provocatively and "sending a message" to all the other men in the club that I was "easy" and "wanted sex."

There I was: standing in a sweater amongst scantly clad French girls, admiring TMI for his dance moves when suddenly I learn that he is, in fact, aggravated and "embarrassed" by me. I told him I wanted to leave and I didn't want him to come with me.

I was furious, but also tired and feeling hurt, so I didn't have it in me to fight or yell when he insisted he leave with me. At home, I was fixing to go to sleep without talking about it, but he said: "I feel like if we don't talk about this now we'll just continue our relationship always feeling like there was a problem we didn't solve." I conceded, but naturally, the talking just made things worse.

Here are the straight up facts: I love him more than I've ever loved anyone. He's gorgeous and talented: I'm courageous and beautiful; but we are both detrimentally jealous and insecure. In the end I almost suspect the fear of loosing one another is what will drive us apart.

Boat Music

In not so sexy news I went to the boat and danced tonight. Danced to an amazing singing black woman with an afro and a sparkly dress and a band of good lookin guys playing trumpets and drums and electric guitars. It was unbelievably fabulous- the woman was incredible.

And tomorrow is job interview number one! With any luck. And next week brings three meetings with my three new English students! ..Again, with any luck.

Dancing on a Boat

I changed my hair for the first time in 20 years and it changed my appearance quite dramatically. I dealt with the shock by following a group a French guys through town in the dead of night to a canal, (I had no idea there was water in Dijon) and onto a boat where there just so happened to be a roaring 20's party. Uh, rad.

So I danced and shimmied and swung my new sweat soaked bangs back and forth until the wee hours of the morning. A handsome Frenchie with an embarrassing name walked me home and kissed me at my door. Pas mal, pas mal de tout.

No Thank You Croque Madame

A French grilled cheese: aka, a croque madame. The lesson learned here is that I am never, EVER, going to eat this again. Especially, ESPECIALLY, only two hours before dance class. This thing is heavier than eating a stick of butter and has more fat in it that you can shake a stick at. Creamy French cheese and ham all melted together with an egg on top.

Still no news on the appartement, and I'm about ready to go wild animal on the agency. Paris on Monday, now to go throw up!

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!

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