So I'm home again. I use the term 'home' very loosely. I find this place new and strange, as I expected I would. Reverse culture shock is nothing new to me, but this time, I feel even more lost in my 'home' country.
This is not my home, and my definition of home is not the same as most people's. Home is where you feel most comfortable, where you find you fit in, where people accept you for who you are and understand you. For me, that is France. Most people define home as the place where they grew up, where they've spent most of their lives, or where their parents are. That place is not home to me. This place is not home to me.
In Grenoble I was at home. It is only now that I find myself in a foreign country.
I hope not to readjust. I am fighting returning to those North-American ways with a vengeance. They will have to take me kicking and screaming - and quite possibly swearing in French. I will not. After nearly a month at home, I have refused to go back to watching any English programming on tv, and have limited myself to the four French channels. I read only French novels, and I speak to my dad only in French.
The differences I am having to contend with are staggering, and I don't like it. My happy face is worn though, so I don't end up alienating everyone around me. I take part in North-American traditions while trying not to cringe noticeably. Some of my closest friends call me stuck up now because of this.
I see people walk out of Grocery stores with frozen pizza's tucked under their arms instead of baguettes. I see people greet others with handshakes rather than a bisous on each cheek. I see giant trucks instead of millions of bicycles, and I am astounded. What is this place?
There are a lot of things I am afraid to do because I am scared at how different they will be here in comparison to in France. I am scared to go out at night, because I know how different that aspect of North-American culture differs from that in France at the bars and clubs, and I don't want to have to face it. Right now, I know it would break me.
Most of all, I miss the people I left behind. Lots of them have gone home to their respective countries, but there are those few lucky ones that are still in Grenoble. I want to be with them.
In my heart I am still in France. In my head I still walk the streets of Grenoble everyday. I still stop at my cafe for a chat and grammar lesson with Jonathan. At night I still take over "La Barbarousse" and then "Vieux Manoir" with Youssef, my beautiful smiling boy, who always drank too much and then would profess his love to me...in French. How can you not miss that?
The part I miss the most is everything. There was not one thing that was better than the other. All the little things made up the whole that made up my life in France: my home in France. My home.
June 29, 2009
May 27, 2009
From Beginning to End
As I begin to write this, I’m sitting watching a classic spring thunderstorm through my hospital window. It suits my mood. It’s made me melancholic and reflective. Thoughts of my year in France are running through my head almost as rapidly as the tears running across my cheeks. I can’t help it: I’m an emotional person.
So I think about the very beginning. How scared I was. How I tentatively took my first baby-France steps until they got surer and more confident.
I think about how I met the people I now consider family. I think about how we got to know each other, and how quickly we developed firm and understanding bonds.
I think about the adventures we had romping through France and beyond, never without a bottle of champagne far from hand. We always had a reason to celebrate.
I also think about those friends I only just got to know before they left after the first semester. Even though it wasn’t long, France put a magic spell on us, and we’re stuck together. Like glue.
I think about my classes with M. Guichard. I think about his mop of grey, free-flying hair and how it almost appeared to stand on end when he went on one of his passionate rants of the beauty and importance of the French language. He convinced us all, and I shall forever be a devout disciple of that man's wise teachings. I think about how few people you meet like that, and how lucky I am to have met one of them.
I think about Grenoble. I think about how I slowly unravelled its secrets and discovered my favourite places. I think about its mountains and its beautiful, snow-capped Alps. They watch and they protect. I am happy here, and this is my city. That’s my café that I sat in three times a week with my hands wrapped around a mug of café crème, studying. That’s my park where I sat in the sun with a book, a view of La Bastille in front of me. That’s my campus, where I met friends for lunch, ran from building to building to get to class, and where I lived in my 12m2 hovel that I magically transformed into my home.
I think about all of the dinners given and shared among friends. I think about Agata and her lasagne. I think about Sini and her Tartiflette. I think about all the wine we shared, about the toasts we made, and the good times we had in doing so. I think about the nights we went out and danced until 5oclock in the morning, and then somehow found the energy to walk the hour back to campus. The blisters were a minor price to pay. We were known faces at Bukana, and frequent visitors of Vieux Manoir. We were living our moments in France, and we were loving them.
I can’t help but wonder if this year is going to be the year I will come to know as the one when my life got as good as it was ever going to get. I find it hard to believe that the saturation of my love and lust for life in Grenoble will ever be topped by anything. Will I ever love harder, will I ever long for adventure more hungrily, will I ever create bonds with people that are stronger?
Everything happens for a reason, and I think that with all my stubbornness and unwillingness to let go of Grenoble and my life here, fate dealt me a blow that maybe I needed. Even though I am spending my last days in Grenoble in hospital, I am not unhappy. I have accepted this as my “wake up and smell the coffee Joelle, you have to go home”. If fate were to take the form of a person, it would take me by the shoulders, shaking me, repeating that and “No? You don’t want to go home? Well then, we’ll just have to give you a-typical pneumonia and make you go home!” You can see why I don’t mess with fate. Who knows what tropical disease it might give me next.
Being in hospital has also made me realize how good of friends I have here. They have done everything for me, amidst all their exams. They cleared and cleaned out my room in residence, they brought me everything I needed here, and they’ve been visiting me everyday and helping me keep my spirits up. I’ve sent them running all over Grenoble doing last minutes things for me that I need to prepare before I go home. I couldn’t ask for more from them, but they don’t allow me to ask any less of them either. I know no better people, and I can’t tell you how much I love them.
I will be flying home Saturday. This time for sure. I don’t yet know how I feel about it, but I know it’s what’s meant to be, and I’ve accepted my fate. I will always have Grenoble, and Grenoble will always have me. I love this city, but more importantly, I love the people who made this city what it is for me. So most of all, I now have friends in all corners of the globe, and I look forward to invading each and every one of them. You can’t put a price on that, or any time spent in hospital. It’s all an adventure, from beginning to end.
May 17, 2009
When Fate Takes Over
I always say that everything happens for a reason. I am a firm believer in fate and an ultimate destination: no matter how many wrong paths you may wander up, you will eventually find yourself on the right one. Bad things happen for a reason. Good things happen for a reason.
At the moment, I happen to have found myself in the hands of fate.
At the beginning of April, I found that I suddenly lost all of my energy. I was going to bed at 8pm and waking up at 8am, still exhausted. I was perturbed, but decided to ignore it and let my body get on with it. When I got back from Paris mid-April, I was still feeling the same, and it only got worse. My fatigue morphed itself into a full-blown flu. I spent an entire day in bed and then had to write a final exam the following morning. I barely remember writing it.
After a good week or so of the flu, I was still exhausted all the time and couldn't seem to shake all of the symptoms. A week went by where I thought I was getting better and only had a cough and a runny nose.
Instead of these two symptoms eventually going away as would be normal, they got worse. My cough became booming and attracted a lot of attention, and I was not to be found without a tissue in hand.
Over the past 2 weeks now, my health has completely abandoned me. I am an 85-year-old woman. I walk 1/4 of the speed I used to, and after 100m, I am out of breath. Stairs? Forget it. I don't have the capacity to do anything, and I'm turning down invitations for this and that left and right. The problem is that I cannot breathe. I am unable to take a deep breath, so instead I am forced to take small, shallow breathes that tire me out and make my pulse race.
Since all of this has begun, I have been to see numerous different doctors on campus and off, I've seen a lung specialist, and had my blood analysed. The answer I get from everyone is "I don't know" or "let it pass" or this from the lung specialist: "where are you from?" ... "Oh, well then maybe you should just go home."
Thanks.
This is why fate and I are not on the best of terms at the moment. Why me? Is the general question it will not answer.
Yesterday, during my latest doctor visit, she told me to check myself into the hospital. She said there is very obviously something wrong, and it would be best to stay in the hospital where I can be monitored 24/7 and hopefully they will eventually figure something out.
That was the last metaphorical straw that fate dealt me to make me do this:
I changed my flight to next Saturday, May 23. I was originally on a flight June 8. If I have to be stuck in a hospital, I might as well be stuck in a hospital at home than stuck indefinitely in a French hospital, not knowing when they are going to let me out.
Fate won.
I know there is a reason behind all these events, and hopefully, eventually, it will all become clear and fall into place. It is a bitter-sweet ending to my time in France because I thought I had another 3weeks, but the importance of my health has taken priority. Besides, I haven't been able to enjoy anything since I fell this ill.
The rest of this week will be dedicated to the long list I've made of loose ends that need tying up, bank accounts that need closing, souvenirs that need to be bought, and an attempt to get back all the money I've spent on French medical bills: thank you, ISEP insurance.
So as I sit here, feverish and reminiscing about the good times I've had, I am looking forward to coming home. I know that it's meant to be, but on a less philosophical level, I am just craving a Costco hotdog.
At the moment, I happen to have found myself in the hands of fate.
At the beginning of April, I found that I suddenly lost all of my energy. I was going to bed at 8pm and waking up at 8am, still exhausted. I was perturbed, but decided to ignore it and let my body get on with it. When I got back from Paris mid-April, I was still feeling the same, and it only got worse. My fatigue morphed itself into a full-blown flu. I spent an entire day in bed and then had to write a final exam the following morning. I barely remember writing it.
After a good week or so of the flu, I was still exhausted all the time and couldn't seem to shake all of the symptoms. A week went by where I thought I was getting better and only had a cough and a runny nose.
Instead of these two symptoms eventually going away as would be normal, they got worse. My cough became booming and attracted a lot of attention, and I was not to be found without a tissue in hand.
Over the past 2 weeks now, my health has completely abandoned me. I am an 85-year-old woman. I walk 1/4 of the speed I used to, and after 100m, I am out of breath. Stairs? Forget it. I don't have the capacity to do anything, and I'm turning down invitations for this and that left and right. The problem is that I cannot breathe. I am unable to take a deep breath, so instead I am forced to take small, shallow breathes that tire me out and make my pulse race.
Since all of this has begun, I have been to see numerous different doctors on campus and off, I've seen a lung specialist, and had my blood analysed. The answer I get from everyone is "I don't know" or "let it pass" or this from the lung specialist: "where are you from?" ... "Oh, well then maybe you should just go home."
Thanks.
This is why fate and I are not on the best of terms at the moment. Why me? Is the general question it will not answer.
Yesterday, during my latest doctor visit, she told me to check myself into the hospital. She said there is very obviously something wrong, and it would be best to stay in the hospital where I can be monitored 24/7 and hopefully they will eventually figure something out.
That was the last metaphorical straw that fate dealt me to make me do this:
I changed my flight to next Saturday, May 23. I was originally on a flight June 8. If I have to be stuck in a hospital, I might as well be stuck in a hospital at home than stuck indefinitely in a French hospital, not knowing when they are going to let me out.
Fate won.
I know there is a reason behind all these events, and hopefully, eventually, it will all become clear and fall into place. It is a bitter-sweet ending to my time in France because I thought I had another 3weeks, but the importance of my health has taken priority. Besides, I haven't been able to enjoy anything since I fell this ill.
The rest of this week will be dedicated to the long list I've made of loose ends that need tying up, bank accounts that need closing, souvenirs that need to be bought, and an attempt to get back all the money I've spent on French medical bills: thank you, ISEP insurance.
So as I sit here, feverish and reminiscing about the good times I've had, I am looking forward to coming home. I know that it's meant to be, but on a less philosophical level, I am just craving a Costco hotdog.
May 07, 2009
My Fascist University
Je suis dans la merde. Translation: I am in the shit. So much more powerful and evoking of my situation than the English version "I am in shit". Everything is expressed better in French these days. Yes, even my current in-the-shit situation. Please try to follow.
Scene 1 - Friday, May 1st, 2009: Me and my good friend Agata in her kitchen, taking our anger out on poor and innocent pots and pans as we try and get our frustrations out about what we have just read on the sociology departments website. It went something like this:
By order of the President of UPMF, the exams are hereby cancelled and will be moved to an ulterior date. The President would like all Sociology professors to start giving catch-up classes to make up for the time lost during the strikes.
Oh yes, we were angry, and we had every reason to be. Agata and I, both following Sociology classes, couldn't understand why the President was making this very last minute decision: the exams were to start Monday.
I know that there are probably a number of you back home thinking that you would love it if your exams were cancelled, but this is different. Trust me.
a) no exam - no credits. No credits - a whole semester of work wasted.
b) for Agata, an ERASMUS student, if she and so many others can't take their exams and don't get the full amount of credits required, she has to pay back all the money the program gave her to study in France. Roughly thousands and thousands of Euros that none of them have.
c) the exams could be in June, in July, in August, or even in September. I already have my flight booked home. I can't change it.
d) even if I were to stay throughout the summer to take catch-up courses waiting for the exam, where would I stay? My contract with my residence expires at the end of May, and God knows I can't afford an apartment.
What is really wrong with this scenario is that the President had absolutely no reason to do what he did. He did not consult anyone before making his decision, and the teachers were not even told: we, the students, were the ones that told them that their exams had been cancelled. All of the Sociology professors did their best to uphold all of their courses during the strikes, and I missed very few and was able to follow the course as normally as possible given the circumstances. None of the sociology students need to play catch-up.
The President made a rash and obviously not a very well-informed decision, and now the whole of the Sociology department is suffering for it.
Scene 2 - Monday, May 4, 2009, 10:00am: All of the confused and angry Sociology students meet outside of our main building to discuss how we are going to deal and react to the decision made by our dictator of a President. We take over a lecture hall and begin to discuss how we feel we've been wronged and what we'd like to see happen. We all agree that the exams must still take place in May, and the idea of catch-up classes is nonsense. Quickly, we split off into groups to write letters to the President and the Vice-President of the University.
An hour later, the Sociology professors walk in, all with their heads down and their faces looking absolutely devastated, to let us know what they've been discussing. They told us that they had no idea that the President was going to make this decision, that they had not been consulted, and they had found out the same way we did. They told us that they have absolutely no authority in this situation, and that they too are at the mercy of the President. They also told us that they are all threatening to leave their posts. I don't blame them.
Scene 3 - Tuesday, May 5th, 10:00am: We meet again like Monday to discuss the letters we had sent. We have yet to hear anything from the President, and we are all still in serious danger of losing our semester. Here, there is also something called a "Semestre Blanche" which literally means a "white semester". I like to think of it as a metaphor for throwing up the white flag of surrender. It means that if the President wants, he can call a semestre blanche and basically wipe out the entire semester, as if it didn't exist. If it gets messy enough, it's not at all a far-off possibility.
I also went to see my coordinator to see if she could do anything, and she was going to get in contact with my professor to see if there was any ulterior work that I could do en lieu of an exam, but here's the catch: again, the teachers have no authority. Even if they give special work to international students or even if they do it for all their students, the President needs to sign off on it. If it's not what he ordered, he doesn't sign, and we're back to square one with no credits.
My exam was scheduled to be today. Instead, I am writing a blog post about all the reasons why my exam is not today. Ironic.
We still know nothing and there is nothing anyone can do. I am attending a University that is run in a very scary, dictator-like way. We are all very frustrated, and I'm just hoping that I eventually get to the other side of this alive so one day (I'm thinking this day will be far, far away) I will be able to look back upon this and laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. So not funny right now.
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"Bloquons Tout" - Block Everything. More strike "artwork". Well, the strikers certainly got their wish - at least in the Sociology department.
Scene 1 - Friday, May 1st, 2009: Me and my good friend Agata in her kitchen, taking our anger out on poor and innocent pots and pans as we try and get our frustrations out about what we have just read on the sociology departments website. It went something like this:
By order of the President of UPMF, the exams are hereby cancelled and will be moved to an ulterior date. The President would like all Sociology professors to start giving catch-up classes to make up for the time lost during the strikes.
Oh yes, we were angry, and we had every reason to be. Agata and I, both following Sociology classes, couldn't understand why the President was making this very last minute decision: the exams were to start Monday.
I know that there are probably a number of you back home thinking that you would love it if your exams were cancelled, but this is different. Trust me.
a) no exam - no credits. No credits - a whole semester of work wasted.
b) for Agata, an ERASMUS student, if she and so many others can't take their exams and don't get the full amount of credits required, she has to pay back all the money the program gave her to study in France. Roughly thousands and thousands of Euros that none of them have.
c) the exams could be in June, in July, in August, or even in September. I already have my flight booked home. I can't change it.
d) even if I were to stay throughout the summer to take catch-up courses waiting for the exam, where would I stay? My contract with my residence expires at the end of May, and God knows I can't afford an apartment.
What is really wrong with this scenario is that the President had absolutely no reason to do what he did. He did not consult anyone before making his decision, and the teachers were not even told: we, the students, were the ones that told them that their exams had been cancelled. All of the Sociology professors did their best to uphold all of their courses during the strikes, and I missed very few and was able to follow the course as normally as possible given the circumstances. None of the sociology students need to play catch-up.
The President made a rash and obviously not a very well-informed decision, and now the whole of the Sociology department is suffering for it.
Scene 2 - Monday, May 4, 2009, 10:00am: All of the confused and angry Sociology students meet outside of our main building to discuss how we are going to deal and react to the decision made by our dictator of a President. We take over a lecture hall and begin to discuss how we feel we've been wronged and what we'd like to see happen. We all agree that the exams must still take place in May, and the idea of catch-up classes is nonsense. Quickly, we split off into groups to write letters to the President and the Vice-President of the University.
An hour later, the Sociology professors walk in, all with their heads down and their faces looking absolutely devastated, to let us know what they've been discussing. They told us that they had no idea that the President was going to make this decision, that they had not been consulted, and they had found out the same way we did. They told us that they have absolutely no authority in this situation, and that they too are at the mercy of the President. They also told us that they are all threatening to leave their posts. I don't blame them.
Scene 3 - Tuesday, May 5th, 10:00am: We meet again like Monday to discuss the letters we had sent. We have yet to hear anything from the President, and we are all still in serious danger of losing our semester. Here, there is also something called a "Semestre Blanche" which literally means a "white semester". I like to think of it as a metaphor for throwing up the white flag of surrender. It means that if the President wants, he can call a semestre blanche and basically wipe out the entire semester, as if it didn't exist. If it gets messy enough, it's not at all a far-off possibility.
I also went to see my coordinator to see if she could do anything, and she was going to get in contact with my professor to see if there was any ulterior work that I could do en lieu of an exam, but here's the catch: again, the teachers have no authority. Even if they give special work to international students or even if they do it for all their students, the President needs to sign off on it. If it's not what he ordered, he doesn't sign, and we're back to square one with no credits.
My exam was scheduled to be today. Instead, I am writing a blog post about all the reasons why my exam is not today. Ironic.
We still know nothing and there is nothing anyone can do. I am attending a University that is run in a very scary, dictator-like way. We are all very frustrated, and I'm just hoping that I eventually get to the other side of this alive so one day (I'm thinking this day will be far, far away) I will be able to look back upon this and laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. So not funny right now.
.jpg)
"Bloquons Tout" - Block Everything. More strike "artwork". Well, the strikers certainly got their wish - at least in the Sociology department.
May 01, 2009
Bit O' Irish Luck
There is just something special about being here. I feel as if I'd been invited into some secret club that once in, allows you many special privileges that you wouldn't get anywhere else. That is what being an "erasmus" student feels like. We're our own private group that you can join by invite only. We throw the best parties, we are wildly spontaneous, and we travel anywhere and everywhere when the mood strikes us.
About a month ago, my phone demanded my attention (I find phones so obnoxious) by announcing that it had a message for me. Sini had just texted me asking me if I'd like to go to Ireland at the end of April - total cost of flight: €30. No more questions asked just a simple text sent back: yes please! And the flights were as good as booked.
The point is, I've never had any desire whatsoever to go to Ireland. Ireland? That cold, tiny little island where it's always raining and grey? I like to think I can find better places to visit, thanks. But when I got the message from Sini who, god bless her little finnish soul, is always watching the airline sites for any travel deals, I thought why not? I am an open-minded person who has €30 to spare - what are we waiting for?
So last weekend Sini, Agata and I, the three multicultural musketeers, landed in the heart of Ireland, Dublin, on Saturday night. It had been so long since I'd been in an English-speaking country, that my now horrible English skills paired with the Irish accent definitely made for some interesting communication attempts. But because I was the only native English speaker in our posy, I wasn't going to let the girls down and quickly got my act together and only had to ask the lovely Irish people who were trying to help us to repeat themselves oh, a few million times. I felt bad.
The Irish are lovely people though, even if they do happen to live up to their one great stereotype: they are definitely a bunch of drunks. Sorry if I offend anyone, but from what I saw, that statement is very much true. They are a group of very loud, happy, rowdy, and sometimes lewd, drunks. Perhaps they don't drink any more than the average person, but maybe it's more their behaviour when they do drink. I have never seen so many people (both women and men equally) that I thought should be behind cages in zoos as I did when we were trying to navigate our way around central Dublin Saturday night in search of our hostel. My theory is that they drink so much to stay warm. It was so cold compared to Grenoble! I honestly thought we'd gone back in time to January, instead of it being almost May. Anyway, it was almost scary and a scene I only wish I could describe better. Please, use your wildest imaginations, and you might get halfway there.
Besides an interesting welcome, we had a very enjoyable, if not rainy, couple days in Dublin. Sunday was spent on a walking tour around the capital given by our lovely and quite entertaining guide, Daniel, who we later saw at the pub where we had lunch at 3 in the afternoon getting very, very drunk. Atta boy, you earned it.
That night we decided to try out Irish humour and went to see some stand-up comedy. Another stereotype that the Irish live up to: they really are very, very funny people, and my stomach hurt so much afterwards that I could hardly walk.
The next day was spent in ode to what the Irish like to do best: drink. We walked to the Guinness brewery where we spent 5hours learning how Guinness is made, what is in Guinness, the perfect way to pull a pint of Guinness, the history of Guinness ... and so much more. Strange - I don't even like beer. Go figure.
As it was our last night, we decided to be really Irish and go to a pub that was advertising live Irish music and Irish dancing. The music was very traditionally Irish and so beautiful, and the band playing it were definitely a hoot. The Irish dancing though will definitely be something I will never forget. It was very intimate as it wasn't a very big pub, and there were only 5 dancers: 2 men and 3 women. I have to say that I have never seen people move their feet like that before. I never thought it was humanly possible. I tried to take pictures, but they were moving so fast that in the photos you actually cannot see them. Let's just say that the Irish dancing you sometimes see back home doesn't measure up anywhere near to the real thing.
Oh and I just need to point out something far too ironic to miss: the strikes in France that we have all become so sick of, follow us like this dark cloud looming over our heads, it seems. Monday, the day before we were supposed to leave to fly back to Grenoble, we heard that a public transport strike had started and was likely to escalate. Great! Who doesn't love irony. Luckily, Tuesday morning there was someone helping out people at the bus stations and made sure we got on an alternative bus to the airport, so we did end up making our flight and making it back to Grenoble where we walked straight into another strike that was going on. When we tried to take the tram back to campus, we were told that the trams were on strike and that we would have to walk. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Even after only 4days away from Grenoble, I always find that my favourite part about the trips we take is coming back and coming home. Oh yeah - and also getting ready to do it all over again.
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