Tired, cold, mad: bad combination

Just plain mad. I exited my apartment in a flurry with all kinds of bad French words in my head ready to hit the first person that gave me a bad look. Still the heat problem here, and today I was given a gas heater which when turned off, smokes. Lovely. It is ten thirty in the evening here, I wanted to go to bed, but the adrenaline from the conversation and the fumes that still linger even with the windows open are keeping me awake. So I fume, the wind whips through my apartment and well Merry Christmas to all of you.
It has been a little while since I have written I have been in kind of a funk lately. I am tired, frustrated not to be able to climb, so I am running. I didn’t realize how much I really don’t like it, but I have a race coming up in a few months so I have to put in the time. Laura is coming soon, followed by the Loya’s so all that will be really nice.
And in two days I leave for Barcelona to be with the Spanish assistant, her family and boyfriend and little baby, Martina. Just turned one. I promise that I will post pictures of this trip and write a little something as well.
Merry Christmas. Some I will see sooner than others…

Done

Well that is about it. One week in the life of an American in France. It was such a great exercise and it really made me think about every day and highlight one thing that was meaningful or stuck out to me. The literary part was fun as well, I would end up with two hundred words, and then have to shave them down to half sentences. I will definitely do more of it in the future, but for the moment, I think I am tired. Not tired of writing, just tired. Tuesdays are the long days, up at six thirty, and I am just now getting home, it is eleven. I ate at Jean Baptiste's apartment after climbing, well I taught them ultimate instead. He is coming to my place Thursday to have soup. Well here goes my first French soup called Pot-au-feu, it is considered a classic French dish. And yes, this is one hundred and sixty words.

2.12.07

The lights are up. Waves of yellow hang over the walking streets of Castres, signaling the Christmas season merriment. Maybe once or twice a week I go on a night walk. Nowhere in particuar, just to be out at night and see the city. Kids yelling outside McDonalds, a couple enjoying an after dinner stroll, the Domino’s delivery guy on a scooter. I happily talk to my parents for a bit, they don’t know it but they have called during church. I don’t have one here. Tonight I decide that the streets will be my sanctuary, a conversation with the Father the sermon. Reassurance is the message. Almost immediately as I pass the train station, there is a presence. Nothing said, just a calm and I am thankful. Thankful mostly for the people I know, the opportunity to be here; the fact that I am alone. It has taken almost ten weeks to be thankful for that, but I am.

1.12.07

I don’t like Paris much. Too big, dirty, impersonal, daunting, expensive. Toulouse however is another matter. I pulled myself out of bed at eight thirty, wanting to visit the Saturday market. I make the tour first to see what is there. Old men selling eggs and honey. Women selling pumpkins and clumps of garlic. All is sufficiently surveyed, I go back once more, hands out of my pea coat, ready to harvest for the week. Eggs, carrots, cabbage, a pre-made soup mélange, cheese. I ask for two I like, then ask him to propose something, highly recommended. An old cantal. Strong, breaks like parmesan. Running home with my treasures, Nico, David and Cecil are on the street. I am late. Today is a trip to Toulouse for wandering and presents. The city has rain. I can’t remember any of the sounds, only the feeling of contentment. Buying doesn’t entice, I go in on a Frisbee. Dinner for one at nine.