HELPLESSNESS

As you may have surmised from my absence, life has taken a turn for the worst. Since my last correspondence, I have come up with numerous reasons for why the word “crazy” may most adequately describe my character: I decided to go to a foreign country alone, without any help or liaison whatsoever, to study at the graduate level in a language I am embarrassingly incompetent in. Now here I am, alone in a provincial town in the heart of France, with absolutely no recourse, no support system and worst of all, no one to molly-coddle me. What it all boils down to is an inability to communicate. While I could very well force English down everyone else’s throat, I am far too sensitive to do so. I am in a foreign country; it is thus my responsibility to adapt. Besides, were I to continuously revert back to the crutch English provides, I would be surrendering one of the goals I had set out for myself, and that is to acquire fluency in the language of romance, of Derrida and of Sartre. It is unbearably isolating for the moment, but should I persevere, my life will be all the better for it, I am certain.

When I think about my current life in the abstract sense, I really have nothing to be despondent about. Here I am in France -- the country that, culturally and aesthetically, fits my mold most perfectly. Unconsciously since birth, I have been conditioned into thinking of that which is French to be that which is superior. Was it Alexis who described me as having a bit of a “French” essence to my person? [For the record, I don’t believe in nationality as an adequate descriptor, but considering France’s illustrious history with fabricated nationalism I think it’s only fitting.] After the United States, for instance, France is the only other country in which I can somewhat catch pop-cultural references within. At the bistro where I had lunch this afternoon, I managed to identify three songs in succession (something by Variety Lab, Paris Combo and another one that I can’t recall]. Speaking of which, I am always the youngest person at restaurants, usually by a 30 year margin. Perhaps I am one of the few students in this city with an appreciation for the ritual of eating out? My father calls it an incorrigible inability to save.

I never really put much thought into this notion of “retail therapy” until now. Commerce has really become a bit of a solace for me within this doom and gloom. Through the use of my plastic, I gain a fleeting connection to a familiar self. Walking past a storefront, letting my eyes linger on an object of interest, browsing, contemplating, the dance with the sales associate, the final decision, the swipe of the card, the indication to sign on the dotted line, carrying the deliberately wrapped package for the first time, stepping out with a new weight in hand -- these are actions that can be recreated in almost any transaction-based society on earth. Hence, in response to my parental unit’s biting accusation that I am nothing but a reckless spendthrift, I can only say that through the patronage of commercial services (taking taxis despite the existence of a tram, eating out at restaurants instead of cooking at home, and so on) I am reminded of my ability to exert control. After all, my pen is my sword. What am I without a means of communication? Helpless, or at least, that’s what it feels like.

IS THIS DESIRE?

My last few days in New York were deliriously splendid. Deliriously! I managed to see everyone I wanted to see -- and that's what's important, right? Even got to visit my regular haunts for the final time. Every millisecond was occupied by blissful thoughts and amazing company. Case in point: at 3:30 on the morning of my departure, my roommate and I got a slice of the best pizza I've ever tasted in life from Artichoke, which is just around the corner from my (former) apartment. We stood in line for about 25 minutes if that's any indication of how delectable that slice of pizza was. Man, I'm craving some greasy New York pizza right now. Take me back!

Ultimately, however, between the stresses of packing and trying to organize final meetups and hosting various visiting guests and whatnot, I never really got the chance to gain closure on that chapter. And, brief as it was, I really consider it to be a significant segment in my story. It was the first time I was birthed from institutional affiliation, the first time I was forced into semi-independence, the first time I had to go out of my way to socialize (or risk facing immeasurable isolation), and so on. I stand now on the cusp of another journey, hoping with every fiber of my being that New York doesn't end up being the epilogue to my narrative.

I caught the red-eye flight from New York to Paris on the 1st, which I suppose is yesterday. My eyes were definitely red when I arrived. My seatmate was the French equivalent of the Ugly American Tourist. Instead of a fanny pack, he wore a safari vest; instead of a free t-shirt from a company event, he wore a garishly printed short-sleeved shirt. The white sneakers though were there. I also encountered difficulty trying to haul three 70 pound bags by myself to the Nantes-bound TGV. I couldn't find anyone to pay to help me, what's with the sub-minimum wage labor-supply shortage here? Where are the illegal immigrants? I jest (in poor taste, too), I apologize.

Nantes greeted me with its infamous rain and I had to drag my luggage through puddles to hail a cab outside. The good news is that the driver loaded my luggage for me into the back of the taxi (a Benz!), unlike the oaf in New York who, despite my 25% tip, made me drag my own luggage onto the curb at JFK. Sorry, this entry sounds more like a comparison of international taxi-driver service standards than one about my arrival in a foreign and exciting city, but heavy lifting is something I'm just physically incapable of and make every effort to avoid. My efforts to avoid it this time were foiled, despite throwing out half of my belongings, but I'll now know better.

I finally get to my residence and try to tip the cabbie who doesn't seem to understand what I'm doing and spends the next five minutes educating me, in French, about the various colors of the European currency and how much they're each valued at. Isn't that great? No more tipping! So, in a sense, cab-rides in Nantes are equivalent in price to cab-rides in New York since the tipping component acts as an equalizing mechanism. The wonderful cabbie helps me again with my baggage and I finally get to dump all of my stuff in the new apartment. The decor is dated and the appliances seem a bit unsanitary, but I'm confident that I can make a home of this place.

I then do what I always do upon arriving in a new location -- I make a run for the nearest supermarket! I was tired and just wanted to grab some essentials so there wasn't enough time to browse, but I was still able to make a few observations. Despite the size of the place (about a quarter of McNallys or the size of the produce section at Whole Foods in Union Square), cheese and wine are each given an entire aisle, as expected. And how cheap wine is! 2 Euros gets you some pretty drinkable stuff. Almost everything in the store is fresh and of quality, with none of that "organic" hype or pretention that's prevalent in the United States. It was like Whole Foods without the hipsters.

I then came back and nibbled on a cheap sandwich (I've always loved sandwiches in Europe; seriously, what's the secret?) while sipping a glass of sour orange juice. Fatigue started to set in around six in the evening and I promptly retired to my bed. I woke up just a few hours ago and, true to my explorer sensibilities, decided to scope the area out. Everything was closed, of course, and the streets were eerily deserted, but it was a good walk and I now feel orientated. I'm planning on having breakfast at the creperie on the corner when the sun comes up. Perhaps I will pose with a copy of Le Monde and eavesdrop on the din of French conversation. Oui!

To summarize my state of mind, I am still in a bit of a shock at having left everything I've known for a place in which I feel most fitting of the word "foreigner"; but at the same time, I'm undeniably excited. Even if I am unable to keep up in school due to the language barrier and am shunned by my peers and forced to wander the streets alone, at least I am wandering some rather attractive streets. I am an aesthete in every sense of the word and my present environment is an infinite source of stimulation. I'm still sad about jumping out of such a cozy nest, but there are worse places to land. Besides, I'll be back in New York before I know it.