Since my return to the 'States, the blog has sat mostly idle.

I attribute this fact to two main causes: first, the perception that my readers are predominately my family and are therefore in tune with my current day-to-day goings on, and, second, the unceasing influx of external distractions. I shall address these causes immediately.

I am coming to believe that, while my main cheerleaders who happen to all be related to me (and Jason) are the individuals who most commonly click to my site at random, I have reason to believe that there are a handful of people from my life abroad who would, perhaps, read a post every now and then about my life stateside. I will try to make an effort to keep at least somewhat updated.

The external distractions have kept me away from my computer for the past week or two (although I have no excuse for before that), as I am in the process of purchasing a condo in Madison, MS. Because of complications due to requirements by the mortgage company, we haven't closed on the loan yet, and I don't officially "own" the place. By early August, however, my name will be on the title, and this little place will be mine.

I got access to my 800-square-foot condo about two weeks ago, and we have dived into some minor renovations: we painted the kitchen, utility room, and closet appealing shades of green and green-white,  we replaced various plate covers and door stoppers, and Jason magically brought two lights back to life. He says he's not an electrician, but his hands seem to have electric magic in them.

I got internet, I got my air conditioner looked at, and I will hopefully have the bathtub fixtures replaced tomorrow, allowing me to finally be able to shower here instead of at my parents' house. It's a bit of a hassle to have to drive to Jackson just to take a shower.

I'm waiting on access to my classroom at Germantown High School, where I'll be teaching French I, II, and III/IV, and Theatre I, II, and III. Unfortunately, the school isn't completely built yet, so we're having to sit and twiddle our thumbs until they give us the go-ahead to get into our rooms.

I sank into a deep depression this afternoon for about an hour when I thought I wasn't going to be able to get tickets for the Harry Potter midnight showing tomorrow night, but I was brought leaping back out of it by my cousin, who invited me to go with them to a theatre not in Madison (who was very much sold out). 

These are exciting times. Come visit me in my condo in Madison.

Hell Is:

I ran across t-shirts and bumper stickers with this clever and truer than an American who'd never been abroad could acknowledge saying on it while I was in France.


In Heaven…

• the mechanics are German
• the chefs are French
• the police are British
• the lovers are Italian
• and everything is organized by the Swiss.

In Hell…

• the mechanics are French
• the police are German
• the chefs are British
• the lovers are Swiss
• and everything is organized by the Italians.

I haven't been to Italy, but I think it would be difficult for them to out-disorganize the French. I have been back in the States for almost two months now, and it seems like maybe, just maybe, the red tape is wrapping itself up.

The most recent and hopefully final bit of this sticky red substance that I've had to deal with is my bank account. Because I left France before the end of April, I had to leave my account open until I got my final paycheck (about 800€, which is between $1000 and $1100 in American money: not an amount to just let go). The implications of this required leaving were, most importantly, that I would have to figure out how to close my account and get my money transfered from my home stateside. 

Several weeks before we left, Michelle and I took the bus down to Pont de l'Arc to the specific branch of the bank where our accounts hand been opened was. We explained in the best French either of us will probably ever have that we were leaving, that we had another paycheck coming in, and that we needed to be able to close our accounts from abroad. The nice, reassuring man in the bank told us that there was nothing to worry about, closing an account was easy!

Oh, boy.

If closing a bank account in France is "easy," I don't want to know what a difficult process to go through might be. It took two months and a hefty transfer fee to get my money. During that time, I sent countless emails to addresses that seemed to be the right addresses and addresses that seemed to be the wrong addresses. I made three international phone calls to the bank, the second of which was on a Random Thursday Bank Holiday. That was normal, right?

In the end, everything got closed, and today, I get this very official letter in my inbox. It does, in fact, verify that my account has been closed successfully (I blurred out his last name, it didn't come like that):

I will have you know that this official letter is on no sort of letterhead; there is nothing that ties it to the bank. It could be from the guy next door to my house here, and I would have no way to know.

Go figure.

Maybe my account is closed, maybe I won't have to deal with French red tape anymore.

Maybe.

En Faisant la Cuisine

I spent a lot of time in France irritated over the kitchen situations. We had nowhere to cook at Vauvenargues, unless you count a microwave, a mini-fridge, and a table as "a place to cook." (I, quite frankly, don't.) Our friends' options were almost equally limited. Most of the assistants who had apartments didn't have ovens, and there was always a bit of tension in the kitchen at Cezanne, where I cooked as often as I had the opportunity.

I joked about how I lived there as much as they did, and I feel like my presence may have occasionally be unwanted, but to go an extended period of time outside of the kitchen is not something I could or would do.

Since I've been back, I've made a handful of the recipes I mastered in France. Guacamole, mac-and-cheese, and scrambled eggs may not seem like traditional french cuisine, but it was like our ramen. We needed dinner, and it was what we were able to make from what we had in the fridge.

Cooking at Cezanne was always daunting. It was often a make-do situation in which a bottle filled with olive oil and covered in saran wrap was turned into the smashing half of a mortar and pestle, or a beer or wine bottle covered the same way became a rolling pin. There is no cuisinart, no electric mixer - making our delicious eggnog at Christmastime as physically taxing as it was tasty - and limited and mismatched knives, forks, and dishes. I don't think we were ever short on teaspoons. Don't really know how that happened.

So, I've now cooked in two fully-stocked kitchens in the States: my parents' and my brother's. It's a completely different ballgame. I have what I need in front of me, and yet I find myself using the makeshift methods I picked up in France. The guac I made for Easter lunch was done with a fork, spoon, and paring knife instead of the cuisinart, the sauce for mac-and-cheese was in a too-small pan because it was about the size of the pan I always cooked in at Cezanne.

I'm sure I'll grow out of these habits, return to taking my small appliances for granted, and fondly reminisce on the days when we had to live as a community and share four stove eyes, an oven in Celsius, and not enough hot water. But for now, I'm happy that I learned to cook the dishes I did, I hold dear the experiences in the Cezanne kitchen, and I am grateful that the place I came home to has a dishwasher.

Can "Freminiscent" please be a word?

If it can, can it mean "Reminiscent of France"? Because that's what today has been.

I feel like I've adjusted fairly well to being back in the States: I drive my car instead of walking around the block, I eat too much food all the time, I speak with a more Southern dialect than I would've been caught dead using in Aix. But, sometimes, there are things that pop out and remind me that I did just spend an incredible seven months abroad.

I woke up and put on my Zara skirt and my sleeveless shirt that I've had for years that says "regarde-toi" on it in pretty script. That's fairly French. Then I went to eat lunch at Newk's with my parents, and since they have Orangina and since I'm in Orangina withdrawals, I had an Orangina, which reminded me very much of being at Newks. I think it would've reminded me more of France if it had been canned, but you can't have everything.

After I left Newk's, I went to run errands for Mom. I ran into the mother of one of my high school classmates, who asked me what I'd been up to, and I mentioned that I'd just gotten back from time abroad. (FRANCE!)

From there, I went to the mall to pick up a gift. As I was leaving, I decided to peruse the shoe department (who knows when you might need shoes), and a lady working looked at my shirt and then double-took at my shirt and said, "regarde-toi. C'est francais!" mostly to herself.

In a past life, I would have been incredibly self-conscious and smiled and moved on, but my French withdrawals might be worse than my Orangina withdrawals, so I asked her (in French) if she spoke French. Turns out, she IS French, from the banlieu (suburb) west of Paris, and she's moving back June 10th. I told her I'd been in Aix, and she said that it was a beautiful place. It's really nice to encounter people who speak French in Jackson, Mississippi.

All in all, it's been a Freminiscent day.

Observations

After being back in the states for a couple of days, there are several things that stand out to me as "I didn't realize that this would be so shocking when I returned." Here are some of the major ones.

• Kroger is the biggest store ever. It doesn't seem to have anything in it that I need and couldn't get at Intermarché or Casino, but it's at least ten times their size and overbearingly whatever-the-opposite-of-claustrophobic is.

• Waiters and waitresses WILL NOT LEAVE YOU ALONE! They seat you. Come and take your drink order. Come back without drinks to make sure you're okay. Come back with your drinks. Come back three or four times to make sure your drinks are okay. Come back and take your order and explain the specials. Come back between taking orders and delivering orders to make sure everything is okay. Every time they come back requires stopping mid-sentence to acknowledge them and then having to find your train of thought again.

• Drinks have free refills! And ice! How bizarre.

• It's really difficult to get places on foot. We have so much space.

• Our wildlife is completely different. We don't have pigeons but we do have squirrels, menacing red wasps that send me into a panic, and mosquitoes the size of birds.

• It's humid. Aix is dry dry dry! 80 degrees and sopping is not nearly as comfortable as 85 and dry.

I'm sure there are some other ones that I have missed and will think of later, but those are the ones that I keep noticing.

On another note: It sure is nice to be in close physical proximity to the boyfriend, the friends, and the family. Skype is such a wonderful tool, but it cannot and does not replace the wonderful feeling of curling up on the couch by someone to watch tv or play Portal 2.