Movers and Shakers

I'd just like to point out that "Ma Vie à Paris" (My Life in Paris), like so many other phrases in French, rhymes. What an excellent language.

Well, I'm pretty much packed and organized. I must give a big shout-out here: to "space bags" (sold for a surprisingly reasonable price at the Container Store). They may be the closest thing to a miracle that I've ever experienced, though it is a little strange to see your clothing compressed like astronaut food. Packing didn't take that long, with me pulling the contents of my room out onto the living room floor, mom getting down and dirty rolling clothes, and dad preparing coffee before taking his post on the couch, paper in hand, to offer tidbits of encouragement when mom and I arrived at a standstill (dad was pretty excited about the space bags, though).

I had allotted about 50 hours to packing, and since it only took about 5, I'm currently making up for that time by super-organizing: making lists, walking around the house straightening table centerpieces, aligning appliances in the kitchen, and rearranging the stack of books on my desk from largest to smallest. I ran into some problems with that last one -- if I ruled the world, or at least the publishing companies, all books would be the same proportions (lxw).

I really do enjoy the process of packing, though. It's an excuse to weed out all of your less-than-spectacular possessions without having to actually donate/throw anything away. And you have to admit, packing for a year deserves some thought. I'm actually bringing a lot of toiletries, since I hear they are more expensive in France, but mainly since I'm too set in my hygeine pattern to deal with a bunch of new products.

I remember when I moved into my house at Carnegie Mellon; despite going through several days/stages of packing for my first college experience, I still found about $400 worth of stuff for my parents to purchase at Target. I must have needed some shampoo or something. On the day of move-in, we were directed to Roselawn, where several Residential Assistants and Orientation Counselors lined up next to our rental car to quickly transport everything into the house (it was actually a pretty ingenious system). I was fine - thrilled, actually - to see a bunch of gangly upperclassmen (hey, this was CMU) carrying my baggage up the stairs, but I was terrified of what they would think when the trunk opened to reveal about 27 Target bags. The conspicuous consumption! The spoiled-rottenness of me! The environmental and ethical implications, to say the least!

No big, though. Looking back at some of my fellow "Tartans", I'm pretty sure they'd seen worse.

I'm not so sure I'll have 5 or 6 French guys carrying my bags all over the city, as I move from temporary housing to (I hope) a permanent one a couple weeks later. At least this time, my shampoo is in my suitcase.

Remembrance

Last week at the French Language Meetup in Houston, I sat next to a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Michael. Per my usual, I was initially dismayed to find myself chatting with a non-generation Y-er (though the "French gang," as they - the young Europeans and would-be Europeans who frequent the meetup -sometimes call themselves, generally work to uphold the stereotype of aloof chic. I was once introduced to a girl who pointed in my face and said "Polish?" "No...Czech, well, American..." I stammered, but she was already kissing the cheeks of the next person and pulling another aside for a little chat in the corner). So it's no surprise, really, that I somewhat-secretly preferred the safe, confident, but strangely unpretentious atmosphere of the adults who remained seated at the table, rather than restlessly mingling on the crowded patio. Michael, like many other "grown-ups" at La Madeleine, was intrigued by my forthcoming stay in Paris. Again like many other settled-down, married-with-kids francophones, he recalled his years spent abroad and gave me some fatherly-type advice for the months to come. The next Saturday was my last day at Hungry's. We were busy, for once, and in the middle of the rush I heard Tacho, another waiter, calling my name from across the restaurant. He was pointing down at the man seated at table D3, who in turn waved. I didn't realize it was Michael until I approached the table and he turned to say "Bonjour" (not the first time I've used the language with which someone addressed me to figure out where I knew him/her from). I had told Michael that I worked at Hungry's and that Saturday would be my last day. As we talked for a few seconds I noticed what I guessed was a book sitting wrapped on the table. As I turned to check on my tables, Michael offered it up. "My intuition tells me that you'll like this -- I hope you haven't read it," he said. I was shocked at the kind gesture and thanked Michael profusely as I slipped the book under my arm, where it attracted the curious glances of customers as they gave me their food orders. The book turned out to be "The Marble Faun" by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I haven't read it, but I did enjoy The Scarlet Letter in junior english, and Michael informed me, with twinkling eyes, that when it was first published, people visiting Italy actually used "The Marble Faun" as a travel guide. I'll have to dig in before my next trip to the land of warmth, wine, and pasta. That next Wednesday was my last at the French meetup (until I return from Paris, that is), and I looked around for Michael, who had told me he would be there as usual. Unfortunately, I couldn't find him to thank him once again for his thoughtfulness.
And now I never will. I found out yesterday evening that Michael was killed in an auto accident Saturday night. I experienced the somewhat random generosity of an almost-stranger on the morning of his last day on earth. From what I have since been told about Michael, it seems acts of kindness such as this would have been a part of any day for him.
Minutes after hearing of Michael's death, I learned that a former professor is pregnant with her first child. Life is truly a mixed bag -- upswings and free-falls. I do believe in fate, or at least in the series of events which have led me to this moment, writing to you (if anyone is out there) with t-minus 2 days 'til 11 months in Paris. I'm ready to learn why providence has pushed me there. Let's hope it's an upswing-kind-of-thing.