Dreams that may never come true... and Realities that suck

All I can think about is going back to France. And, on that note, getting out of my parents’ house.

It’s not that I don’t love my family… I just love my own space more. I value my independence, I liked being a homemaker, and I sure as hell wish I was closer to the city so I could actually go out and have a life again. And not spend over $175 less commuting.

And France – well, my heart’s always been in la France. Paris, Camarat – they’re both so ceasingly appealing to me. I just can’t imagine not spending most of my days this summer writing and taking pictures on some golden beach in the Côte d’Azur… Tequila won’t be nearly as white. I love my job too much to just quit and go again, so I’ve decided I’ll take a 10 day vacation in September, visit the family and friends in Paris and the south, and suck it up for the rest of the winter. Then next May, I’ll quit, take a wonderful immersion/photography class in Paris for a month (something I’ve found at AUP and dreamt about doing for years), then travel to the south for a week-long vacation. When I return, hell – who knows what I’ll do. Probably follow my best friend, who will have graduated at that time, to whatever city she decides upon.

But no matter how tightly I budget, no matter how much I deprive myself of fun in the name of saving, no matter how little I pay for food and basic utilities – it’ll never be enough to get me an apartment and send me back to France. Originally I had planned to just sublet in Boston this summer and then move home next year to save, but I’ve lived in Mendon for less than four months and I’m already miserable, and have been going crazy for a while. Can I really live at home again? For nine months? Can I pay rent and still save money?

Not too long ago, I attended a MassINC event with the author of STRAPPED: Why America’s 20- and 30- Somethings Can’t Get Ahead. It was the story of my life. I learned a lot, mostly that I wasn’t alone… and there’s not much I can do about being young and poor, aside from working a billion jobs. It’s interesting though; my generation is struggling much more so than any other generation did to make a life for ourselves, to afford rent, pay off school loans, save any kind of money. The middle class is shrinking, making it increasingly difficult for us to break in, and increasingly easy for our parents to fall out of… especially since they’re too busy supporting us. Seriously, many baby boomers are having a terrible time doing the things they want to do – like save for retirement – because they’re paying for our sorry asses while we try and make ends meat. It’s sad, isn’t it?

That’s all I got for now. And this is what I get for waking up at 7:45am on a Saturday with naught but a calculator, pay stub and a dream…

Media Monitoring

I read newspapers for a living.

Ok, fine - I do more than that... but I do read a hell of a lot of articles every morning as part of my daily duties. I scan well over seven papers, including the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, The Boston Globe, the Washington Post, USA Today, the Boston Herald, the Chicago Tribune, the Los Angeles Times, - yada yada yada - and that's not even including the all the magazines (think BusinessWeek, Time, Newsweek, etc). In seeing all of these compilations of ideas, I often find at least one piece that's particularly intriguing. Sometimes it’s hilarious, sometimes it relates to some crazy bit of trivia I find fascinating (Yea Zheng He!), sometimes it reminds me of someone, somewhere. Usually I just e-mail these articles to whomever I feel might share my interest… but from now on, I’m going to start pasting them here. And the first comes from today’s Washington Post.

Smile if (and Only if) You're Conservative
By George F. Will

A new poll reveals that conservatives are happier than liberals. This finding is niftily self-reinforcing: It depresses liberals.

To view the entire article, go to http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/22/AR2006022202012.html?referrer=emailarticle

Meet me at Foxwoods ~

After commuting a billion hours a week and working my ass off eleven hours a day, Friday's don't even count as weekends. I'm not prepared to do anything daring on Saturday, except maybe go to Milford for a delicious dinner of sushi. That leaves Sunday as the only day I really have the energy to go out and play… but I have to be home damn early to go to bed and rest up for yet another week of work.

And that's why I love long weekends. Sunday's just another Saturday. Seizing the opportunity, yesterday I found myself Foxwoods bound.

I'll tell you - as my first casino experience, I was impressed. Glitter and gold, excitement and music. They are built like a maze, trapping you in and leading you down roads of possibility and despair…. And it's true, the house always wins.

But it doesn't take the fun away. Diaz tried to teach me craps - but it's beyond me. Roulette, on the other hand, I can handle. As I stood by watching the black and red colors spin endlessly, draining money away from poor, desperate saps, the man in charge - decked in suit and tie and looking awfully regal, shouted out: “Come on Lady Luck! Miss, miss - what color's it gonna be?”

I was so infatuated by the shiny objects jiggling in his hand that it took a couple seconds before I realized he was talking to me. “I'm sorry, what?!”

He laughed. “If you had 1,000 imaginary dollars to bet on red or black, which would you put it all on?”

Trying to recover from my apparent stupidity, I blurted out - with confidence, of course - “Black!” - and instantly regretted it. Red's my favorite color, man.

“Are you sure?”

No point in going back now. “Yes.”

“Positively sure?”

Hell, it's fake money. “Absolutely, positively.”

“And black it will be!” And the people with actual money put little toy chips on colors and numbers, bidding real dollars on whatever they're instincts told them. Then the nice man in the suit jiggled the marbles in his hand one last time and tossed one ever so casually into the spinning basin of corresponding colors and numbers.

And as the tiny ball stopped skipping its shallows wells and settled in on one number, it chose black 17.

The man in the suit looked at me with that big, bold Vegas-style smile and laughed. “Now you've got 2,000 imaginary dollars! Cash out and go home!”

I shook my head. “If only it was that easy!”

His eyes sparkled. “You're good luck miss.” The way these dealers smile… it seduces you into the gambling world. “Go have fun!”

And fun I had. Crappy little Foxwoods left me yearning for a real Vegas vacation…
Now wouldn't that be fun?

Casual Friday

I didn’t put make-up on today.

And I didn’t do my hair, either – I just let it fall into tangled knots of wild uncontrollable curls.
And I wore my ripped jeans that I wore every day in Camarat.
Made me want to put on my Rondini sandals – for everything else was like the south of France... natural, carefree, fun.

It was even (almost) warm outside.

And then I listened to really good music on my iPod – Sean Paul to Big & Rich to Neil Diamond.
It made me want to dance, drink, and go to Red Sox games.

I CANT WAIT FOR SUMMER

~ sun ~ 21 & in·the·city

Olympics XX - Turin, Italy - 2006

I have to write and express my disappointment in this year’s Olympic games. Not because the American’s aren’t doing nearly as well as promised (remember when everyone said that we’d win gold – or something, at least! – in all of the skiing/snowboarding events?), but because they’re simply not as interesting as they were last time. I remember being so excited every night for all the events, summer or winter, and on the edge of my seat each time. Not this year.

I must also admit my disappointment in watching Apolo fall, Bode end up medal-less (so far), skating legend Michelle Kwan withdraw, and the favored Hannah Kearney fail to qualify.

And yet, how nice it felt to watch a Texan take a surprise speed-skating gold, Americans dominate snowboarding (though we are credited with inventing the sport, therefore making the gold almost expected), and come-back kid Ted Ligety surprise us with glory after initial dissapointment.

On the following point, my mother and I drastically disagree. Bode Miller – what an asshole, right? Look at him – smart ass, making all sorts of wise comments, full of sarcasm and wit. I think he’s fantastic. The man skis drunk – 70+mph flying down treacherous slopes with some booze still in his system. He has a zest for life and a passion for fun – recklessness – whatever you want to call it – that’s absolutely amazing. Hell, the night before his first Olympic run he’s at the bar, and the next morning he’s changing skis. He does things that are unheard of. He’s refreshing, fun… scandalous and interesting – not to mention rather handsome. Grew up in a poor hick town near Dartmouth. I don’t see the controversy – no one said to be “America’s greatest skier” he had to be a role model for little kids. So he chose to be himself – a bad ass bent on making a good show, gold or no gold.

Yea Bode.

A Beautiful Morning

This was the happiest morning I’ve had for a long time… probably since my return from France, with Christmas day being an obvious exception. Go ahead, ask me why: Why was this 30° morning so much better than all the rest over the past three months?

It was beautiful – and I could actually see it. For the first morning in a long time, I could watch the world pass by on my commute to work. I think it’s that sight of outside beauty – the sky, the sea, the architecture – that makes me smile uncontrollably cheek to cheek. Maybe that’s why I was so at peace in Camarat, and it probably explains why I love summer so much – bright green, blue, orange, everywhere!

Upon arrival in Boston, I was even more excited to see the wonder of the city. Sunlight danced off the pastel-painted outsides of buildings, illuminating the unique variety of architecture: curves and domes, contemporary designs, block-shaped office towers that don’t make you think of faceless business men. The sky was that gorgeous turquoise blue I swear only happens in Boston. Wisps of pure white clouds hung gently in the atmosphere, contrasting their background oh-so-playfully. It brought wonderful words to my mind: whimsical, warmth, spring and summer.

Even the construction scenes that dominated my walk to work all winter are fading out as the project wraps up – or at least moves elsewhere. They’re building a green park, you know. Progress. Peace. Life…

I become so depressed in the winter because winter is simply so ugly and brutal. The words use to describe winter-related things – bleak, harsh, barren, cold, frigid – have such negative connotations. Winter kills life. Winter makes it too cold to go outside. Winter turns everything dull and gray. Winter sucks, man.

About the only good thing that can come of winter – as seen through the words used to describe it – is a beautifully fallen fresh blanket of pure white snow. That is peaceful. Romantic. When it clings to the fences or the rooftops of barns, that’s countryesque and endearing. But it never lasts. Dirt stirs from the earth and turns it brown. Dogs pea and it becomes yellow. People walk and that undisturbed blanket turns into a chaos of chunky ice cubes. Yuck.

So it may still be freezing outside. The lil ground hog may have predicted six (five now!) more weeks of winter. But as far as I’m concerned, when the sun is up and the sky is blue – spring (AND SUMMER!) is on the way!

The Most Amazing Dream

Last night I was taken to an amazing place. I dreamt that I was living in Camarat, in that beloved house I treasure so very much. It was summer. The heavy warmth of the air wrapped around my shoulders like a thick wool blanket; the humidity made the air so thick I could taste it. I sat outside the sunroom overlooking the Mediterranean, the golden snake of Pampelonne beaches, the whimsical sailboats dancing across the emerald water like a broken string of scattering pearls. The hammock fluttered gently in the salty breeze and a book weighed heavily in my hand. Tequila panted in the shadows, rays of sunshine finding its way through the leaves to shine off her fluffy white coat.

That, my friend, is heaven.

Reflecting on this dream now, it blends into a slideshow of so many fond memories.

I often lose myself in the memories of this summer. I had such an amazing time in France that I wish to cherish every moment of my time there for eternity. I'd like to keep every thought I thought during those six months in tact, stored in my brain forever. But memories fade, and that terrifies me. How can one keep remembering everything forever? How long will I remember those silly, insignificant details? I don’t want to miss anything about any single moment. But that’s impossible. I cannot Bluetooth my brain and download those six months into a fantastic DVD I could play whenever I wanted.

But wouldn’t it be fun if I could?

Or – as my father suggested – maybe I could get a pensive like in Harry Potter and just put my thoughts in there to stir for eternity, at my fingertips for the rest of my life.

I suppose realistically I should write a book about it. It was such an adventure, full of so many stories. Every day with Ludo was worth writing about, and so many I never did… from the time I was called a “siren” at the crique to the afternoon on the beach with the moon and boys who carved a 10-foot penis in the sand! Discovering the Michel history with all my cousins and aunts, learning the wonderful inner workings of my grandparents, drinking more with my family in two weeks than I probably did during my entire career at Dartmouth – oh, the chapters I could spin… if only I had the motivation to take the time, or the confidence to think I could do it justice.

– But I can’t. I’m not sure anyone could.

My chapter in France is over - I have a job in Boston now and I will not be returning. I love my job, and apparently I’m damn good at it. But my heart remains abroad, as I realized when I almost cried at work last week when I did something drastic, conclusive:

I closed my Credit Lyonnais bank account.

I’ve begun saving for my next vacation to Paris and Ramatuelle. But from now on – until who-knows-when – I will only live in France in my dreams.

Philosophy & Theatre

Damn, am I cultured.

Alex spends a lot of time waiting in subway stations. (I suppose most commuters with his schedule do.) He often comes home with ridiculous stories that unfolded during his idleness – solicitation by Scientologists, harassment from creepy homeless men, disappointment due to a disastrous iPod. Not last week. Last week he came home with a magazine.

Stuff @ Night included an interesting listing in their calendar section that he knew I’d love to see. (Aww, what a nice brother I have!) The American Repository Theater on Brattle Street in Cambridge (which may or may not have some relation to Harvard) was putting on one the most famous plays by one of our most favorite philosophers. And… there was a bar. Say no more – before I realized the week had passed, Alex and I were drinking beers in the tiny artsy theater waiting for Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit to begin.

Jean-Paul Sartre has always intrigued me. Yes, I am inexplicably in love with (almost) everything French. (Ok, fine, everything.) I thoroughly enjoy philosophy, and Sartre’s work is certainly thought provoking. And his controversial relationship with Simone de Beauvoir leaves me in utter admiration – there’s nothing like a powerful, independent woman whose both French and in Love.

No Exit also happens to be my favorite of his works, (Though in the book No Exit & Three Other Plays, the piece entitled Dirty Hands is dedicated to Delores, who may or may not be a family friend… how scandalous! And that makes me like it more than I probably would if it were dedicated to someone I didn’t know.) mostly because of its underlying principle. It takes place in hell (again, intriguing), except Sartre’s portrait of hell is a flame-less hotel room. In this room three seemingly random strangers are placed for eternity, fully clothed and equipped with personal couches. No instruments of torture. No pointy-tailed devils. No forced repenting of a lifetime of guilt. Instead, as we later find out, these individuals will suffer because they will have to spend the rest of time cooped up with their chamber-mates.

And that’s the thing – isn’t it – Hell is other people.