My Weblog

Land of the Rising Sun

        I left early Thursday morning with my mom and sister Natalie to go to Japan to visit my younger sister Cassie and her boyfriend Colin who have been living there for the past year and a half teaching English. When we got on the big plane, the one that took us from Detroit to Osaka, I noticed that there were a lot of babies. They were all Japanese and Chinese, so they were of course adorable, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why you would possibly want to take a child that young across an ocean. Through the 13 hours in the sky there was almost constantly a baby crying somewhere, which made a 13 hour flight more tedious and long than it already was.

        At the beginning of the flight I had to use the restroom, so I got up and walked to the back of the plane. I saw one that was vacant, but the door was so small that I wasn’t sure how to open it. I grabbed what looked like a handle and pulled, to reveal an empty ash tray. I took a step over and stood examining the door for a moment before a higher toned expressive male voice lisped, “You’re supposed to push.” I repeated, “Push?” more out of surprise than anything, and the male flight attendant peered his balding head around the corner, made a sour face and said…”Where it says push…” as if it should be obvious. I immediately viewed the tiny instruction on the door and was able to get in, though I thought the flight attendant was a little bitchy, as only gay men seem to be able to do… not to imply that he was gay, because I would have no way of knowing. I did not see him having sex with a man on that flight. When I came out of the bathroom the man said, “Oh, don’t worry. Ninety percent of the people on this plane have trouble with that…of course they’re all Japanese or Chinese and can’t read English. At least you didn’t open the ashtray.” I informed him, embarrassed and laughing that I had opened the ash tray moments before he told me to push. He chuckled slightly, seemingly pleased that I was such an idiot and said, “By the way, there’s a closet on the other side of the plane. Don’t pee in it.” I should have.

        When we finally got to Fukuoka after a brief stop in Osaka, we were exhausted and felt very haggard. As we collected our luggage and stepped into the airport lobby we couldn’t help but notice how stylish all of the Japanese people looked. The guys had longer hair, almost mullet-like, that had the sort of messy bed head look that takes hours to perfect. The girls were wearing sweaters, tiny skirts or short shorts with knee high boots. If Japanese girls were curvy enough to have butt cheeks, they would have been hanging out of the shorts and skirts. I kept seeing girls with heavy coats, bare legs, short skirts and tall boots. In America, we would call that whorish. Here I guess it’s stylish.

We waited for Cassie for about an hour, exhausted, wondering if she was going to pick us up. All of a sudden, Cassie was standing right in front of us, looking extremely distressed. I gave her a big hug and noticed that she, though not dressed whorish, looked very stylish in a Japanese way. She had full bangs across her forehead, which she hadn’t had since she grew them out in 4^th grade. She was wearing a cute pair of blue jeans, a long sleeved black and white striped shirt under a pink short sleeved shirt and a khaki colored short sleeved jacket with a thick belt on it above the waist, though undone. She was very upset that she had trouble finding us and vice versa, but we were happy to jump past it and get to our hotel.

        We had to get two cabs, due to the large amount of luggage we had brought… I always tend to pack way more than I need. When I went to Montreal for three weeks for my class, “Advanced French Conversation in Montreal,” our professor told us to pack light because we would probably be lugging our luggage all over town and up stairs. I knew that wasn’t going to happen, I am not good at packing light. My classmate Meredith was going to be my roommate in Montreal and she was very high maintenance, so she of course would also not be packing lightly. I had done laundry before packing and packed all of it, and Meredith and I were definitely in competition for having the heaviest luggage. When we got there and unpacked I found that I had about 3 or 4 semi-nice (as in no holes or stains) shirts and 2 or 3 pairs of pants. The rest included about 15 sets of scrubs and t-shirts and a couple of sweatshirts…otherwise known as my pajamas. At the end of the trip we gave each person an award, and mine was “The most likely to bring enough pajamas to clothe a small nation.” That was a proud moment.

        We decided to put 2 people and more luggage in one taxi and 3 people and less luggage in the other. I immediately said that I was going with Cassie, and she decided that we would be the taxi of 2. The taxi driver was a small man, though average for Japan, about 5’5” and he popped the trunk and attempted to lift my bag. He got it about 6 inches off the ground and dropped it. I watched and slightly chuckled at the sight of this little man trying to pick up a bag that quite possibly weighed more than he did. Cassie chuckled a little, then immediately covered her mouth, started bowing, and giggled loudly behind her hand while apologizing profusely in Japanese. It was very shocking to me to see Cassie doing this, since she was never the “giggling type” and it was not that uncommon for the two of us to have a light chuckle at the expense of another’s difficulty. However, this action did appear very Japanese.

Working with Julie

My job is definitely interesting, and it is very nice to kind of be able to choose my hours.  I was working with my highest need client *Julie who is 15 and is quadriplegic, severely mentally retarded, has small seizures almost daily,  cerebral palsy and a g-tube (or feeding tube).  She has to be lifted out of her chair to the floor to change her briefs every 2-3 hours, but she is only 87 pounds, so that isn't too difficult.  Also, she had spinal surgery and has rods in her back that prevent her from bending above the waist.  That is pretty helpful because holding her back is more like holding a board that way and she won't fold and slip through your arms.  Her mom is SOOO organized.  The house is spotless and there are calendars everywhere. I saw typed copies of Julie's feeding/meds schedule in three different places in the kitchen.  When Julie's mom asked me that Wednesday to come and work for them Sunday at 2:30, she asked me if she should call and remind me on Sunday.  I told her, no, that I would remember and seeing the bit of worry on her face I programmed the date and time into my phone as she watched.  She recently asked me to do respite for her July 6th and I agreed, then she asked if she should call me to remind me.  I assured her that I already had the date and time down.  It didn't bother me that she was concerned.  Honestly I think it is totally appropriate for her to follow up with people because when you have certain things that MUST be done at certain times, as most of us do, reliability on others can be scary.  If I did not show up at her house on time... or even not at all... the schedule would be completely screwed up.   

I have told others that when I was about 13 or 14 I was honestly shocked to see how irresponsible most people are and how unreliable the grown up world can be.  Until then, I guess I had always thought that people- business people and teachers especially were responsible.  They follow through without having to be asked.  I honestly had no idea that anyone would just not show up for work one day.  It was beyond my imagination.  I know it seems stupid, especially when I didn't even have a reliable ride home from school, but at least I always knew that I could get a ride eventually. 

Julie's mom let me know to change Julie's position every 20-40 minutes, even if it was just the tilt on the wheelchair.  She showed me all of the toys I could help her play with, showed me how to put her on my lap and rock her in the rocking chair, and how to stretch her limbs while she is on the floor before or after a brief change.  Julie doesn't speak.  She doesn't do sign language.  She doesn't laugh.  You are unable to see much emotion in her eyes.  She is legally blind, but is able to see a little bit.  When playing with her toys, I am supposed to put it on her lap or close to her face, put my hand on top of hers, and press the buttons or whatever is necessary for the toy.  Her mom says her favorite toys are the ones with different lights or sounds.  I wonder how she can tell.  Julie sometimes smiles, but it seems to be random.  Sometimes she makes groaning noises, but her mom tells me that this doesn't indicate discomfort, it is "just something she does when she's hanging out."  For the feeding, you pretty much just have to hook a tube up to the tube in her stomach, lock it, and pour measured formula through a funnel, then flush it with water.  It is not difficult, I wonder why some people will not work with clients with g-tubes.  Of course, it may just be due to the rest of the problems that led to the g-tube, because if they are unable to eat on their own they are probably unable to walk on their own, talk on their own, use the bathroom on their own, etc. 

When I arrived at Julie's on Sunday afternoon, 15 minutes early, as I figured that would make her mom feel better, her dad greeted me outside.  He informed me that Julie was taking a nap, but would probably be waking up pretty soon.  He slowly woke Julie up and cuddled her and changed her as I watched.  I don't know if I have ever seen such a caring father.  Honestly what I expected was to deal with the mom pretty much exclusively and maybe see the dad in passing, but never actually holding and hugging Julie.  I know, how sexist of me, but it was a nice surprise to see their interaction.  Having a child with a disability can be extremely difficult and stressful.  Another girl I work with has Downs syndrome and is the sweetest, funniest little girl, but her mom is a single mom.  Her father left when she was just a toddler and her mom tells me that a lot of the reason was that he was just heartbroken to find out she had a disability.  He wasn't able to handle it, so he left.  It was such a nice contrast to see a father not only interacting with his child, but enjoying it.  This didn't look like something he did because he had to, it is something he did because he loves her. 

After the family left, the house was very quiet.  I just kept talking and talking to Julie, and though I didn't get any feedback from her, she didn't fall asleep so maybe she enjoyed it.  We went for a walk, had a nice formula dinner, hung out on the floor and did some stretches.  As she was on the floor I lay down beside her and read her four children's stories.  I read them all very loudly and emphatically, and just for kicks I did a different accent for each one.  I changed her, I put her in my lap and rocked in the rocking chair with the tv on, commenting about the subject matter throughout.  I don't know if she understood me, or even if she heard me, but fortunately I have a lot of practice talking to myself and my pets, even an appliance here and there so I didn't feel at all uncomfortable.  Toward the end of the evening, as Julie and I sat in the chair I got to thinking about all the other people who watch Julie.  I would hope that everyone would take excellent care of her, but many people just do what they have to because they have to and don't care otherwise.  For example, when I was doing my clinical hours at the ER for my EMT-B, a nursing home dropped off an old man at the door from their van.  They didn't send anyone in with him, he was obviously senile, he was covered in his own feces and his catheter bag was so full that it was bursting at the seams.  It makes me sick to think that a family would entrust their loved one to a facility that would let this happen.  From the horror stories I hear, I'm sure this is not the worst of it, either.  So anyway, I was thinking, maybe Julie's family has one of those nanny-cams.  A hidden camera to make sure that Julie is getting proper treatment at home.  Of course I immediately reviewed my time there in my head.  I was sure that although they would probably think I was very strange, reading to her in all accents and talking about weird random stuff, they would love the attention I gave her.  Fortunately, I probably wouldn't have changed much about my behavior if I had thought I had a camera on me, though I might have tried to be less of a weirdo, which might not have been as fun for Julie.  Even with all of her special needs, working with Julie was a cake walk compared to working with my little Devil Incarnate, Aiden :). 

A Day in Church Part 2

After he got a drink from the fountain, I took Aiden to the bathroom, because he said, "Potty."  This was nice since he mother had told me that he would not let me know if he had to go, I would have to force him in there.  He wears pull-ups and during the meet and greet Aiden said to his mom, "Poop."  So she took him into the bathroom and I just kept hearing, "No, Aiden, not your hands!  Sit down on the toilet, no, don't play with the water."  He did not poop, but immediately after coming out of the bathroom he went in his room and slammed the door in his mom's face, as he has discovered is a great way to agitate people.  "He's probably going in there to poop in private," she informed me, which is exactly what he did-in his pull-up, fortunately.  Anyway... back to my day with him, after he said, "Potty."  I took him to the bathroom and into a stall where I had to catch his shirt collar before he dove head and hands first into the toilet.  He looked mad that he didn't make it in, but grabbed an extra roll of toilet paper that was sitting on the back of the toilet and tried to put it in the bowl.  I grabbed it out of his hand, and got the other one before he could snatch it off the tank.  I said, "Aiden, don't you need to potty?"  He yelled, "NO!" and went under my arm and took off running down the hallway.

    I took off after him and was able to direct him into the play room.  He played with some of the toys in there and I allowed him to destroy the organized shelf in the corner as I sat and watched.  Aiden's mom came in and asked, "Is he a little wound up today?"  Understatement.  "Well he did sit for a while this morning, which is abnormal for him, maybe he has too much energy.  Why don't you take him to the park across the street?"  I agreed and took his hand to lead him out of the church and across the street.

    There was a lot of equipment at the park for Aiden to play on, though there were puddles at the bottoms of the slides from the rain the previous day.  "Wet," Aiden would say and point.  I would agree, then he would look at me and say, "SHUT UP!"  He had learned that he was not allowed to say this, so he found he gets quite a reaction when he does.  "Now Aiden, remember your mom said you are not allowed to say that and you have to listen to me.  Do you want to sit down?"  Sitting down was his form of punishment.  Hmmm.  "No sit down, " Aiden grumbled.  "Okay, then don't say that."  "Shah-wee." (his version of 'sorry')  "Okay, now go play."  Aiden climbed up to the top of the slide where he couldn't be reached, looked down at me with a devilish grin and said, "Shut up, shut up shut up shut up."  I said, "Aiden, you don't want to sit down, now, say you are sorry."  But it was to no avail.  He knew he couldn't be reached up there and he just grinned and kept saying it over and over.  I climbed up to his spot to try and catch him and just as I almost reached him he shot down the slide, his khaki pants making a big SLOOSH as he went through the puddle at the end.  When I was able to catch him again, he did say his sorry quite quickly, but I know that to him, saying sorry is another way to avoid 'sitting down.' 

    I let him play for a while before we needed to get back to the church.  He seemed pretty cooperative for once and he started walking toward me, got another devilish look on his face and ran right past me, to a mud puddle that was about 4 feet wide.  He tromped right into the middle of it and I pleaded, "Aiden, it's time to go back to church.  Come with me, now.  You don't want to sit down, do you?  Aiden, come here right now or you'll be in trouble."   He ignored me and  kept jumping and splashing.  Each time I would reach for him he would jump out of the way.  I did not want to go into the middle of the puddle, but kept talking to him and asking him to come out.  A neighbor to the park on the other side of a chain link fence walked toward the scene, stroking his long gray beard with one hand and sticking his other thumb in the pocket of his overalls.  He walked up to his fence looking bemused as Aiden jumped up and down and stomped and I stood at the edge of the puddle attempting to coax him out.  The neighbor said, "I would just push him down face first," with a little snicker.  Gee, thanks for the help.  "I don't think his mom would like that very much,"  I replied, slightly annoyed but wanting to be clear that this little demon wasn't mine.  Aiden turned and faced the neighbor and said, "SHUT UP."  I couldn't help but smile and say, "You heard the kid."  I was finally able to get Aiden out of the puddle by taking a flying leap over it, grabbing Aiden in mid air.  "That was naughty, Aiden, because you did not listen to me," I said as Aiden looked pleased with himself, squishing in his tennis shoes and covered in mud.   

    I was pleased that Aiden didn't put up a fight about holding my hand and walking back to the church.  We walked into the Sunday school room where the teacher was holding a balloon and showing the kids how they get to heaven with Jesus.  Aiden sat down and pulled off a shoe, pouring the water in a puddle on the carpet.  "Aiden, you have to put your shoe on," as I tried to catch his flailing foot.  "Do you want to go in the hall and sit down?"  I threatened.  "Yes."  I was a little taken aback, but I said, "Okay, great."  I took a chair into the hall where I sat him down and attempted to put his shoe on as he said "No!' kicked at me and lunged his upper body at me.  I put my hands on his shoulders, thumbs on his collar bone and lightly placed his back against the chair, immediately worrying that it would look like I was trying to choke the kid, which I would never do... no matter how much I wanted to.  A blond boy who looked about 9 was passing by and said, "Aiden!."  He walked up to us and said, "Aiden you have to be good and let her put your shoes on."  Aiden stopped kicking and allowed me to put his shoe on and I was amazed that this child could get him to behave.  As he walked away Aiden started calling to him, wanting him to come back.  I later learned that this was not the angel of child goodness, but Aiden's big brother. 

    I took Aiden back into the play room where we put Thomas the Train in the vcr and he actually sat and watched.  I looked at my watch for the billionth time that day and I prayed.  I am not a religious person but I found myself in church on a Sunday honestly praying to God that church would end and I could leave this little antichrist behind.  Wow, it's like a religious experience in church.  I could not be more relieved than when Aiden's parents and brother and sister walked into the room.  IT'S OVER!  The morning from Hell with the child from Hell was over... until next week.  Although I hope it is not another "religious experience" I have no doubt in my mind that it will be similar. 

A Day in Church

I have been at my new job for about a month now, working with people with cognitive disabilities.  It mostly consists of respite services and SCL, otherwise known as Supported Community Living.  Respite services, for lack of a better word are a lot like babysitting.  I give the client's primary caregiver a break from caring for the client and they do whatever they need as I stay with and assist the client.  I would have to say that currently my most challenging client is a 5 and a half year old boy who has mild-moderate Downs Syndrome.  His family planner recently told me that he believes the boy also has ODD or Oppositional Defiant Disorder.  That might have been nice to know BEFORE I worked with him.  I did a Meet and Greet, during which I meet with the family and the client (or consumer, as we call them) and they let us know anything we need to about care, diet, behavioral management, etc.  During this meeting his mother let me know that he had gone through a couple of respite workers because he likes to test his boundaries and get away with as much as possible, so I should make sure not to let him walk all over me.  "No problem," I thought, having no idea what I was getting into.

    I was enlisted to provide respite services at Sunday School every Sunday so that his family could attend church and he would be able to participate.  That Sunday I met Aiden* (name has been changed due to confidentiality agreement) and his family at church.  His mother and I took him into the Sunday School room which consisted of about 12 kids from ages 4-7 and 3 Sunday School teachers.  Aiden went over to one of the boxes of toys and began playing and his mother asked one teacher to watch him while she showed me around.  She took me down the hall to a play room with a TV and some toys, letting me know that if Aiden wasn't doing well in the group and needed to be removed, this is where I could take him.  We went back into the Sunday School room where Aiden was sitting IN a box of toy dishes, hurling them at the other kids.  His mom said, "Okay, well I am going up to church, but I'll be back to check on you later." 

    I went over to Aiden and tried coaxing him out of the box, taking his hand as he stood up and started kicking all of the toys out of the box.  The main teacher asked everyone to put away the toys and come sit down.  I asked Aiden to come and sit down and he immediately started running for the door.  I grabbed his hand as someone closed the door and he hurled his body onto the floor.  He showed no signs of getting up as he kicked at me and took off one of his shoes and hurled it at me.  I am sure I looked more than a little flustered and Judy*, one of the teachers came over to me and said, "Does he know you?"  I said, "Umm, not really,"  as she nodded and stood him up and in a firm voice said, "Aiden, it is time to sit down with the group.  You can sit here next to Amanda."  Aiden refused to sit next to me, so Judy picked him up, her frail arms shaking under his weight, and sat with him on her lap.  "Judy has the magic touch." confided 'Boppo' the older gentleman who was the main  Sunday School teacher.  I went over and sat down next to Judy and Aiden, as Aiden hugged and cuddled Judy.  "He's very loving," said Judy.   I was impressed with her ability to handle him.

    About a minute later, Aiden grabbed the hair of the girl in front of him.  Judy said, "No, no, that is not nice, Aiden."  He then started kicking at the girl's chair.  He was able to get his shoe off and in the middle of Boppo's story about the time he saw Jesus and his 10 best friends Aiden rocketed his sock onto the middle of the table.  One of the kids said, "Whose sock is that?"  As Boppo tried to get back to his story Aiden was again trying to terrorize the girl in front of him.  Judy made Aiden face her and said something that surprised even me, "Aiden, you are being naughty, you don't want Jesus to be mad at you, do you?"  Aiden looked directly at her and in his loud raspy voice said, "YES!"  I couldn't believe that this woman, who a moment ago had impressed me with her ability to handle this child was trying to use Christian guilt on a 5 and a half year old child with a disability.  Judy looked visibly upset for a moment, which seemed to please Aiden as he grinned and climbed onto my lap, giving me what seemed to be a hug, until I saw his right arm shoot out from behind my back and try to rip a paper down from the wall.  He tried this a couple more times, then grabbed the girl's hair in front of him again.  As I pried his white little fingers from her hair I said, "Aiden, that is not nice!  Keep your hands to yourself."   

    Right as the prayer began, Aiden was climbing the wall, which was good because he wasn't actively destroying anything or terrorizing anyone, then  he noticed that everyone was quiet.  He made a loud grunt as his shoe slipped down the wall and Judy said, "Aiden, we must be quiet now, it is time for the prayer!"  Immediately he let out a yell.  Judy looked at me and shook her head, upset that he wouldn't respect the prayer.  She had her hands closed tightly and looked very intense, so I gave up on my support system and attempted to keep Aiden quiet, which he responded to by getting louder and louder, pleased that he could wreak so much havoc.  Finally, I gave up and decided to take him to the play room down the hall.  As we got into the hall, he took off at a dead run, and I took off to try to catch him.  I caught up to him at the drinking fountain and he took a drink since he loves water. 

To be continued...

Business casual

I started working in IT at a very large company that employs over 7,000 people in my city.  It has mostly engineers and geeky guys so I was one of 3 females in my department.  It was my first office job and the first time I had a dress code of "business-casual."  I went shopping at a nice store and got a lot of nice work clothes, fancier than I usually wear, but nice and stylish.  After about two weeks of working there, I was called into my boss' office.  She asked me how I was adjusting to the place and I told her that I enjoyed it very much and everyone was very helpful.  She paused for a moment and looked uncomfortable.  She said, "Well, the reason I called you in here.... ummmmm.... It's the way you dress.  I mean... it's nice, I wish I was ummm... well... there have been comments about... well, your shirts are a little...." At this point she put her hand about halfway down her chest to indicate that my tops were a little low.  "I mean... it must be nice to have... well... you know the guys here... they don't see women much anyway and it can be distracting..."  As flustered as she was, I don't think I have ever been more embarassed.  I told her I knew exactly what she meant and that it would change immediately.  I walked out of the office, bright red, and cursed the supposedly "business dress" store I had gone to.  After speaking with my mom, complaining that the store where I shopped shouldn't have such revealing shirts, she informed me that they are only revealing on people with anatomies similar to mine.  The day after the meeting with my boss, an article about business dress was sent around the office and we all had to sign a sheet saying that we read it.  After my dress style changed, I didn't receive as many friendly male visitors.  That was definitely a humiliating experience.

Scenes from the company picnic:

An idea.

Okay, so I was watching this show, "Comedians of Comedy" and I was thinking how cool it would be to be a stand up comedian.  I mean, you get to be on stage and make people laugh.... two things that I would greatly enjoy... however I am presented with a huge problem if I wanted to be comedienne (if I was French, this is what I would call it... though that just means actress... anyway...)  I am not funny... I mean, I have made people laugh before... but usually it is either by making a fool of myself or telling a story which is somewhat amusing.  These are both things that anyone can do.  My ex-beau Jonathon once told me that is why I should work with kids.  He is a pediatric dentist... he always used to tell me about sitting on kids and holding them down, prying their mouths open.  I know he was joking... but I also know there was a little truth to it.  I was 20 at the time and would sometimes go out drinking with my friends in Iowa City.  Usually I would be sober and driving, but once in a while I would drink as well and we would all stay at our friend's house.  I mentioned to Jonathon that I often made a fool of myself to make my friends laugh... this was usually when I was sober, because being obviously noticeable... if noticed by the police they would find me sober.  Being around people who were drinking, they were easily amused and everyone around us would assume that I was a sloppy drunk.  So there ya go... bonus!  My friends would know I wasn't drunk, because before I had ever had a drink in my life I would always try to entertain my friends by being stupid.  For example, one night we were bored and ended up at my house, as always seeing as we would be driving around and I am a self-described "homing pigeon" and we would always end up there... I started making up lovely dances to every single tune on our electric piano just to entertain the group... and myself as well.  Also, if my friends ever needed a spot on the dance floor but couldn't get one since it was so crowded... I would jump out on the dance floor and pretend that I was so into my dancing that I didn't even notice what was going on around me, and start dancing crazily.... throwing elbows and pushing people back with my butt...   People would give me dirty looks but I would just be closing my eyes and acting like I was really into what I was doing, or looking at them cross-eyed and they never tried to confront me about it.  As I said, I am a goof, but not naturally really funny.  However I decided to use this site as a vessel for my funny-ish stories and would be happy to hear the input of my friends, whether the story is funny or not, whether it is only funny if you know the person, etc.   So there it is, a little idea.

(Un)American Part II

(Un)American Part II

I was in France for the summer, staying with Isabelle Judet, a 43 year-old French Olympic dressage judge, her 63 year-old husband Jean-Claude, and her 11 year-old daughter Camille. The house was beautiful, typically French, older with stone walls and large windows opening to porches and balconies. A clothesline hung in the yard, filled with breeches, lightly dancing in the summer breeze.

Halsey, a 14 year-old American from Boston showed me to my room. I walked through the house, which had the smell of an older house, a sweet, moldy smell mixed with the smell of fresh raspberries, which Isabelle had made into jam earlier that day. My room was small, but comfortable, with a tiny twin sleigh bed against the wall for me. I had my own bathroom, which would be soaked and flooded every morning after my shower. The bathtub had a shower head connected to the nozzle. There was no shower curtain, however, and I much preferred showers to baths. I discovered that even if I had preferred baths, I wouldn’t have been able to take one because there was no drain plug. The most effective showering technique, then, is to lay your body onto the floor of the tub and use the shower nozzle on your hair, trying to be careful not to accidentally spray out and flood the bathroom, as I still ended up doing nearly every day.

Exhausted, I lay my time-confused body onto the sleigh bed to discover that I was too tall to fit between the ends. At 5’9” I wouldn’t have expected to be taller than all of the French people, but apparently I was taller than anyone who might have slept comfortably on that bed. I discovered that the most comfortable way for me to sleep was to lay diagonally on the bed, my head in the corner close to the wall with my feet hanging off the opposite side.

I grew to be very fond of the room and the house, especially when the family had taken off for their annual August vacation, this year to Barcelona. The French usually take a month long vacation during August, often going to other countries, sometimes just heading south like a flock of birds. When the family was gone, I had full run of the house. I could sit in the living room and watch French television, which I had not yet done in the weeks before. I could watch some of their French videos, often originally American movies that were dubbed. The titles were sometimes different, as some American expressions would not make sense in French. My favorite was, “Allô Maman, Ici Bébé,” which, directly translated means, “Hello Mama, Baby Here,” but I recognized as the movie, “Look Who’s Talking.”

I also discovered that the large windows in my room opened to a brick floored balcony, facing the back yard and the creek. I spent many nights on that balcony, listening to what I now think of as the sounds of the French countryside. Though there were not many birds around, they were probably taking their August vacation, the ones that were chirped endlessly until sunset. I could hear the light babbling sounds of a small creek that was out of view behind some trees. Every once in a while I would hear a car zoom by or honk its Peugot or Citroën horn. In a place like that in the states, our speed limit would have been 25-35 mph. If they had a speed limit there, it wasn’t enforced. People usually drove on the winding forest road at about 60.

The house had 3 floors, but I had only seen the first floor. One evening, Isabelle and Jean-Claude were both away for the evening, leaving me with Camille. Camille requested that I watch some tv with her before she go to bed. She and I sat in the living room and Camille found the show The X-Files, which sparked her interest. It was 10:00 pm and the sun was slowly setting. We decided that we would watch half of it, just until 10:30. The French dubbing in it was so fast that I barely understood any of the dialogue. It was about a giant mud-monster that comes into your house and kills you if the lights are off. After a half an hour, Camille and I were both so jumpy and scared, that we thought it best that we finish the show, maybe it will have a happy ending. After the show, Camille and I were both still a little jumpy. She was not the only one who would get negatively affected by watching something scary, so I was happy to oblige when she asked me to hang out with her in her room until she fell asleep, rather than go into my dark room where the mud monster was probably under my bed waiting to grab my feet which had to hang over the edge and pull me under the bed, devouring me. I sat with Camille in her room, talking to her about France and America, and the differences between the two. When she finally fell asleep, I quietly left her room, headed to my room and of course did the typical little kid leap onto the bed from several feet away, so the mud-monster under my bed couldn’t get me. Now, I wasn’t crazy, I knew deep down there were no monsters, especially not under my bed, I was 18 years old. I did, however sleep in a fetal position that night with no body parts hanging off the bed.

(Un)American in Paris

(Un)American in Paris

I remember the thrill of watching the sun rise from the airplane at what felt like midnight. I had just watched it disappear beneath the clouds three hours before, pulling the shades down with it, darkening the sky. I remember looking down at the clouds and thinking that I had never flown this high before. I wanted to jump into the clouds and kick the soft foam into the air so that it could drift higher and higher into the sky. The clouds had a wonderful texture that I could almost feel. Cool whip. Not marshmallow cream, too heavy, no bubbles or shaving cream or mousse, not sweet enough. Cool whip. I couldn't even fathom another texture. I didn't want to eat it, just play with it and kick it around a bit.

When we landed I walked out of the terminal in a daze. Everything was hazy because I hadn't slept in 20 some hours. The airport was filled with these enclosed hamster tunnels going off in all directions at an upward slant. I was in a tunnel. The stupid Americans next to me were taking pictures of the hamster tunnels. The were blond. Very American. They even had those lame ass passport holders around their necks, which I did, too, but I didn't want to be considered a stupid American because I'm not. Each tunnel had a moving belt. It was going up like an escalator without stairs. It was a little disconcerting. It was difficult to keep my balance. I stayed cool. Oh yeah, I've done this a million times, no prob.

I hadn't spoken in a couple of hours. Not since the American next to me on the plane told me about how he was going on business to Paris and flipped through the guidebook, telling me about all the places he was going to visit. I had to act charming. Yay. Then I had to explain my whole story; who I was, why I was going to France, what I was going to do there while Mr. Business nodded and listened with mock interest. It's true. People do love to talk about themselves. They act like they are trying to make friendly conversation but they really just want an excuse to talk about themselves. Then they feel like they need to pretend to listen to the other person's story, which the other person is usually anxious to tell and had been nodding through person #1's story wondering when we get to the REALLY interesting stuff: ME. It's funny because even though they were not listening to the other person, just waiting for their chance to talk, they actually fool themselves into believing that they really ARE interesting and the other person IS listening with genuine interest, while the other person of course nods and waits for their chance to talk. I know that sounds pessimistic, but I think it's true.

When I went to the baggage claim I still hadn't talked. I was tired. I didn't even want to talk to Mr. Business on the plane, not even about the exciting stuff- ME! But I was, nonetheless, charming. I'm getting better and better at charm. It comes in handy. You just have to be careful because sometimes you may accidentally let the mask slip off exposing your true face of biting sarcasm, bitterness, and cynicism. I'm good with my mask unless I am around the person too often. Then they see me in my worst form. Anyway, I hadn't talked because I didn't want to be a stupid American like the rest of them. I was being French. I noticed the pungent aroma vitiating my nasal passage as soon as I scurried out of the hamster tunnel with the rest of the rodents. It smelled like piss and armpit odor. I hoped that I would not have to get used to this smell as the smell of France. I blamed a couple of people near me for the stench, but the BO was probably me. After I got my bags with the shiny ribbons hanging off of them, (thanks Mom!), I went out the exit. There were crowds of people and I didn't know if I had gone the right way. I worried and went out and in a couple of times when I saw a typed sign with my name on it.

I went up to the man holding the sign; a medium-sized man with a stocky build, big belly, greasy brown curly hair that flipped out by the ears, and bad teeth, not to mention the hunchback. I smiled and prepared to be charming. He introduced himself as Jean-Pierre. I wasn't sure of Isabelle's husband's name, I had thought it was Jean-Claude, but I assumed that this little hunchbacked Gerard Depardieu-man was her husband. I quickly discovered that he spoke absolutely no English. Great. I wanted to practice my French, but not right then. The first thing Jean-Pierre did when I walked up to him was give me a kiss on each cheek. You know, the French thing. If you aren't used to it, it can be a little surprising and disconcerting, a stranger's face coming right at yours. Being used to having the American bubble of personal space, I was uncomfortable with it. The first thing I noticed about Jean-Pierre was how incredibly badly this man needed to be introduced to deoderant. I had to deal with that awful sickening smell all the way to Parc de Chapuis, an hour away from the airport. I said something to Jean-Pierre in English and he looked at me, confused. He asked me, in French, "Do you speak French?" I made a so-so gesture with my hand. He said, "Un petit peu?" way too close to my face as I leaned backward and translated in my head to "A little bit?" I nodded and repeated the phrase.

We got into Isabelle's Mercedes station wagon and Jean-Pierre backed up slowly unil BAM! he hit the car behind him in the parkade, jolting us both backward. Then, unphased, he quickly put the car in drive and we shot out of there at an incredibly high speed. He had to get out and pay the attendant, so he pulled into a space until we felt the BANG! JOLT! of the curb. Without even an uncomfortable blink the smelly hunchback got out and paid, got back in, and we shot off to the farm where I would be spending the following 9 weeks. As we drove away, I finally started feeling nervous about my surreal experience and wondering what was in store for me and France.