Le Mal du Pays...Otherwise known as Homesickness

For the past couple of weeks, I'd been floating on a tide of caffeinated bliss--bouncing into the kitchen to whip up another version of sauteed onions with tuna and peas (I've been eating variations of this dish for days; the reason is not yet known), bouncing into class, into cafés with friends, into gardens, into yoga, even bouncing into the library at which I'm now a member.  My friend Quentin has described me as very bouncy, and also noted the lack of equivalent adjective in French.  But my bounciness came to an abrupt halt at the end of last week, and left a yawning void of fatigue in its place.

So it has arrived, as everyone said it would.  I thought I could avoid homesickness if I just kept running forward at full-speed: making friends, reading books, drinking café crèmes, going out even when I didn't feel up to it.  Unfortunately, using avoidance as a coping mechanism can only work for so long.  I began noticing some cracks in my strategy.  I lavished an unusual amount of attention, complete with cooing and ear-flapping, on a black lab ambling innocently down the street (I miss you Duffy!); the owner looked at me as if I were a bit off-my-rocker.  I scroll lovingly through the phonebook in my cellphone, missing the friends listed there.  I bought miso soup mix and organic brown rice udon noodles--my therapist would say I'm projecting my affection for Taiki onto the food of Taiki's people; she'd probably be right.  I miss eating Alice's Teashop scones with Twin A, I miss wandering around the Upper West Side with Emily, I miss bugging Mommy while she's trying to work, I miss making bread with Daddy, I miss those big, sad, brown eyes Louise uses to get more meat, I miss having coffee with my friends at the completely un-scenic Richmond Beach Starbucks.

This weekend, however, my homesickness came with physical symptoms.  I slept.  And slept, and slept.  I am deeply tired, and I've learned that this breed of tiredness can't be alleviated by any number of cafés crèmes.  Life abroad is a continual challenge.  I sometimes equate it with one of those endless slogs up an Adirondack trail.  You arrive at some great lookouts, and if you're with my dad or one of his brothers, you test your geographic knowledge and find you can name most of the peaks in view.  The break, the view, and the ability to know where you are in relation to your surroundings make you feel pretty great.  But the upward slog must go on.  So you pack up your Nalgene and trail-mix and get back to work.

This weekend, however, a little break just didn't suffice.  So I set up camp under my down comforter, downloaded a season of an American TV show (Mad Men), and got out the novel I'm reading by Barbara Kingsolver (i.e. not French lit).  Here I sit on Sunday morning, coffee in hand, feeling refreshed but not completely renewed.  But I'm not too worried; I think the bounce will come back, though it make take a few more 10-hour nights of sleep.

Any advice from those who've experienced homesickness, or from those who have temporarily lost their bounce, is welcome.

Bisous & sweet dreams,

Alice

French Yoga: Survival of the Fittest

Bonjour à tout le monde (or, more accurately, my dedicated and occasional readers)!

First, here is the link to my pictures:

http://picasaweb.google.com/AliceinParisFrance

Second, I know I have already written far too many blog posts on the subject of seasons, but I can't resist including a little bit more here. It was gloomy today; rained off and on. Autumn has begun in earnest. Now the sky is a deep foggy blue, with barely perceptible clouds hanging over my horizon of rooftops, chimneys and domes. I have lost many hours sitting at my desk, gazing out at the buildings and the sky. For some reason, the changing of light carries more significance here than in other places. Maybe I'm just projecting my romantic conceptions of Paris onto normal sunrises and sunsets (thanks, Therapist!), or maybe the light really is more dramatic here. It's clear that I'm not the only one who wells up with vague emotions at the sight of a beautiful Paris scene: falling autumn leaves sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight; the sweet, burnt smell of my foyer's garden; a vine-covered house with cracked paint and musty old windows; a strange little street--you can't remember how you got there, or where it leads--that wound its little cobblestone way up some hill in a quintessentially Parisian fashion; the smell of melting cheese on rue Mouffetard; the plump yellow lab that parades through my quartier with his weary-looking master trailing behind. I always experience a twinge of nostalgia for the transiency of these lovely moments. I want to capture them, bottle them up, grasp them with my camera...but they slip away just as quietly as they arrived.

If you've gotten this far, thanks for indulging my sentimental ramblings. You may be wondering what any of that has to with the title, "French Yoga."

Zen, relaxation, peace. The reason for the gap in my blogging has been the return of school, work, and stress after a relatively relaxing summer. I realized recently that I was going to have to adapt to Paris in ways I did not expect. Sitting in the softly-lit study room of my foyer, trying not to fall asleep over Balzac's Le Père Goriot (I love you Balzac, but of all the things I could say about your books, "chill" and "relaxing" do not come to mind), I had a sort of ephiphany. Having finally located some obscure word in my giant French dictionary, only to find that it signifies a specific kind of 18th century trellis ("thanks B.Zac!" I thought, "this will be SO useful in everday conversation!"), I came to the marvellous conclusion that I was working too much. Enough with the intellectual intricacies of ye olde Père Goriot, I needed some Sentimenal Education (OK, I promise to stop with the pretentious jokes). Working at my usual feverish pace was totally killing the mood, not to mention impeding upon my exploration of an incredible city. I needed some relaxation. ASAP.

Wandering is the quickest, easiest, and often best way to relax in Paris. But a strong case of perfectionism calls for something a bit more forceful than a peaceful walk. Careful what you wish for...

I show up to yoga wearing (obviously) my yoga pants and my little earings with the "Om" symbol. I even managed to put on a bit of my Sandalwood scent. So I was feeling pretty yoga-rific. Then the instructrice arrives; if you think you wear organic, recycled cotton pretty well, you clearly have never met Maryam the Yogi Goddess. We start off pretty normally with some basic stretches. But Maryam the Yogi Goddess doesn't manage to hide her true nature for very long. While we're all in downward dog, I hear her say to another student, "But what are you doing? That isn't downward dog at ALL! Here, let me show you..." and Maryam the YG proceeds to SIT on the student until she has bent him into the correct position. Forceful intervention indeed...I being to sweat.

Maryam the YG is not your average West Coast yogi; the latter are usually incredibly sweet, and are really into "going at your own pace" and "doing what feels good for YOU." Maryam the YG does not care what feels good for you. One of her favorite saying is, "It hurts, I know. Believe me, I know better than you!" Translation: Weaklings! Quit your whining. Oh, and by the way, I'm FAR superior to you. She also likes to yell at her students; for instance, "You there! In the corner? What the hell is that? Put your RIGHT arm behind your left leg? It's really not that hard..." As for the connetion of mind and body, Maryam the YG's thoughts are as follows: "There is no magic moment where your body just decides the be flexible. Use your mind to TELL your body to do the stretch. Yoga is just forcing your body to obey your mind...No suffering. Just doing."

This may not sound like your cup of green tea. And at first, I was more than a little affronted at Maryam the YG's brusk style. But by the end of the session, I had changed my mind. The yoga class was difficult, and at times uncomfortable; but once I got it, I really felt fabulous (so fabulous, in fact, that I was practically lounging on fellow metro-passengers on the way home). My French yoga class mirrors, in many ways, my experience in French culture: sometimes painful, always challenging, but ultimately really rewarding.

In conclusion, I have been studiously not working, and I feel pretty great! We'll see if that changes once Sunday rolls around...luckily there is my trusty farmers' market to soothe my working woes. Sweet potatoes, beware!

Gros bisous!!
Alice