Lost

The church bells ring in the distance summoning the faithful to its doors. The wind races through the narrow cobble-stoned streets that twist haphazardly through Lodève. Lodève was obviously built before the slightest notion of automobiles. The streets are narrow, steep, and winding. Most of the streets in Lodève are hardly wide enough to fit one car, let alone two, but the population of Lodève seems to have some kind of esoteric system of one-way roads figured out; life flows through seamlessly.

The country has been on strike for the past 2 weeks. The door of the high school is blocked by trashcans and more effectively by the students sitting outside glaring at passersby. Transportation is unsure, trash is everywhere, and the country is concerned about its lack of fuel. Movement in the region has come to a halt, but the people seem to soak in the freedom of these open days.

As for me I am feeling the familiar pains of leaving everything behind. The solitude weighs heavy on me. In the morning I walk to the bakery for fresh bread and the occasional pastry. As I wait in line the lady smiles and greets the familiar faces in line around me. As for me, I am as of yet invisible. The strikes have efficiently cut off my only sure source of social contact. Without the brief conversations with other teachers I am just another stranger in this small town where I have not yet come to belong.

When I feel so cut off from the world around me it is hard not to give in to the nostalgia that fills my heart. I think back to the friends I have made all over the world; taking solace in the knowledge that these friendships also took time to form. I think of the families that welcomed me in Benin, and the friends that went out of their way to make me fall in love with Spain. Those times when I need a friend to talk to, lean on or just pass the empty hours with, are the times when I have no one to turn to.

It is not an easy situation to be in, my stay in France being transient and the lives of the people around me being set and full already. I know from experience that the friendships I am most likely to form are with other foreigners, others who feel estranged in this country, who seek new friendships.

Being fed up with my struggle to find a place here I seek comfort in the wild countryside outside the borders of the town. A 10 minute walk carries me to mountainous trails, calling to be explored. In the tranquility of nature I feel once more at ease, I feel alive, I feel loved and cared for by the world around me. Amongst the trees I am not a strange face; I do not feel alienated or judged. I can once more connect to the inner peace that we can so easily lose touch with. In the struggle to fit in I forget that I must let go of that nagging desire to please the world around me; forgetting that for now, until I understand the nuances of this culture, I can only please one person. Me.

So here amid the trees I find peace. In the midst of the trees the wind is no longer a bother. The wind plays a symphony for me through the leaves. I am on no schedule. Time is forgotten. I turn around and see Lake Salagou stretched out before me in the distance. Nature’s beauty mingles with the remnants of stone houses forgotten long ago. The crumbling doorways hint at stories of lives one lived amongst the wild before the charm of the Earth was overshadowed by the dazzle of the city.

Soumont

The path I walk winds up the mountain drawing me farther from civilization, until about 4k outside of Lodève I round a corner and am confronted by buildings. Soumont is much smaller than Lodève yet despite its meager population the French grandeur dominates. A large stone cathedral stands proudly in the center as old stone houses spiral outward in no particular scheme of organization. I wander down the alleys without fear, for every alley twists and turns back to the center.

All day I follow familiar signs as the yellow conch shell guides my way. I am for one more brief moment on the Camino. In France there are no yellow arrows guiding my path, in their place are a secret code of lines; yellow and blue, red and white. Like a scavenger hunt I desperately scan the stones and tree trunks for the marking telling me that I am not yet lost. As I wander further up into the wilderness I begin to lose track of the signs. Every time I must walk blindly the worry sets in. I embrace the fear letting it blossom into excitement, after all I had come in search of an adventure.

Soumont

As I reach the top of a mountain over Soumont I turn around, scanning the horizon for Lodève; but Lodève is tucked out of sight. The mountains undulate in the distance all around me guiding my gaze further until I see a bright gleam at the edge of the horizon. Up here, high above the world in which I live, I am starring out at the majestic Mediterranean Sea.

I stopped to take in the wonder of the moment, the feeling of being on top of the world, before I continued my journey. For a day my worries were forgotten. I was no longer an American, no longer trying to be French. For a day I was where I belonged, where language holds no sway. But like all things of great beauty, like the breathtaking setting of the sun, these moments are fleeting; a mere garnish to the life my feet carried me back to.

Culture Shock

I stepped off the plane in Chicago and it was instant. The arrival in America is a bit of a shock as you dive right back in the world in which you grew up. All around me I heard the strong southern drawl and for the first time in a year, nothing but English. I wanted to put my hands to my ears to drown out the sound of incessant conversation. I felt like I was being forced into the private lives of others. My first instinct was annoyance, thinking that Americans are as loud and obnoxious as people say they are. Why do they think I would care about their lives? Then I realized that my judgments were entirely unfounded. I could simply understand everything they were saying around me without any conscious effort on my own; a feeling that I had grown unaccustomed to. The truth is that people were quite friendly and it felt good to be around such a mélange of accents.

The next stop was Colorado; the time to visit with old friends and dear family. Things just weren’t as seamlessly smooth as they once had been. Before I left I could read other Americans better and flow with the natural rhythm of the States. Suddenly I found myself not leaning in for a hug, rather leaning in to kiss someone’s cheek. At the supermarket I looked down for the cheapest items when in fact the organization in America is quite unique. But I had only hours to readjust to the US before I flew off to what seemed like yet again another country, LA.

After a decent night’s sleep, my friend Marina and I flew off to LA. My wardrobe seemed entirely insufficient and people could spot at first glance that we “weren’t from around there”. That was fine with us since the people that were seemed to use to be…unique. As we strolled down Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, or spotted the Hollywood sign in the distance I took it all in; for this is the America that the people around the world know. The movie stars, the wide boulevards, the shopping, the In and Out burgers, the eclectic styles, we saw it all. Tourists in our own country.

Rock stars in Hollywood

Home Sweet Home

After LA it was much easier. Like riding a bicycle I began to flow within the culture around me as if I had never left. My time in the States seemed like a whirlwind at times; so many friendly faces to see, catching up to be done, so much to recount to one another, plans for the future to arrange. And like a whirlwind it soon blew past and I was once again flying over the Atlantic, speaking French with the couple seated beside me. I felt…home.

Flying into Madrid felt like flying back to my own country. I entered the airport with much more confidence. I understood the world around me, the metro, the language. It was a drastic change from the year before. I let my feet carry me to my favorite sites of Madrid, wandering through the roses, stopping for a café and getting caught up in a technical conversation about the internet that was far over my head in Spanish. Luckily my skills at pretending like I am following are well tuned.

My time in Madrid was brief but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for one more night in Benavente. Oh the feeling of stepping out of the bus station in Benavente! I can hardly put it into words. I took a deep breath and caught a familiar scent in the air that I had never noted before. I saw familiar faces strolling down the street and walked familiar paths. That night I did the same circuit of town that I had walked several times before. Benavente is not a big place thus it is easy to run into old friends. We stayed up late into the night (well not too late for the Spaniards) filling in the last three months of everyones’ lives. I found that my Spanish was still strong, I could still hold my own in a conversation and it was easier than ever. I had missed the tapas, the wine and this language over the summer and I took in every moment I could. I realized over the course of the night that I had become close these people without even realizing it and found myself wishing I had a little more time to get to know people that I had overlooked. But my time in Benavente had come to an end and so in the morning I headed to Palencia to visit one more dear friend, pick up my suitcase, and prepare for my imminent move.

I arrived at my friend’s apartment armed with a handheld luggage scale and mentally prepared for the worst. I was faced with a challenge. The airline I was taking to France allowed 1 checked bag weighing up to 20k every extra kilo being 12 Euros more and one carry on, no weight limit but able to fit into the little things at the airport. I went up to the basement to weigh my bag; I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had. I looked, 50 it said. I just about fainted. It was worse than I’d thought. How was I going to get 30 k to France and still have money to survive? My friend and I searched frantically for a solution, then I looked more closely. 50 lBS is 23 kilos. Bon, 3 kilos I can do.

The next morning I dressed in my pjs, jeans, skirt and multiple shirts. My pockets were filled with electronics, and anything that would fit. My book I would hold and pretend to be reading at every moment. And thus I checked a bag weighing 20.5 kilos and barely survived the heart attack the pounds/kilogram change almost caused. Thus I put on 3 kilos in Spain.

I arrived overheated and exhausted in France where a familiar face awaited me. Soon my large bag was back in my possession and my layers of extra weight were returned to the suitcase. And thus I dropped 3 kilos in France.

It was here that my new adventure would commence. I headed to Montpellier nervous and ready to rid myself of my heavy bags. As I approached the house of the fellow teacher, who offered to host me while I looked for a place of my own, I felt the familiar worries settled into my heart. Try as I might I could not suppress the doubt that was simmering within. What if they don’t like me? What if I take the wrong bus? What if I packed too much? What if, what if… My worries were assuaged the second I entered the door, my doubt and timidity hid itself well behind an autopilot I’ve built up within myself. I made myself at home and engaged them in conversation flowing smoothly between French and English.

Then I had to pee. I tried to recall the quick tour I had been given and walked immediately to the shower. Nope, no toilet in there. I paced back and forth down the hall before throwing in the towel and asking for help. Where was it you ask? In the laundry room of course!

I enjoyed my time in their home immensely. Every meal was the paradigm of French to me. They took me to see the wild flamingos that have existed here forever yet that I’d never heard of, they showed me around the beautiful Montpellier and they gave me the freedom to explore on my own.

I went out with the Couch Surfing group of Montpellier which turned into an unforgettable adventure. I arrived at the house of a stranger unaware of what to expect. In less than an hour I would be trying to help fit a large cardboard boat down a small spiral staircase, and take the same boat across town in a small city tram. Why you ask? Well to race it against other cardboard boats of course!

Though short-lived, my time in Montpellier was memorable and left me hungry for more. Now I am in the charming small town of Lodève. But more on that later.

A bientôt!