Mes Eleves et Mes Etudiants.

I started working last November in Moulins. It is an agriculture Lycee, so my students ranged from Middle School to "Vo-Tech" level. I am not sure of the actually numbers, but it seems that a good 80% of my students were boys, which made the experience even more interesting. Also, I picked up a job working for the Universite Blaise Pascal teaching the "senior" undergraduates English as well. Across the board, I have enjoyed my time with them.

"What's your phone number?" or "Do you have a boyfriend?" or "Do you want to go to B-Box with me?" were the questions I was plagued with at the beginning of the semester. For each new class that I taught, I would have to answer a series of questions about my life in the U.S. Sometimes they were jealous of American life (how easy it is to get a drivers license) and sometimes they were disgusted by it (what do you mean, you don't have Saucisson?)

I remember the time that a boy in class tried to take a picture of me underneath his desk. He was just your normal troublesome boy, so I laughed. He gave me the most desperate look, "Please don't tell the teacher." I merely shook my head and pointed at him sharply to say, "If you do it again, I will set her loose on you." Then there was the boy who asked me at the end of class if I liked honey. I said 'Yes' of course, and he handed me the most adorable little bottle of honey that had been harvested at the school. Such friendliness is rarely found in the adults of this country, and to me, these students will always be the ones who brought me in.

They were really the ones who taught me to speak French. I can write it, no problem. But in that moment where you are alone staring at 20 students who are completely confused, you have to try your best to spit something out to explain it. I always enjoyed the surprised looks on there faces when I spoke French, as if they thought I'd lived in this country without even trying to speak it. At the same time, I sort of had done that. Living among International Students where English is the most commonly shared language meant that my French speaking practice was limited to class. But with my students, it was necessary.

And the teachers were such a help as well. They offered me coffee every hour, food every month, cheese after lunch, wine, etc. They would be so patient with me when I spoke French, and they helped me with my homework more than once. They never patronized me. They smiled at me and invited me to lunch, to sit with them, and share in a little conversation.

I will never forget the Christmas meal cooked for me by my professor, and the Spring lunch cooked for me by my BTS students. From oysters to Foie Gras to pear pie, these delicious kindnesses have made my time here feel valuable. And for that, I will always be grateful.

Le Train.

Trains always felt like something from another time. Something for movies, for western outlaws, for secret meetings, or for murder mysteries. Now I take a train to and from my job in Moulins twice a week. It has become something de ma vie quotidienne. Nevertheless, each time I hear the little ring before announcements at the train station, it seems a bit like magic.

I love the landscapes slipping past. Unlike driving a car, I do not have to focus on the road in front of me. I can allow myself to study the little points of interest. Having taken the train from Clermont to Moulin every week, I feel like I know every aspect. I have a favorite hill. It's covered in thick, green grass. At the top is an old white, anonymous house. There is a tree off to the left that I watched go from barren white to light spring green to lush summer green. During the fall, I watched the huge cow feeders fill to the top with corn. I can spot the Army barracks, the last building before the Clermont station, a mile away. It's the sign of relief. At last, the journey is over.

I have experienced the evils of the train. I huddled hours on the hard benches in the freezing cold of an unheated train station waiting for a train that would never come because of the strikes. All of my most precious possessions were stolen from me on the train. Some person swiped my purse underneath my eyes. My iPod, €50, my Titre de Sejour with the perfect photo of me, a brand new wallet from Spain, and my purse that I bought in Paris are gone forever. I was able to renew my bank card and my student card. My Passport was found in a near by town. I had to take a train to retrieve it.

There is also a phenomenon thanks to the introduction of cell phones that play music. It's always some dumb kid around 15-18 years of age who plays his favorite rap songs aloud for the world to hear. I'm used to it by now, but I'm always amused by the adults coming across this problem for the first time. They stand up and stare at the kid as if their entire concept of the world has been turned upside down. I smile at them and shrug my shoulders.

Nothing, though, can take away the pleasure of sitting across from someone who is dear to you during your ride. Normally this takes place on some great adventure. First to Paris. Then to Brussels, Stockholm, London, Barcelona, Rome? Choose. They are all just a plane or another train away. In your excitement, you face the person you love. Or maybe you don't know you love them yet. But, you realize you wouldn't want to sit across from anyone else on your way to Barcelona. You let the thought fade away and begin any number of great conversations that you will never forget.

When I step off my last train from Clermont to Paris, I think I will be a little sad. I'm sure I will ride trains again in the future. This particular route, however, holds a special place in my heart. In my dreams, I'm sure I'll pass those fields of yellow flowers, the snowy hills that went on forever, or misty plains revealing the first colors of the sunrise. I will never forget them.

As the end nears..

So, I gave up. After spending some time porting my laptop to the city center every week, it reached a point where I didn't want to do it any longer. Then it got cold. Very cold. Then I fell in love. Then I didn't want to do anything else but be with him. That hasn't changed much, but he needs to study. So, now I will write again.

Eight months up. One to go. What have I gained? Not a great deal of French. No French friends. In fact, I feel that Clermont has given me nothing for the most part. Will I ever want to return? Certainly not.

In last few days here, however, I would like to outline some of the things that I have gained from this experience. I will begin today.

Northern Lights

Mon amie, Cassidy, m'a demandé quand j'allais publier mon article sur mon séjour en Amsterdam. Pour une raison ou une autre, j'ai complètement oublié de le publier. Hm, pourquoi? Peut-être fumais-je tellement de cannabis? Pas possible!

Je suis désolée de ne pas écrire plus souvent, mais ma vie ici est chaotique. Les vacances de Noël commenceront à la fin de cette semaine, et j'espère avoir le temps d'écrire quelque chose. Cependant, j'écrirai en français, donc cherchez des dictionnaires français-anglais parce que vous en aurez besoin.

Joyeux Noël, mes amis!


What is there to say about Brussels? It wasn’t Washington D.C., that’s for sure. Perhaps you do not know why I make such a comparison, but it is completely logical. You see, I know Brussels for one thing: It is the capital of the EU. If you are following my studies at OU, you know already that the European Union is one of a few points I’ve focused on. So, to see some of the buildings, that was interesting, yes, but not inspiring. My favorite city in the world so far has been Washington D.C., because not only does it have all the amenities of a large city, but the history is tangible. You walk down the streets and you can feel power emanating from the ground. If you expose your palms towards the sidewalks, you can feel the energy of the city, in all its evil and all its virtue.

Brussels, however, does not have this feel. Maybe for someone who loves Belgium, they would find inspiration from the Belgium power structures. If you are looking for some grand European power structure, you won’t find it here. Here is an irony: It’s easier to walk around D.C. than it is to walk around Brussels. Here are some things that are appropriate: the property layout is disconnected and disorienting. There is nothing about the physical appearance that suggests power. For someone wanting to find something by looking at it, it instead appears to push people away. What does this say about the EU that the EU wants to say? We’re disconnected? We may talk a lot, but in actuality we’re very weak? We will happily answer any questions given you do not want to ask anything?

Hate to tell you this, but the church had the Vatican, the U.S. has the White House, and even Coors has a museum/factory you can visit. I can understand if you are trying to be cheap or trying to avoid giving favoritism to one area or another, but the EU has got to invest in a “visitable” and physical center for their organization if it wants to be taken seriously. Maybe that seems superficial, but humans are superficial, especially when it comes to politics. Give us a place to tour.

Amsterdam. I met an English boy near Sacre Cœur in Paris who described Amsterdam as, “one grand social experiment. Everyone gets fucked up with one drug or another, and then, they get lost.” It’s so true. You walk through the streets, and you wonder who is on what. Is that a joint they’re smoking, or a cigarette? Do you think that person is drunk? Did they have too much coffee or maybe they’re on coke? You give up trying to separate, and instead become the object of judgment. Then you look at the map and think, “Wait. Where the hell am I?” Ah, yeah, she’s on the pot.

You may be wondering where the title of this post will come in. If you were looking for information about aurora borealis, I’m sorry to tell you that you will be disappointed. Northern lights was the first pot I smoked on my trip to Amsterdam. I wrote about a paragraph on my first day in Amsterdam, but that paragraph has disappeared. I remember that moment and this moment, but not much of the in between. I’ll try to make some sense of it.

The first night was easy enough. We smoked. We ate. Then, we ate a lot of candy. Finally, we fell asleep.

The next day was a little more difficult. Unfortunately, we were set loose into Amsterdam without a map. We stumbled around until we were finally able to find a map, and then made for our first destination: register at the Cannabis Cup. I remember one particular corner of the map particularly well, because I went up and down this area, I swear, 5 times. We checked the map, we checked the address, and it wasn’t there. We found an Internet café and checked the address. Yup, everything was right, but the Sugar Factory was not there. It wasn’t until we went to the Sugar Factory’s website that we found the problem. The Cannabis cup put down “23B” not “238.” Right. Well, at least the internet café is also a smoke shop. Get high, and keep walking.

After quickly checking in, we went to another coffee shop and smoke out again. This time we went to the Van Gogh museum. I went there on my last trip stoned, and I loved it. This was the first time I noticed differences in my highs. This time was not enjoyable, and I realized that the pot I must have had before was ten times better than the stuff I was using this time. Before, I would just stand and stare at the paintings, believing I could stare at them forever. This time, I got bored.

That night we saw the movie, “The Departed.” Fantastically interesting. It was a bit of a downer, but I loved the concept of the movie. I like how the title appropriately gives away the ending on some level. On this trip, I also saw “The Devil Wears Prada,” which was a bit of a disappointment. The concept was good, but the result was boring, preachy, and cliché. Finally, I saw “Babel” last night. It was a risky choice, because the subtitles are in Dutch, and there is more than one language (obviously) in this film. But, it some way, it was appropriate. I was able to understand what was going on, but I felt frustrated by some of the storyline I couldn’t read. I really identified with the American characters trying to communicate, but being unable to. Great movie. Can’t wait to see it again in with English subtitles.

The interesting thing is the movie options. November is the beginning of the serious season for films (November and December is when all the Oscar nominated films start popping up left and right. Wouldn’t be surprised to find “Babel” or “The Departed” making a claim to either of those lists.) I just wonder if the Amsterdam city council gets a kick out of the idea of the Cannabis cup. Let’s see, let’s get a bunch of people stoned, make them walk all around our city in the rain and the cold, then deprive them of quality “stoner” films, and let’s see how great they feel about pot afterwards.

So, moving on, the next day we started touring some coffee shops, curious how this whole “judge’s pass” thing works. Well, essentially you can go into coffee shops and show your pass and you get some access to things you might not be able to get otherwise. Some shops gave out free merchandise, some gave you free pot, and some would stare at you like, “Uh huh, you’re a judge. Good for you (sarcasm)! So, are you going to buy anything?” I was under the impression that becoming a judge meant free access to every Cannabis Cup entry. Not the case. In most cases, you had to buy a gram, usually at good prices, but still had to be bought.

We went, then, to the opening ceremonies, and I had a hard time not laughing. I mean, pot makes me giggly anyway, but this situation made it worse. The opening ceremonies were absurd. I don’t get high so I can sound smart. I’m a smart person. Talk to me and you’ll know that. When we know each other pretty well, then I’ll get stoned with you. Then you can see me stupid, and know that even I need a rest from my own brain. But here are these people, trying to run this event, and they are all blazed. Rather than admit they are blazed, they try to do this show that is all “heartfelt” and respectful of the thing that is Cannabis. Hey, I have respect for hippies, but these are hippies gone wrong. It’s pot, dude. That’s it. Let’s get stoned and listen to some music, man. This is not a time to pretend you can be eloquent.

This had a negative effect that I believe was tri-fold. First, I think there were those people who saw me laughing and were angry that I was not “respecting the ceremony.” I felt bad, like an intruder. This is their deal, they can run it however they like. Then there were those like me, who found the event ridiculous, but they did not attempt to hide their disdain. I just wanted to tell them to shut up for the love of all that it good in the world, or leave. Anger at me, shame within me, and anger at others. It’s just not what you want when you’re stoned.

I think there is a curiosity in American culture over what life would be like if people smoked publicly. Well, this is what you get. Yes, there is the convenience of being able to smoke where you like, but then you have to deal with others. I mean, I met some cool people, but I remember better the people who annoyed me the most. More than anything else, I wanted to just go home, smoke with some friends, order-in, and watch a movie I’ve already seen 10 times. If Americans are somehow worried about stoned people taking to the streets if we decriminalize marijuana, I’ve got good news for you: stoned people don’t like public spaces.

But, hey, we bought these judges passes, so damn it we’re going to use them! So, Cassidy and I go to the expo. I have to say it was like going to some weird version of the fair. These are farmers, and they’re here to show off their finest seeds, growing methods, and new devices… that get you completely stoned! Each has their own little both with pamphlets and demonstrations. “Try the new such and such vaporizer!” or “Such and such gravity bongs” and so on. Really? Okay… And don’t forget the bins (BINS!) of pot. You want a nug? Here just take it! How about a special brownie? Only 4 euros! Okay, okay, only 3 euros (winks), but keep us in mind when you vote, okay? Okay…

I noticed that the Cannabis cup seemed to be made up of certain kinds of people. First is the growers themselves. This makes sense. They spend their life devoted to quality marijuana, so they should have a convention. But then there are the flower hippies, which I spoke of earlier. Then, there are the Americans. There were a lot of us, but there were not a lot of young Americans. You could identify us out of a crowd. Usually we talked more, laughed louder, and we were probably smoking out of a pipe, not a joint. We’re not all bad. I think Cassidy and I were a good representation. We smoked quietly, kept a map on us, cash on us, and never demanded anything. I appreciated that most people assumed we were British. We speak English like natives, so we can’t pretend we’re French, but at least people thought we were not like the other “Americans.” I’m sure those people are the reason why other people want to forbid public smoking in Amsterdam.


Anyway, so thinking of these people, we decided to pass on the Cannabis Cup parties. Instead, we just go from one coffeeshop to the next, smoking a lot of pot. It was over our last two days that we smoked the most varieties. We heard the results for the top 7 (3 top entries: Mako Haze [smoked it], Crystal Bomb [smoked it], and Arjan’s Ultra Haze #1 [smoked it], 4 honorable mentions: John Sinclair [smoked it], G-13 Haze [smoked it], Blueberry [smoked it], and one other that neither Cass nor I can remember… Hm, I wonder why?) It was like a little study of Amsterdam’s coffee shops. Is it old or new? Traditional or modern? Expensive, cheap, bright, dark, touristy, back-corner, friendly, chilled, happy, thoughtful, American, European, Asian, Middle Eastern, themed, just pot themed, just a store with pot in it? Every store was a surprise.

Of all the pot I smoked, I enjoyed Crystal Bomb the most. I was clear headed, up, and happy. Extremely happy. I couldn’t tell if it was just that the sun came out, though. All the edges of objects seems a little blurred, giving the appearance that everything was illuminated. We had a lot of walking to do at this point of the day, but I greeted the idea enthusiastically.

It does make me wonder to what degree environment affects your high. Perhaps it’s not fair to the other strands that I smoke them on cloudy days in overcrowded coffee shops next to people I didn’t know and/or didn’t like. But, I became highly appreciative to the stores that were concerned about my stay. Thank you, Barney’s, for you side coffee shop with a breakfast menu that would satisfy the hunger of any stoned person. Thank you for the free stuff, too. Thank you to the Sensi Museum, with it’s little private area for judges and free samples. Thank you to the other smokers who did not talk to me while I was stoned. Thank you to our big, cozy room we stayed in just above a smoke shop. (Thank you to the free Internet I could receive from within my room.) Thank you to the pretty streets, to the hot chocolate with more whipped cream than drink, to the movie theater, and to raspberry cheesecake. Thank you episodes of “Scrubs” I had saved on my computer. Especially thank you to the new shampoo we bought it Amsterdam. It will continue to serve me well into my continued stay in France.

In the end, I enjoyed the experience. If I were to make recommendations, go to Amsterdam during the summer. It’s warm, walking around is fun, and the Cup is not worth it unless you live in Amsterdam or you are invested in the business. Before you go to Amsterdam, though, take a moment to get suggestions on coffee shops and last year’s cup winner. Then, just smoke and enjoy the pot scene when it’s not too busy. The Cup, well, it’s one of those unique things I will be able to say to shock people. Maybe I’ll tell my interns one day when I’m in my 50s as some political figure in the State Department, “Oh, yeah, well, I went to the Cannabis Cup back in 2006…” What, they will say to themselves, Secretary Eastland smoked (smokes?) pot? Even if that thought never comes to fruition, I just spent three days doing nothing but getting stoned. And, it was a good three days.

Childhood Struggles Revealed in Art

Yesterday, I began this great adventure. It started with waking up at 4:20 in the morning. It is appropriate, but merely coincidental. I had to be over at Cassidy’s room by 4:45, it takes me 15 minutes to get ready, and ten minutes to pack the last few items before I left. On the way to the train station, my mother called me, because at home it was 10:00 p.m. the day before. She wished me a good journey and talked with me about the possibility of my transferring to another city for my next semester.

On the train, I slept for maybe 30 minutes, but sleeping in moving vehicles has always been difficult for me. So, I woke up and slipped on Cassidy’s iPod. The last time I went to Paris by train, I went a different direction (from Lyon, not from Clermont). I’ve found a new affinity for the album “Hail to the Thief,” so letting ‘There, There” whisper into my ear as the French countryside slipped past my view was somehow spiritual. I’ve found my recent life to be somewhat surreal. I’ve read about these places, I’ve seen them on TV, but somehow my mind registered these places in the same part of my brain that stores Coruscant and Middle Earth. They aren’t real. Then I find myself on a train, staring at the 3 dimensional qualities, and I’m blown away.



When I finally look down from the view, I pick up my book to read. Right now I am reading “Istanbul: Memories of a City” by Orhan Pamuk, the recent Nobel Literature Prize recipient. I picked it up off the suggestion of my Turkish friend, Sinan, that I should read a book by this author. Sinan later said this is not his best book, but I’m enjoying how other events in my life are reflecting the style Pamuk takes. “Istanbul” is a story both of Pamuk’s personal life and the life of Istanbul. He talks about events that define himself, and the next chapter talks about artists or writer’s struggle to express the mood and culture of Istanbul. So, I feel both empathetic and estranged from the story. His story of his life is this sort of sorting out how the way of living around him formed the way he lives.

If you read one of my previous posts, I’ve talked about how I am struggling to see how much of the way I live was formed by the place I was raised. The emotions, both joyous and tragic, of American life undoubtedly define the way I live now. He talks about painting in his youth, and I identify with him so closely, but, for me, it is writing and photography. As an artist, I’m talented at neither, or at least not unique. I find both pleasure in the sense of accomplishment I feel when finishing a post or taking a beautiful picture. However, when I go back and examine them, I find all the mistakes, criticize them, and judge myself unworthy of any praise. And yet, I continue to do it, because I enjoy the praise I receive from others, particularly my parents, when I finish a piece.

On the other end, Pamuk talks about the small details of recent Turkish history and I’m a little lost. World History does not cover these details, so when he talks about the city in great detail, again my mind sorts it back into fictional lands. He could tell me that there are Hobbits or land speeders, and it would be no great surprise. Despite my ignorance, I have begun to identify with it. As he has mixed his emotional responses from his youth with this emotion identity of the city, I feel that if I am empathetic with his life, I too can be empathetic with Istanbul. I can be a part of that life that melancholy.

Tearing my mind away from my book, I’m forced back into the physical world that surrounds me. I have this very urgent recognition that I have specific destinations. I have always been good with directions, but Europe is so different from the U.S. Streets are not structured the same, train systems are completely different, and a mistake can be extremely costly. Take the wrong train, and not only do you have to buy another train ticket, you have to change your plan, possibly causing you to have to stay in another night in another place. Suddenly, a trip that is supposed to be 100 euros is twice as much as you anticipated.

Yesterday, I had to catch a train to Paris, take the Metro to a different train station, find the train to Beauvais, find the bus from the train station to Beauvais airport, get onboard the right plane to Stockholm, find the bus from Stavska to Central Station in Stockholm, find the underground station near our hostel, and finally locate our hostel. The terror of getting lost consumes me every time I have to travel. On this trip, I haven’t failed once. When I get to my destination without getting lost, I have a moment of pure pride, the same as that first moment I finish a blog or see a picture that I have taken that is beautifully composed. Just for that moment, I am completely satisfied with myself. I should just create destinations to travel just so I can prove I can make it.

Our hostel was a boat. Well, the boat had been founded on the river-floor, but it was still a boat. We walked into our tiny little room with its little porthole window, and I thought, “Well, I doubt I’ll ever find anything like this in Oklahoma.” But there was no more time for thinking, because I had a taxi to catch for Berns. It was time for Sufjan Stevens.

Cassidy, Rachel, and I arrive at our destination to discovered we are extraordinarily underdressed. This high class restaurant/bar was a marvel to the eyes. It was multiple levels, with many different rooms for different ways of enjoying the rococo interior design. The main event hall where the concert was held seemed like an old ballroom that might be described in a book from the 17th Century. At first I was embarrassed of my apparel, but shortly realized that I am an American. This band is from my country, so if I am not maintaining the high class European style that surrounded me, I could say, “well, in the U.S., this I how we go to concerts: Jeans and a T-Shirt.” In Sweden, everyone speaks English like it is their first language. So, I waltz up to the bar and order a Czech beer with my thickest Oklahoma accent, and get a smile from the cute bar tender That’s right, sir, I’m an American and friggin’ proud of it.

After my beer and a class of South African white wine, I stand close to the front and wait impatiently for the appearance of the hero of this adventure. I may be the heroine, but I admire Sufjan Stevens intensely. His style of music is truly unique and his concept of one CD for each state is truly inspired. I was curious to hear him pronounce his name. It’s like this: “soup” with “f” at the end instead of “p”, and then “yawn.” The opening act was an artist called “St. Vincent” from Texas. She is very talented, and I enjoyed the sort of jazzy, bluesy sounding rock act she preformed. It was wonderful.

Then it began: Every performer decked in what looked like a boy scout uniform, a set of wings (maybe butterfly, or eagle, or fairy) and feathered masks. Cassidy said she was specifically stunned by the dark stage lit only by blue lights behind silver tinsel, and yellow lights floating spinning around the room as if in a snow globe. As if they knew my hearts deepest desire, they started with “Sister” from the “Seven Swans” album. I’ve actually posted the lyrics from this album in another post from my msblackandwhite blog, but I’ll put them again, because I love them:

What the water wants is hurricanes
And sailboats to ride on it’s back
What the water wants is sunkiss
And land to run into and back.



He plays many tracks from both “Seven Swans” and “Illinoise,” as well as some Christmas music. He also played a new song. For those of you who are familiar with his work, yes, I can tell you, it’s just as good as you would expect it to be. I allow the mood of the music to sink into my soul. The triumph of the brass instruments blazing, the soft pleading of his voice, the beautiful harmony of the female back-up, the tragedy and joy juxtaposed for one glorious end: beauty.

As I am writing this, I have realized that I love Stevens for the same reason I like the book I am reading. Pamuk is writing to sort out the mystery of where he comes from, both the fiction and the reality, as well as the study of his growing up. Stevens does the same thing, but with music. I feel even closer with Stevens, however, because he is an American. I know Superman. I know John Wayne Gacy. He told a story about going to summer camp and fighting with his siblings. I felt this strong memory of a time I chased my brother with a paddle. His back up vocalist, who is the girl from St. Vincent, told a story about how a boy from Sweden tried to convince her that Swedes traditionally greeted each other by blowing into each other’s ear and giving it a little lick. She had been so determined to be a good ambassador for America, and instead found herself being taken advantage of. She had no choice but to make light of the situation, and now she finds the story amusing. These struggles, the struggles he communicates in his music, these are the struggles of Americans. These are my struggles.

I love how Cassidy wanted me to try to perfectly reflect what we saw and felt when the concert started. She has always been a fan of Peter Pan. The atmosphere, for me at least, reminded me of the scene “Finding Neverland” where they recreate Neverland. I have some feeling that her appreciation for the concert setting might have something to with how they had created this, as she described it, “land of fairies.” The whole time we’ve been hear, she is constantly talking to people about how the story of Peter Pan helps her to remember to always maintain her inner child. Whether from Stevens, Pamuk or Cassidy, I am comforted to know that everyone is thinking about the mythos around them, the culture they live in, their childhood, and who they are now, and trying to make some sense of it; they are trying to define their own values, just as I am.

He finished the concert with “Chicago,” which simultaneously made me happy disappointed. I was excited to hear, “Chicago,” but I love ”Casimir Pulaski Day” and he had not played it. However, he played every one of my other favorite songs, so I was satisfied. Then, again, as if reading my feelings, he comes out to play one more song for an encore. He played the one song that I wanted him to play. The concert was everything I wanted and more. He definitely just knocked off “Wilco” and “The Decemberists” as my favorite artist in concert.

As we headed back to the hostel, I had another chance to test my abilities with directions. We had forgotten to grab the name and the address of our hostel before leaving. Without any way of communicating where we wanted to go to a taxi driver, we had to walk back to our hostel. I was right on the mark. We spent some time walking on the side of the freeway, but we got home, so another victory for my ego. Our little boat room is well heated, so we crawled into bed after being awake for 22 hours, and fall into sweet sleep.



This morning, Cassidy and I awake and head out for the Old City section of Sweden. Stockholm is a beautiful city. (Rachel is not coming with us to the Cannabis Cup, so she caught a different plane back to Paris.) I loved it there. We had to stop several times to ask for directions, and more than once, the venders would leave their stores to show us how to get to our destination. This place is the epitome of Christmas spirit, every store filled with advent calendars, father Christmas, stars and angels. We even had a tradition Swedish Christmas dinner for lunch. (Appetizer: Salad with bread. Main Entrée: Meatballs, sausage on top a beet salad, ham, raw fish covered with some kind of sauce, and one boiled potato. For dessert: Thin slices of pineapple drizzled with some kind of sweet red sauce. Finally, a cup of coffee or tea.) We sat in a little café at the Central Station and watched 17 Santa Clauses marching down the main corridor like a little North Pole parade. I would’ve taken a picture if Cassidy’s camera were not in the process of downloading the images from the concert onto my computer.

Finally, I had thought about buying a pair of boats in Europe, but I’ve been hesitant to purchase them because they tend to be expensive. But I thought it would be worth a look. So, I stopped into one store and tried on a pair of boots. They were very inexpensive, and beautiful. They are Italian leather in a beautiful tone of Chocolate brown, and I was surprised by how inexpensive they were. They had just opened the shop, so things were more reasonably priced as well as the fact that the store had their own factory, so they could keep prices lower. Cassidy started envying my pair, and the saleswoman offered to give us an additional 10% off if we both bought a pair. Are you serious? Hell yes!

So, now I’m on a bus back to Skavsta in my new boots. Next destination: Brussels.

Election, Turkey, and Lisa Simpson.

I pulled up CNN.com international this morning and regarded the headlines announcing that the U.S. House of Reps was taken by Democrats, and that the Senate might also go as well. I'm not in the least bit surprised. However, I hardly know how to respond to the whole situation. I do not have much faith in the Democratic parties abilities to fix the failures of the Republican party over the last few years. I do not see much inspiration on either side, so I fear that we will continue in this mindless switching back and forth for some time. The Democrats won't fix Iraq. The Democrats won't fix the Medical System. The Democrats won't get to the heart of our immigration issues. So, can the Democrats take the Presidency in 2008? Maybe. It depends on if they fail to fix our problems with flare, then the American public may be compelled to keep a Republican president to keep Congress in check. On the other hand, if they manage to fail to fix our problems without Americans noticing it (which is exactly what Clinton pulled off) then I believe you will find us with a democratic President January of 2009.

I cannot wait to discuss this with some of the Europeans here. I'm wondering if they see this movement as a good thing for the world.

Congratulations to Brad Henry. I think he has done Oklahoma well enough, and though I don't particularly agree with all his policies, I commend his abilities to not mess things up more. I am disgraced that the best Oklahoma has to offer to the House of Representatives is Mary Fallin, but whatever. At least I know that there are a number of Democrats that will keep her ignorant policy making in check. The only good thing I see about this situation is that it does show Oklahomans are willing to let woman have significant positions of power. As to the rest, I don't know enough about your platforms to know if you are good or not. We'll find out, won't we?

My endless fasination with European/Turkish relations has not gone away. The European Union has set a deadline for Turkey to open its ports to Cyprus. If Turkey fails to do so, the EU will cease talks with Turkey about possible Turkish accession to the EU. The Turkish Prime minister claims that he doubts such an end to discussions will happen, but I'm not sure if that means he expects Turkey will comply or if they will try to negotiate their way out of opening their ports to Cyprus.

Today my friend compared me to Lisa Simpson. I nodded my head understandingly, but I'm curious how you all view that comparison. I've seen many episodes of The Simpsons, but not enough to make a fair judgement about that subject.

Les Politiques et Les Femmes

"I'm concerned for you," said Piotr, my new Polish friend.
"Why?" I asked surprised by the sudden change of subject.
"Well, I think politics will make you cynical."
"No," I began, "it's very serious stuff, yes, but I don't allow it to bring me down."
"Well," he continued, "politics is really for men."
I stand quietly for a moment, allowing a stunned and uncertain smile to my face. Mon dieu! He is serious.
"In the U.S., Piotr," I replied stiffly, "women do whatever they want."

My experiences here, I must say, has less to do with the French. I know a great deal about teachers, beauracracy, and commerce, but very little about social interactions. I only have two real French friends. However, I am learning a great deal about other nationalities because I meet primarily international students. It's been interesting meeting students that do not come from the same sex/gender culture of the U.S., especially when it comes to politics. The conversation above is a perfect example. I sometimes forget how much more liberty there is for women in the U.S. than in most places of the world. I have to explain that one of the great values of the book Pride and Prejudice is not simply the story, but the presentation of an intelligent female herione. In romance, men find Cassidy and I to be less attractive because we are so bold. Women should be shy. They should act disinterested. And most importantly, they should not engage in political debates, period.

I remembered studying in class that the U.S. was different with regard to women and politics, so I did a little research (http://www.un.org/womenwatch/daw/public/percent.htm). I some ways it's true, with the U.S. ranking first with total percentage of women in government positions: 33.1%. Here may be a few surprises:

Belgium: 6.6%
France: 10.8%
Germany: 6.1%
Italy: 7.1%
Switzerland: 7.1%
U.K.: 6.9%

Even Canada only has 17.7%... That almost half as many women in government as the U.S.

But, the situation gets a little skewed when you look at how many women are in ministerial or parliamentary positions (http://www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm). Then the U.S. drops to 67th. Ouch. Bosnia has a higher percentage of women in their parliament than we do. Every other developed nation except for France and Ireland is above us on the list. Only 15% of the House of Reps is female, and 14% of the Senate is women. Seriously, Americans, we can do better.

I hardly know what to do with these statistics though, because you know who's number 1? Rwanda. Yeah, I think we woman might vote "Nay" on making Rwanda the posterchild for feminine capacity.

Anyway, it's interesting to study this. Mostly what I learned in this whole situation is that there are still places where woman are for some reason or another not supposed to go. And, naturally, I'm going there.

Thoughts that Come Faster than the Stars in Hyperspace

I’ve been struggling the past few days to begin to grasp the speed at which I am learning. Moments of gross significance come and leave, only to be immediately followed by another. Something is said, my mind processes it, and I am forever changed. At first I hardly even noticed they were there, but now I am so aware of them that I feel intimidated. When I first arrived in Clermont-Ferrand, I felt that I was dropped off into a city where time has stopped. Now I feel I lack the time to simply process the weight of the events around me. From international politics, to art, to religion, to my feeling of personal significance, to literature, to music, to everything, I am lost in this new world of ideas.

When I graduated from high school, I remember the burden I felt entering college. It wasn’t simply a matter of obtaining a degree. I had been home schooled my whole life. It was my first test of many. I remember the skeptical, and subtly condescending, questions about my ability to handle a real classroom. Could the home schooler really handle the social pressures, the academic structures, and separation from her family? I felt this need to not simply perform well, but to perform excellently. Maybe even to perform perfectly. I managed it. Bumps came, but I navigated them with strength that’s expected from every other young American adult.

There is a key there, though. American. I achieved such heights because I was raised for American culture. This may seem silly on the surface, but I think those home schoolers who do fail fail because of the fact they were not raised to live in our culture. Well, I was. I know how to communicate with my peers. I know how to communicate with authority figures. I know how to communicate differently with a professor or a police officer or a boss. I know how to identify good fashion from bad. Cool from unpopular. Funny from inappropriate. Right from wrong.

Now I feel like I graduated from high school again. But home schooling is not the source of skepticism, rather my nationality is. Americans and their money. Americans and their need for order. Americans and their ignorance of other languages. Americans and their ignorance of everything un-American. Again, I feel the need to prove myself. To perform not just well, but excellently… perfectly. But in college, I knew my goals: get A’s, get cool/smart friends, keep a job, impress the professors, maybe take a boyfriend who is smart and cute, etc. Here, though, the goals are lost to me.

My Polish friend walked into my room the other day, and complemented me on the messiness of my room. I thought he was joking, but he replied, “No, it has a lovely European chaos to it.” He makes fun of Americans and our worries about money, and our dedication to practicality. Efficiency and order, he believes, takes away from the flavor of life. It would be so easy to dismiss him. Efficiency and order gives Americans the time and freedom to enjoy to flavors of life. What does he know? He’s never been to the U.S.! But unorthodoxy runs in my blood. Just because I know one way doesn’t mean there is another way. And, I must learn this other way before I can know which one is the best. But how do I knowingly abandon order?

Grades here are important, but I am hardly expected to perform well. I am one of the worst students in my class. Oh, I know my French grammaire backwards and forwards, but I can hardly speak or understand French. I am constantly making stupid mistakes in class. Yesterday a girl was giving a speech and she asked a question. I thought she was asking to the other students to answer, so I responded, in my best French. Everyone starred at me awkwardly before the girl said, “La question n’est pas pour toi.” Of course. She was listing the question she was going to ask French people for her exposé. I just can’t understand French. Fortunately I felt some need to talk, so I made sure everyone else in the class understood that too. Isn’t great to make all of your peers aware of your failings? I have become a child again. I am unable to communicate, making the simplest mistakes, but I lack a parent. Instead, I have the lingering values and ego of an intelligent woman who used to attend a university in Oklahoma. I am left only to long again for the time when I am respected by others and self-assured.