Why your dictionary won't help you here

After having spent the last month-plus in Europe, I have noticed that sometimes, even if you speak the language, there are things that just don't translate. For instance, in Madrid Molly and I amused ourselves by picking out t-shirts with English phrases written on them. It quickly became obvious that the wearer of these t-shirts had no idea what they actually said. My personal favorite read, Fuck me with the heart. Well, ok, but...what?

While in France I noticed that fun with not-quite-English words wasn't limited to t-shirts, but could in fact be found anywhere. For instance, in the category of business names that you would never, ever see in the U.S.:

Servix: Your friendly neighborhood locksmith, who wonders why so many Americans keep showing up for pelvic exams.

Hey baby, wanna cyber?

Nahh, that's like, so 1998.

Ok, well do you wanna...aquacyber?

Oooohhhh...Sounds like fun!

But the fun doesn't stop there. Restaurant menus with "English" translations can be a rich source of linguistic humor.

In case you weren't clear on the ingredients of the mussels plate, they are, in no particular order: mussels, mussels, mussels, and, oh yeah...mussels.

Care for some apple pie in your shrimp cocktail? I mean, I know the French are adventurous eaters, but this is ridiculous...

Further investigation into France's rich tradition of cultural mistranslations, linguistical slip-ups, and unintended double entendres will have to wait, as I find myself once again on American soil. But, my readers, whatever your country of residence, where do you find the silly in the serious?

Why I can't wait to go home

I just moved back in to the hotel here in the-town-that-can't-be-named, else it will show up in the Google alerts feed of the owner of this lovely establishment, a fact he was kind enough to inform me of the last time I was here. And while that's fine, I do prefer to fly under the radar whenever possible. (Though it is starting to become slightly disconcerting, given my penchant for online anonymity, just how often I manage to give myself away). So, as I said, I'm back in the hotel after a week of staying with a host family, and I'm drunk on freedom and unlimited internet access. And that's all I'm drunk on, I can promise you, because as my co-leader said to me recently with a bit of a desperate gleam in her eye, "Rachel, I haven't smoked, drank, or had sex in almost a month, and those are three of my favorite things to do." And I can say that I miss at least one of those things, though I will never admit which one it is, although fine, I will just say that it feels wrong, oh so very wrong to eat cheese without a bit of wine to go with it. It should maybe even be illegal to eat cheese without wine, which is just my personal opinion, of course, but that is just how wrong it feels to me.

It's been a bit of a challenge for me to try to write honestly about this trip, since as I have discovered all over again, in the blogging world, you never know who your audience is. I will say that it has been a roller coaster ride, with more lows than highs, and just when you think you're at the bottom, there you go, plummeting downward again, heart flying up into your throat, only to finally land in the pit of your stomach with a resounding thud. The hardest part for me has been having to be responsible for so many people's individual happiness, and in the end being able to satisfy no one. The thing is, in general I am pretty eager to please. I like to keep things on a pretty even keel, and I will do whatever I can to make this happen. In my professional life, I'm used to people thinking I do a good job. I'm used to people thinking I do a great job. There's a reason that I'm conscientious and detail-oriented to the point of it keeping me up at night. I am a tier-up of ends, a coverer of bases, and a checker-off of lists. But on this trip, every other day I am on the verge of calling the whole things quits, and if only it were possible I would already have boarded a plane back to the States, because no matter what I do here, it's just not good enough.

The office says the students' daily online trip updates aren't good enough, are nowhere near, and their marketing director is very disappointed. It goes without saying that I am personally responsible for this. I must make the students understand that they have to do better, although they barely have time to do the updates as it is.

The director of the school here blames me for an important e-mail that I sent and she never received. If I sent it, she says, well then I will just show her the proof. Proof? An e-mail disappears into the ether of the Internet and she wants proof. As she is talking I try to offer an explanation, and she roars that I will let her finish! I let her finish. I want to cry.

The students aren't allowed to drink. They aren't allowed to go out alone at night. They hate this. They sneak out. They get busted. They get upset. Some of them are from New York City. They go out alone all the time. They feel like they are in prison here. No one is happy. Everyone is having a terrible time. They call their parents. Their parents are upset that their kids are having a such terrible time on such an expensive trip. They call the office to complain. They don't know what they are complaining about, exactly, and so they say things like, "They took a tour and it was in French and my kid didn't understand, couldn't keep up, and someone should have translated for him." Then we will have a tour in English and another parent will complain that it was in English, when this is supposed to be an immersion trip. Someone thought her kid didn't look happy enough in the pictures posted on the updates.

After enough parents called with their vague and uninformed complaints, I got a call from the owner of the company, which is an experience I never wish to repeat. After an introductory period of being talked at loudly and angrily, followed by some general ranting and calls for things to improve, stat, he said that we were being too strict. We had to loosen up a little. Because we were upholding his rules. His rules and the basic dictums of safety and common sense. Well, of course we couldn't be more flexible with those rules, he said. We still had to uphold those rules, but wherever there was room for flexibility, we should exercise it. He didn't seem to understand, and wouldn't listen when I tried to explain, that it is those rules the students are unhappy with. They're not upset because we had sandwiches for lunch instead of pizza, or ice cream after dinner instead of crêpes; they're pissed because they can't go meet their classmates at the bar everyone is going to tonight. And the only thing I could do after 45 minutes of cross-continental reprimand, the disappointment echoing tinnily in my ear, was repeat mechanically "Yes, I understand, yes, I understand" through tightly clenched teeth, and refrain from throwing the cellphone across the empty schoolyard.

Things seemed to be on an upswing, for a while. The momentum shifted, and we spent a whole day in Tours, yesterday. The kids had time to walk around on their own and feel some of that freedom they were desperate for. I went shopping and bought clothes and tried not to think about the exchange rate. Finding a place for all of us to go to dinner was a challenge; everything was expensive, and we had to stick to a budget. We finally found a place that looked reasonable, and made reservations for twelve. After walking around a bit more, we found another restaurant that was perfect. At this place we could get a three-course menu for less than the price of an entrée at the previous restaurant. (Entrée used in the American sense of main course, and not to be confused with the actual French meaning of entrée, which is appetizer). We decided to go there instead. My first thought was that we had to cancel the reservation at the first restaurant, but we didn't have a phone number. I could go back there, I said, but in the end we ran out of time, and then, ultimately, I forgot. The phone rang in the middle of dinner. I didn't answer it in time, and it went to voicemail. The other restaurant. A brief ball of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I could have abandoned my dinner, left the table, called them back. But I didn't. It's already 40 minutes after our reservation time, I thought. Surely, they have to know by now we're not coming. We finished our meal, which was amazing, and I thought with some satisfaction that for once, everyone was happy. The kids were still all raving about their food, showing off their purchases from the day, and exclaiming over the perfectness of the city. We got in the cars and headed home, tired and happy. I retreated to my room with a book, brushed and scrubbed and ready for bed. Then, at 11:45 p.m., the phone rang. Thinking it was my co-leader, I answered in English.

"I just wanted to thank you for your reservation for twelve people tonight," a voice said in French. An unhappy voice. An angry voice. She couldn't fool me, though. I knew she was not actually calling to thank me. And though I had previously considered the American culture to be quite adept in the art of sarcasm, I had to admire how this French woman managed to take it to a whole new plane. Trust me when I say that America is not even in the same league as the French when it comes to sarcasm. Speechless, I said nothing. "This is the restaurant?" she said snippily. And I said the only thing I was capable of at the moment, which was simply, "I'm really sorry." "Well next time you should think about calling," she said, and hung up.

And once again I went to bed riddled with guilt and anxiety and regret, and wondering if maybe tomorrow will be the day, that magic, elusive day, when I actually do something right.

Why I already miss the mountains

I feel I may have been a bit stingy in my posting of photos yesterday. Can you ever forgive me? To make it up to you I now present to you More Pictures of Mountains That Will Still Never Come Close to Doing Justice to the Real Thing, aka Why We Should All Just Give Up and Move to Switzerland Right Now:

View from my hotel room in Chamonix

Assorted hiking pictures

Ten reasons I will likely be gray-haired after this trip.Quiet when they're tired.

A toute à l'heure.

Why the hills are alive with the sound of whining

It's day 12 of the trip right now (is that all?), and I can't think of where to begin. With the unexpected phone call to my hotel room the morning of my last day of freedom in Paris, saying, "Surprise! One of your students arrived a day early and you have to go pick her up at the airport right now"? Or how about the airport pickup the next day, otherwise known as The Day I Spent Eight Hours in Charles de Gaulle Airport, Oh My God. I was there from 5:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., dashing from Terminal 1 to Terminal 2 and back again, as it just so happened that each successive student arrived in a different terminal than the one before him. The trip between terminals required a 10 minute train ride and a 20 minute walk, each time with more students trailing behind me, Pied Piper-like, with all their collective baggage, until I started stashing them at strategic points throughout the airport, leaving them with snacks and words of comfort like, "Wait here, I'll be right back!" and then, two hours later, trying to remember where I had put them. Do I talk about how then, after all that, I had to wait in an hour and a half line for RER tickets to get us out of the damn airport, and how every minute I waited I trembled in fear of a hungry, tired, cranky teenaged uprising? I could talk about Paris itself, I suppose, which turned out to be quite lovely, once we all finally left the airport, with trips to the Louvre, the Latin Quarter, Versailles, and a Seine bateau mouche tour on the night of the summer solstice, an experience so perfect it requires its own entry.

I should probably talk about Chamonix, and the 5-day circuit hike of Mont Blanc, and how it was the most physically and mentally challenging experience of my life to date. I received my little "diplôme" and honestly, I'm probably more proud of it than I am of my high school diploma. High school schmigh school; I hiked Mont Blanc, and I have the aching joints and sock tan to prove it. The scenery was amazing, as you might expect; almost too much to take in. I took pictures, but I doubt that they can do justice to the grandness of it all: that no matter where you are, you are surrounded by mountain peaks in all directions, the vastness, and how the mountains tower over you, the tinkling of the cow bells, like I was starring in a modern-day version of Heidi, one where helicopters buzz overhead and the countryside is dotted with American high school students scampering around the Alps in hiking boots and bikini tops. So yes, it would have been nearly sublime, if I hadn't been immersed in a private world of my own pain, and the incessant nagging questions of "how much fuuurther"? from 11 students.

Things I've learned on this trip so far:
- I don't really need as much sleep as I think I do
- The necessary art of doing my delicate business using both squat toilets and the great outdoors
- That which does not kill me will still make me beg for a quick and merciful death

I haven't had much time to post lately, obviously, so I need to wrap this up and attend to my duties as baby-sitter, nay-sayer and general all-around bad guy to 11 10 students. (Don't ask). For now, I leave you with this moment of zen:

Why they call it puppy love

As if the hotel in La Rochelle wasn't perfect enough, what with its kitchenette and bright yellow bathroom with an actual bathtub, I found this cutie peeking around the corner at me while I was enjoying my lovely, sun-filled patio:

Of course I had to say hello. Er, bonjour. I mean, that face. Those paws.

I can't describe to you in words the softness of his fur, or the sublimely delicious puppiness of his tongue devouring my hands.

The breed of dog I want to have when I grow up changes weekly, but this week I would definitely have to say boxer.

I went back inside and laid down to rest and watch some télé, leaving the patio door open for air. A little while later my new friend, released from his constraints, found his way in to my room (with only minimal encouragement on my part). He rushed to my side and planted himself against my leg, a giant love lump, as his owner called after him, to no avail. Shirtless, still in his bathing suit from the pool, the man alternated reprimands and apologies, as my pleas of “Mais je l'aime” were largely ignored. Collarless now, the new object of my affection was dragged unceremoniously by the scruff of the neck, padding unwillingly away from me on his giant puppy paws, as I murmured to him sweet nothings and whispered a last goodbye.

Yes, other than the lack of internet, and a transportation strike that kept me from going to the beach on the Ile de Ré, La Rochelle was practically perfect.

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Back in Paris, my first order of business was the Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore. With my usual impeccable timing, I finished the book I was reading last night, thus leaving me bookless for a three-hour train ride today, a situation I decided to rectify as soon as possible. I also had three books that I had finished reading, and though they were ones I really would have liked to keep, I cannot justify schlepping them all around Europe to my aching shoulders any longer. If I want new books, the old ones have to go, I decided. It's becoming more and more painful to keep spending money on books here. In general, I'm not a bookstore person. I'm a library person. I like my books for free; I like tearing through them and then giving them back, as quickly as possible. Nothing gained, nothing lost; it's a closed system, and that's the way I like it. Therefore it's extremely uncomfortable to acknowledge the fact that in less than a week I've spent over 30 Euros just on books. If you convert that to dollars American, that comes to somewhere around $50, and that was just for three books. It makes a thrifty bookworm like myself cringe a little.

After Shakespeare & Co, I wandered to the Blvd St. Michel and sat myself down at a bustling sidewalk café to browse through my expensive (but necessary) new purchases and partake of a refreshing beverage. Traffic swirled by, Americans were everywhere, talking loudly, the late afternoon sun beat down on me, and somewhere to my left an unseen marching band played. I was made for loving you baby and you were made for loving me. My Orangina arrived, with a glass with ice cubes, even, and the check. €5,10. Holy hell. I shuddered to think what that amounted to in dollars. Best not to. Too late. This better be the best Orangina I've ever had, I thought.

Turns out, it was.

Why there's never a dull moment in Amboise

Yesterday was a long day of travel, starting at 11:00 in the morning, and ending at about 10:30 last night. And while it was long, it was fairly easy and uneventful, spent on planes and trains, and waiting around in airports and train stations. I rediscovered my love of trains, and oh, if I could take a train everywhere I go, I would. The gentle, rocking motion, the constantly changing scenery outside the window, the unlimited potential for daydreaming. I marveled at how late it gets dark here; not until about 10:00. I delighted in how green everything is here, how many trees, and how much countryside, as we passed through farms and fields and the occasional small village. After about an hour and a half I spotted a château out the window in the distance and sighed happily. As I said, it was a mostly uneventful trip. That is, until I arrived in the small, sleepy town of Amboise at about 10 p.m. last night. I figured I would just take a taxi from the train station to the hotel, but to my dismay there was not one in sight. And the station itself was closed for the night, dark and abandoned. "Excuse me," I asked a passerby. "Do you know if there are any taxis?" "Sorry," she said. "I don't know." I assessed the situation and decided it didn't look good. I was all alone and disoriented in a strange town, loaded down with bags, and with not even a phone number for a cab company or even for the hotel. I took one last shot on a group of French people also exiting the station. I repeated my question, to which the woman replied, "Of course there are taxis! They're right...Oh..." she trailed off as she rounded the corner and saw the abandoned parking lot, the empty taxi queue. "How strange...No, there's nothing," they murmured amongst themselves. "Where are you going?" the man asked. I told him the name of my hotel. "Well, we can drop them off in centre ville," the man proposed to the other members of his group. "I'll go get the car."

Them? I wondered. Then I noticed another lone and stranded traveler, like myself, who had happened to find this group of kindly strangers before I did. She couldn't have been more than fifteen, and she looked so young and lost and confused that my heart immediately went out to her. She had a piece of paper from the language school here, the same language school that my students will be attending in a couple weeks time, and so I told her she could come to the hotel with me and we could ask for directions or a taxi there. And so five of us and all our assorted luggage all poured into a tiny Renault, and we headed to the center of town. "You have happened across a very nice man," the woman told me, sandwiched between me and my fellow traveler in the backseat. "Yes!" I chirped. "Luckily!"

"He's my brother-in-law," she continued. "And this is my husband." Then she proceeded to give us the tour of the town, pointing out the important landmarks. "Ca c'est la Loire...et voilà le marché. Is it open tomorrow? Yes, it's open tomorrow. Pedestrian zone, more pedestrian zone...And there's the Château d'Amboise. It's beautiful, no?" I oohed and ahhed enthusiastically as she pointed an elegant finger out the window. And then we had arrived, and I thanked them all as emphatically as I could, given my disheveled and travel-weary state. But seriously, thank heavens for the kindness of French strangers.

Once in the hotel, things did not go any better for my young companion, unfortunately. The address she was looking for was at the other end of town, and a call to the two (?) cabs in town revealed that both were finished for the night. "Well, it's not so far," the concierge back-tracked. It's just a bit complicated. Here, I'll show you on the map." He handed her the map. "Sorry I can't take you myself," he apologized, "but I'm here alone." I couldn't imagine sending this young girl out into the dark empty streets by herself, braces and all. I tried to put myself in her place, at her age, alone, lost in a foreign country, scared. I was sure there had been some misunderstanding, some communication breakdown in her plans somewhere. People don't just send kids that age off to another country by themselves without making sure there's someone waiting for them on the other end, even in Europe. I wanted desperately to help her, but I couldn't think of how. I was on the verge of saying, "I have a room here! You can stay with me for the night and then we'll find you a cab tomorrow." I contemplated whether this sounded as creepy as I thought it did, and decided that actually, it was creepier. And so I looked her in the eye and said, "Ca va?" She held my gaze with just the slightest bit of moisture in her eyes and said that yes, she would be fine. And off she went into the dark night, pink backpack on her back, dragging her suitcase behind her. And I spent the night worrying about her, wishing I had done more to help. Perhaps because she was the same age as my students will be, I felt responsible for her somehow. I hoped she was ok, that she had found her way, that there was someone waiting for her on the other end. Though this small, sleepy town seems fairly safe, I hoped something hadn't happened to her on the way. I didn't know if I would ever find out what happened to her, but I admired her for being a much tougher kid than I ever was, and I wished her the best.

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This morning while in the shower I heard a noise like an explosion, like a hollow bang, like far away rumbling thunder, followed by voices. Having no idea what it was, I somehow convinced myself that it was the maid opening the door of my room, loudly. But when I came out there was no one there. Had there really been anyone at all? I didn't think any more of it and went downstairs to breakfast. There was a gendarme in the lobby, talking to someone. Weird, I thought, but again, I didn't think much about it. Finally it all came together when an overexcited and chatty older lady came into the dining room to announce to the server, "It's too bad about that car out there!" She pointed towards the window. "And you know, I had a dream last night that there was a car in the hotel! And now look!" she said, obviously proud of herself. And then I understood that the sound I had heard wasn't a maid, or rolling thunder, or an explosion; it was the sound of a car crashing into the hotel.

So far, there's not been a dull moment in Amboise.

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Then this morning I was walking by the château, and in one of those absolutely unexpected and serendipitous moments, who did I see but the no longer lost young traveler. "Bonjour!" I called out. "Ca va?" She was fine, she said, and she had found the house she was looking for. Both her French and her English were halting, so we didn't get much farther than that, but I told her that I had been worried about her, and that I was glad she was ok.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, and there were fireworks last night at midnight, over the château. I could see them out my window, through the branches of a suddenly much under-appreciated tree.

France, France, oh what you do to me.

Why everything always looks brighter after a glass of wine or three

I'll be honest: my first day in Paris started off pretty crappy. I have too much luggage, through no fault of my own, since for once in my life I was actually a very responsible packer. But thanks to program requirements I'm carting around a laptop, various other wires, cords, and equipment, as well as approximately 29 pounds of student files and paperwork. Which, thanks to the "no wheels on luggage" stipulation, I am draping off of my lanky frame in the form of three quite heavy bags, and seriously, a wheeled bag would be heaven right now, and this is one time I'm kicking myself in the rear for being such a rules follower. Having finally navigated from the airport via the RER to my hostel, I dropped my bags in a disgusted heap in a storage closet and set of to kill about 4 hours before I could check in to my room. I left a voicemail with a friend who also happens to be traveling in Paris right now to try to meet up with her later, and then set out to find some money. I put my card in the first ATM machine I came to, and it spit it back out again. Interesting. I tried again. Nothing. But no problem, I moved along to the next ATM. This time it let me get all the way through the procedure, taunting me, before informing me that my bank does not allow this kind of transaction. What the...? Frantically I ran from bank to bank with the same same result. *Gulp.* My stomach was growling, I was tired and my feet hurt and I was becoming more anxious about this money situation by the minute. Luckily I had 4 Euros left over from a previous trip with me, which was just enough to stop into a cafe for a soul-restoring croissant and an espresso. After going on a wild goose chase looking for a bureau d'echange that was open on a Sunday I headed back to the hostel, getting lost on the way, of course, to ask for their advice. Head to St Michel, they said. If there is a bureau d'echange open, it will be there. This involved getting on the Metro, and not having enough centimes left for the trip, I could only hope the ticket machine accepted my xenophobic bank card. I tried it with one card. No dice. Then the other. "Carte muette," it said. But there was a guichet open. "Excuse me," I said to the woman, in French, bien sur, "but what does 'mute card' mean?"

"It mean's it's mute," she explained. "It means...it doesn't want to talk."

"Ahhh," I said.

"But here, I can do it here," she said. "You just have to come to the window." I bought a packet of 10 tickets in case my card continued to not feel like talking at inopportune times. I felt a little better. My bank card was xenophobic and my credit card had suddenly developed a debilitating case of shyness, but I had transportation, and I had arranged to meet my friend and her husband, who, if worst came to worst, would hopefully bail me out with some cash in the correct currency. Luckily it didn't come to that, as I right away found a bureau d'echange that was open, where I immediately cashed in the entire $250 advance on my salary for a depressingly small amount of Euros, and thank god for that advance because otherwise I would truly be up a creek. The echange guy thought I was Italian and threw in a couple extra Euros because I was "jeune et belle." God I love France.

Lodging for one night: 55 Euros
Carnet of 10 Metro tickets: 11.70 Euros
Not having to eat dinner alone in a foreign city: priceless

Why I'm ready now

Tra la la!

Why anticipation is the sweetest part

Accomodations have been arranged for me during the pre-trip scouting portion of my voyage, where my official duties include things like, "check out the local market and beaches. Plan a scavenger hunt." A little Google searching turned up the following:

My digs in Amboise:


































I'll be staying here in La Rochelle:














And here in Paris:



































I'm going to go ahead and assume that every room comes with this view. And this basket of bread and wine.

I'm getting just the teensiest bit excited.

Why I'm giving grad school the boot

It's been a while since we've had a good old-fashioned rant around here. And I'm feeling ranty. You know what I'm sick of, Internet?

I'm sick of my time not being my own. I'm sick of working constantly, days, evenings and weekends, seven days a week for eight or nine months out of the year.

I'm sick of people saying, "Oh, but you have summers off." I don't have summers off, because I don't get paid during the summer. So I have to go straight from end-of-semester, exam-taking, exam-grading, and term paper-writing hell, to cover letter-writing, resume-sending, job search-if-I-want-to-pay-my-rent-next-month hell, with not even a moment to take a deep breath in between. I'm sick of spending my summers working menial, low-paying, meaningless jobs. I'm sick of the all-or-nothing of brain overload during the school year versus the brain drought of working mindless monkey jobs during the summer.

I'm sick of trying to balance my teaching with my own studies, and feeling like I'm failing both my students and myself. I'm sick of the constant, never-ending stress. I'm sick of feeling like no matter how much I do, it's never enough.

I'm sick of being forced to devote myself to topics that are of no interest to me, while not being allowed the opportunity to pursue interests of my own, or the opportunity to find out if I even have interests of my own.

Grad school, you have taken away two years of my life and forced me to live in near-poverty. You have made me doubt myself, constantly wondering if I'm good enough, and you have contributed to the demise of a three year relationship. But you will not take anything more from me, grad school. For all these reasons and so many more, grad school, I'm quitting you. There's a whole wide world out there, and I want to explore it.

So long, grad school. It's been real, but for now, I choose myself, I choose my future, I choose travel, I choose France. I choose long walks and chocolate croissants and language barriers. I choose jet lag and lost luggage and and being all alone in a big city. I choose warm sunshine and cold drizzle, cobblestones and soft grass, Côte du Rhone and Stella Artois. I choose scandalous exchange rates, long train rides, and living out of a backpack, I choose buying baguettes that will never make it home with the end intact. I choose myself, I choose my future. I choose life.

Why I'm on top of the world, and fancy free

I feel the need to apologize to my readers for the lack of excitement around here lately. Oh, sure, there's France, and yes, that is fun to look forward to, but let's be serious. I know why you all come here, and it's not to hear me talk about my summer plans or criticize what passes for children's humor these days. You come here for the stories, ranging from the merely awkward to the excruciatingly horrifying, of my dating experiments and mis-adventures. Admit it. And lately I feel I have let you down, readers. Because, as I'm sure you've noticed, the last few months have been fairly light on the dating front. (Though I must be the only person in the world who can quit dating and still get rejected). I blame this on school and on the fact that the closer I get to leaving Boston forever, the less interested I am in making new friends, romantic or otherwise. So, it's likely you won't find any new, interesting dating stories here for a while. In the meantime though, there's plenty of horror in the archives to tide you over. Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

When a date gets hot and sweaty, and not in a good way

Of motorcycles and machismo

How to guarantee you won't get a second date

Miscommunication breakdown

A Thanksgiving day threesome goes thud

Wine, and a birthday surprise

Ahhh...good times, good times. And now, coming up on a year from when this whole crazy dating experiment started, I look back fondly and think...Wow, do I not want to do that again. And so, I'm done. I've threatened it before, but this time I really am done with dating. I even took down my Match and my Okcupid profiles today. I was worried that giving up dating altogether would leave me depressed, or bored out of my mind, but instead I'm feeling...well, I feel...

I feel a little like this, actually:



Woooooooooooooo!!!!!

And while I'm at it, I would just like to state for the record that when I return to the French Alps this summer, I would really like to recreate that moment, if at all possible. Because nothing makes up for the fact that you just climbed 2,000 vertical feet up a snowy mountain in your loafers and with no winter coat, because it's June, like sliding all the way back down that mountain with no winter coat, in your loafers. Also, nothing will make you hate your loafers more than hiking up and back down a snowy mountain in inappropriate footwear, leading you to wonder what the hell you were thinking bringing loafers to France anyway, god, and finally disposing of said loafers in a fit of rage in a hotel room trashcan in Aix.

And I never looked back.

Why 'working vacation' takes on a whole new meaning

Well, it looks like this is really happening, this France trip. (Even though they apparently called my references and bombarded them with questions a full five days after they had already offered me the job, and seriously? Protocol?) I have a train ticket booked from D.C. to North Carolina for a week's worth of training, and a plane ticket from North Carolina to France. And yesterday I received a package in the mail (yes! We get mail on Sundays here in Boston! Or you do if you forget to check it on Saturday...) with my Instructor Manual and my Academic Instructor Manual. Manuals which came with quite insistent instructions that we were to read and highlight and take notes, and that they would be collecting these manuals to make sure that they were read and highlighted and notated, and yes, there will be a quiz later. *Gulp.* And so I took a deep breath, and I read. And I read. And I read. And I underlined and took notes and then hyperventilated a little.

And suddenly my visions of skipping tra la la down the Champs Elysées disappeared, poof, in a cloud of Gauloises. Because this trip? This trip is going to be a hell of a lot of work. Just some of my duties will include daily phone calls to the home office, trip reports, and daily logs; keeping track of students' emergency money, travel home money, and advances; recordkeeping, ledger balancing, recording expenses, and tracking receipts; talking to parents and homestay families; upholding a zero tolerance drug, alcohol, tobacco, and sexual activity policy. (I signed up to be a French teacher and now all of a sudden I'm the sex police. I bet you can't put that on your resume). Then there are quotes, toasts, words of the day, team-building exercises, pep talks, rituals, reflection, round table discussions, LODs, FVCs, and DCSs, and people, I do not even know what most of these things are. Also in addition to my own five-plus weeks' worth of apparel, accessories and accoutrements, I will also be expected to carry, on my person, the following: students' passports, paperwork, medical records, and emergency cash; company-owned digital camera, company-owned laptop; a comprehensive and most likely quite large first-aid kit; instructor manual, academic manual, and daily quote book. (Daily quote book?!!!) And my question is, when can I expect to receive my personal company-provided scherpa?

But I'm sure all my questions will be answered during the weeklong training prior to departure. Just a light orientation session that takes place from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day. *Gulp.* On the plus side, they're letting me leave about a week early, which means I have time to visit mi amiga Molly in Madrid, which I am so excited about. I leave for NC on May 29. I leave for Paris on June 7, and for Madrid on June 9. I'll arrive back home sometime around July 18, exhausted, totally spent, but hopefully also really happy. Though after it's all said and done I may never travel again.

But then again...maybe I will.

Why I wish I had a clone, or at least a twin

So, before I got distracted by a whirlwind of birthday fun and end-of-semester paper writing, I believe I asked the Internet a question, yes? And it went a little something like, summer plans: France or Massachusetts? Of course it was a bit more complicated than that, and there were all sorts of variables and conditions and stipulations and it was all enough to make my head spin. Luckily my readers are a bit more level-headed than I and probably not apt to make flappy hand gestures or emit shrieks of terror when faced with a fairly straightforward a or b type decision. The final count was seven votes for French summer camp in Amherst, and four for study abroad trip to France, or five if you count one vote submitted by text message. (This isn't American Idol, Jamie, you may not text in your vote!) And really, I love my readers. And you know why I love my readers, readers? Because you perfectly represent the two sides of my personality; the one side that thinks bills and excellent experience and resume builder, and the other side that just wants to put on a striped shirt and a beret and go skipping tra la la down the Champs Elysées, because who needs money when you have Paris, baby??? You guys are kind of the angel and the devil on my shoulder, and did you know my sister actually has tattoos of an angel and a devil on her shoulders? Which is neither here nor there except that it kind of seemed to fit, and I probably never would have had a chance to bring it up otherwise. So anyway, I mulled, I considered, and I dwelled a little bit for good measure. But really, I had already made my decision. I mean, you want me to pay you to work? Indentured servitude, even indentured servitude in France, just doesn't float my hypothetical boat.

So, summer camp! Water balloon fights, popsicles and campfires. Skits and songs and...grammar exercises! Amherst it is!

Or...was.

The very next day I received a phone call from the France program. Just as I was opening my mouth to say thanks but no thanks, she dropped this bomb: Since the co-leader of the trip has a bit more time in her schedule, she has agreed to take the Wilderness First Responder training. (Sucker!) So I wouldn't have to. Which kind of threw me into a tailspin. And instead of saying, "Fantastic, I'll take it!" I said, "Oh, great! I'll...have to get back to you." I am not the type to flit back and forth between decisions; once I've made one I'm usually pretty firm on it, having already convinced myself of all the relative merits of the side I've landed on. Plus the timing of the Amherst program would allow me to go on a road trip in June with my friend Jamie, who is moving to Seattle, and yay, roadtrip!!!! And I've never been on a roadtrip out west before, or to Seattle, and I had pretty much already determined that this would without a doubt be The Summer of Rachel. Fancy free with no responsibilities, no bills, no rent to pay and a whole summer in front of me, and who knows if or when this will happen again?

But then the devil? angel? on my other shoulder started whispering in my ear, and it was just one word over and over. France. A month-long, all expenses paid trip to France. Granted, it wouldn't exactly be a vacation, in fact I was pretty sure it would end up feeling a whole lot like work by the end, but could I really turn it down? It would mean no road trip, and it would mean turning down another job that I really, really wanted. And instead of feeling so incredibly lucky that I actually had to choose between two amazing opportunities, I just wanted to pound my fists against the ground and cry like a baby because I wanted to do it all, dammit! But unless I can manage to clone myself in the next four weeks, there's no way to do both. And so I got a hold of myself. I looked at some pictures of previous France trips on the company's website. And then I saw this:

And, well...

A bientôt, baby.