Radical February

One of my professors at school is incredibly stylish. If you imagine the stereotype of a French or Italian man dressed to the 9's, even with a scarf and awesome shoes...that would be my prof. Every day he comes in looking like he belongs in a magazine. Every day I come in looking...well, not like I belong in a magazine. I wear my Converse tennis shoes to class most days. But every once in awhile I change it up. One particular day, I wore my favorite heels, and he noticed, then complimented them and said I should wear heels every day.

That same day, one of my classmates asked if I wanted to eat out for lunch. I pondered for a moment how to respond. I really wanted to spend time with her, but I didn't want to spend the money to eat out. The best way that I have found to live sacrificially during this Radical year is to make a budget, a menu, and then stick to both when I go grocery shopping. I'd already bought my lunch food for the week and hadn't budgeted to eat out.

I explained that I couldn't eat out with her, but I would love for her to come eat a meal with me, since I'd already bought food for the week. She asked why I don't eat out, and so with a quick prayer for grace, I explained why I am participating in the Radical Experiment. At first, she stared at me like I was crazy, and then she said, "The thing is, I can tell you are not crazy or an extremist. You obviously don't starve yourself. You wear nice clothes...look at those shoes! So you're telling me that you simply buy what is necessary and give the rest away?

Who knew that the decision to wear those shoes on that day instead of my Converse would give a little bit of credit to what I had to say about giving money to the poor?!

I explained that I don't give the rest away, but yes, a big portion of it. She then stated that she didn't believe that an individual person could do that much to impact poverty. I said, "You're right...one person can't. But I believe in God, and that HE can impact poverty through many individuals like me." I then showed her my Compassion child's picture (that I carry in my wallet), and that I may not be impacting all the poverty in the world...but I hope I am impacting Fanose, and not just by giving her money but writing her letters and praying for her.

The Catalan stood silently in wonder at all of this. She didn't believe in God, and admitted that she didn't take time to think about the poor or anyone but her own interests. She'd had an opinion that people who believe in God and try to live their lives "according to a religion" were either hypocrites, idiots, or something worse. But that day, dressed in my nice shoes while carrying a picture of an orphan who I give money to in my wallet...I appeared sane, intelligent, caring, real, and balanced. Not extreme, as it'd first sounded when I began to explain why I couldn't eat out with her...but it was as if I was normal and she was not.

Well, I'll be. I never expected my shoes to have that great an impact, and I never expected my Radical year to touch an atheist Catalan that I only had class with for four days...

Marché

One of my favorite things to do in France is to go to the market. I love the social interaction and real lifeness of it. The vendors are usually so friendly and fun to talk to. It's a great place to practice language (like THIS TIME) and culture (like THIS TIME) and have sweet little moments that help me remember why I love living here (like THIS TIME).

For the last five or six months, I haven't been able to go to the market while in Bes, because I had class during the hours it was open. So sad. Well, one day last month, a teacher interrupted our class in a bit of a panic. She explained that she'd sent her beginner's level class off to the market with a scavenger hunt list of things to find in order to learn vocabulary...and had lost two of her students in the process. (It was a little amusing that she was so worried about two students who don't speak French being lost in Bes...it's such a small little town, surrounded by a river, and the school is on the river. Most of us figured her "lost" students weren't lost, but in a café, which is what most of us do when our teachers send us out with a "speak to people on the street" assignment.)

The Brazilian's eyes lit up and she asked if our class could go to the market one day for class too. Teacher thought for a minute, (after all, we already know all our vocabulary words that one would learn at the market), and decided she could still make a lesson out of it. So for my last day of class at the school...we went shopping.

We wandered around for a bit, and then suddenly I saw some large eggs. They were the biggest eggs I've ever seen in my life! We asked the vendor what kind of eggs they were, but she responded with a word I didn't know. (So much for "we already know all our vocabulary words that one would learn at the market"...!) The Brazilian understood, and of course Prof understood, and they began asking the woman all sorts of questions of how to prepare the eggs and what to serve with them...the whole while I was listening in hoping for a clue that help me figure out what kind of egg it was. After five minutes, I was still lost.

I whispered to Prof that I still didn't understand what kind of egg it was. She said the word again, and feeling a little ashamed at how clueless I was being at the moment, explained that I didn't know what that word meant. You know the song, "I just haven't met you yet" by Michael Buble? Language is sort of like that...you can't know/understand a word that you haven't learned yet. (I got that analogy from a fellow classmate at school...)

The wheels quickly turned in Prof's head as she tried to decide whether to explain a description of the bird until I figured it out, or to just cheat and tell me the English word. For once, she went with the easier option and said, "Goose!"

Goose eggs! Oh! Then I was able to explain that a goose egg means zero in English, or a big bump on your head. It's amazing all you can say when you know a simple vocabulary word. So...before notpoems asks, goose in French is une oie. Prof bought two eggs to make into an omelet. I didn't buy any since I was having dinner at a friend's house that night and leaving for Marseille the next day...but if I ever see them again, I will certainly buy one so I can know what a goose egg omelet tastes like!

I also saw two typical French eats: frog legs and escargot.

For more photos from the market, click HERE.

The French bane of my existence: Prepositions!

The other day in class I was retelling the Toilet Bowl story. When I tried to say "in Hawaii," the professor corrected my preposition.

I said, "En Hawaï," and she corrected me that it was, "à Hawaï."

"à" is usually used with cities, not states or countries, and so I chewed on that preposition all weekend. When I returned to class today, and she corrected me again by saying, "En Alabama," I paused, and asked if we could return to the "à Hawaï." I understand "en Alabama, " but I don't understand why the preposition changes to "à" for Hawaii.

She said, "Because we use 'à' for islands. Therefore, it's as though you are saying, 'on the island of Hawaii.'"

"But I wasn't saying 'on the island of Hawaii.' I was saying, 'in the state of Hawaii.' Hawaii is a state that is an archipelago. One of the islands is named Hawaii as well, but I wasn't talking about that island. I was talking about the island of Oahu, but really...just about the state in general."

Prof states, "Oh, well, since it's an archipelago, it's better to say, 'in the archipelago of the Hawaiian islands..."

So I went from having to remember that it's "à Hawaï," to "dans l'île d'Hawaï" to "dans l'archipel des Iles hawaïennes." Note to self: Quit asking for clarification on prepositions!

Eat Mor Chikin!

The Comté cows have been wearing sandwhich boards lately telling us to "eat mor chikin." And since Chick-fil-A is CSI's all-time favorite place to eat, I decided to get on the internet and find out to make "chikin." You can find anything on the internet!

I found the recipe for chick-fil-a chicken HERE.

I found the recipe for chick-fil-a sauce HERE.

Here's the final product. CSI said that it tasted pretty close. I think the recipe used a little too much salt, and not quite enough powdered sugar. I changed it up for the second batch and thought it tasted better.

My first attempt at fried chikin.
Here is one happy CSI licking the whisk after I'd made the chick-fil-a sauce. It was fun times in Bes tonight!

Now I just need to figure out how to make waffle fries...

The Toilet Bowl

My family lived in Hawaii for a few years while I was in college, and I would go there for Christmas and summer breaks. (Rough life, huh?) When in you live on Oahu, Waikiki is not the beach to go to, unless you just love hanging out with all the tourists. For awhile, I really enjoyed going to Hanauma Bay, because of the Toilet Bowl.

The Toilet Bowl is a six-ish-foot deep hole in the rocks where the current washes in and out of every few seconds, filling the hole with water and then emptying itself again. Depending on the force of the tide, it can "flush" rapidly and forcefully, which can be fun...or dangerous. Here's a video clip I found on youtube to show you what it looks like.

One day, the tide became stronger than I could handle, and I got pulled under water, rumbled around in the current, and couldn't find which was up in order to put my feet down in the sand. Another wave came before I got straightened out, and with that one, I was pushed down under the curve of the rock. With the next wave, I was able to get air, but the rocks were too smooth down there to get a handle to pull myself out. I felt trapped and scared.

A big Hawaiian guy who was in the Bowl at the time saw what was happening and reached down to save me. He grabbed me by one of my upper arms and literally flung me up over the rocks as if I was a doll. (And compared to him, I was!) But again, those rocks were slick, and the waves were coming fast, and I accidently slid back in...unfortunately right back into the hole I'd be stuck in before. He grabbed me once more, threw me hard over the top of the Bowl, and growled at me, "DON'T get back in!!!"

Believe me, mister, I didn't want to! My swimming wasn't strong enough to handle the waves of the current that day, and my skinny little college body wasn't big enough to pull myself out. I needed that big Hawaiin guy to rescue me. But I was smart enough to listen to him and walk away once he'd pulled me out from the hole and thrown me over the rock to safety.

Life lately has reminded me a bit of that scene at the Toilet Bowl. Every day at school is one wave after another, hitting me with such force and speed, that I feel the adrenaline rush of fear and excitement. Some moments are fun and thrilling. Other moments feel like I'm drowning under a rock. Honestly, most days I don't feel like my faith is strong enough to handle swimming in this particular bowl.

Every morning starts with the Lord pulling me out of the drowning hole and placing my feet up on the solid rock of safety. He doesn't fling me, nor does He growl at me not to get back in. Instead, He teaches me how to swim better.

I have to admit that I am not very graceful right now. My faith looks (to me, anyway), like I'm flailing my arms in every direction, kicking my fins like a 4 year old who has just figured out how to use the paddle board, and keeping my eyes clutched shut for fear that water will get in them. Anything I learn during my quiet time each morning seems to wash out to sea with the first wave at school.

My mean classmate shoots her hate darts at me, and I forget to love.

My teacher makes stereotype jokes at my expense, and I forget to be humble.

My Muslim classmates push Islam and I forget to be patient.

This week, I had just about had it and wanted to call whoever I needed to call to say, "I'm done. I'm getting out of this Toilet Bowl (school). I'm getting off this island (Besançon), and I'm going back to my comfort zone (Marseille)." The Lord reminded me of something.

He is patient with us.

He's in it with us.

He rescues us when we are drowning and cry out for help.

He doesn't mind that my swimming doesn't look pretty right now. The point is that I keep getting back in the water every day to bravely face those waves.

I'm hoping they'll buffer off some of the dross and I'll come out as smooth as those rocks in Hanauma Bay.

"But He knows the way that I take; when He has tested me, I will come forth as gold." Job 23:10

All the characters at school

As you may have picked up from my previous posts, there are quite a few characters at school. And with my penchant for giving people nicknames...CSI and I have assembled a pretty funny character list.

Crazy Glasses Lady: We are not calling her crazy. We are calling her glasses crazy. They are coke-bottles...and those thick lenses are tinted a dark blue. And she wears the same dark blue sweater every single day to match her glasses. I exaggerate not.

Broken Wrist Ballerina: I haven't called him this in awhile, actually. But my handsome professor of last month, despite having some very masculine traits and being happily married and the father of a very cute little boy... has an extremely limp wrist. And he chassés all over the classroom, enough that I would sometimes get a little motion-sick just watching him. But he's so awesome that I began to not notice any of that and the title of Broken Wrist Ballerina fell out of practice.

Le Whack: He used to be called Luc the Librarian. Then I found out that he's not a librarian, but the computer techie guy. And his name isn't Luc but Loîc. (It actually has a different accent over the 'i', but I can't find that particular accent on my French keyboard, so we're going with the circumflex. You wouldn't have known if I hadn't told you...) The accent trema on the 'i' makes you pronounce both vowels separately instead of blending them together to make a "wah" sound. CSI likes the "wah" sound. In fact, she fell in love with the word for 'far away,' which is 'loin de' because she wants to pronounce it "Le Wanda" with some serious sass. So, when she found out that Luc the Librarian is actually Loîc the Techie, she asked if we could call him Le Whack. And thus he became.

Snow White: An American student at the school who pretty much looks like a modern day Snow White. Her hair is the prettiest jet black, and her skin is all peaches and cream white. She really is beautiful. I expect to birds to fly in the window to help her conjugate her verbs.

The Chad Guy: You've already met him, actually. He's the guy who hoped I was from Jamaica. His name isn't Chad. He's FROM Chad.

The next few nicknames aren't really original or interesting, we just call people by where they're from...since they're the few who are not Arab.

The Catalan: You guessed it, she's from Catalan.

The Venezuelans: There's two of them, and they're always together.

The Canadian: He refuses to speak to me in English, and it's a little weird to me, outside of class, to just speak French with a native English speaker. So I don't talk to him much.

The Brazilian: She's the one who appeared to hate me because I'm American, but she's been much nicer lately.

Gris Cat: "Gris" means grey in French. The first day I met him, he had walked up when I was speaking in Arabic with some of the girls. Right after the Chad Guy interrupted us girls to ask if I was from Jamaica, Gris Cat very hopefully asked if I was Muslim. First I disappointed the Chad Guy for not being from Jamaica, then I disappointed Gris Cat for not being Muslim. Double fail. Anyway...a few days later, Gris Cat saw CSI in the elevator and commented about her being my friend. Then, he kept insisting that she has a grey cat. She kept assuring him that she does not have a grey cat. Somewhere along the line, we franglais'd (French/English combo) his name into Gris Cat.

All the Mohammeds, oh the Mohammeds.

Starey Mohammed: He's fresh off the boat from his country, and has apparently never seen a white, blonde woman in person before. He stares at CSI non-stop.

Seven Mohammed: (Actually, "sept," which means 7) I don't know why he got that number, cause I think he was only number 2 or 3 to come along, but somewhere along the line, he got dubbed 7.

Young Mohammed: You guessed it. He's young.

Old Mohammed: You guessed it. He's "old." (So says the 23-year old CSI.)

Then there are all the Fahads, the Khaleds, the Shaymas, the Imans, along with Abu Baker, Maktab, Musab, Ahmed, Ali, Ahtman, Walid, and Yassir.

Shockingly, there are no Fatimas or Khadijas. I don't know how that happened.

Small funny life moments

Life has been producing some small amusements lately, and I've been posting most of them on Facebook...but for those of you not on Facebook, and for documenting life, I want to put them here.

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Fellow schoolmate: Where are you from?
Me: America.
Fellow schoolmate (completely serious and amazed): Jamaica?!
Me (picturing my white skin, blue eyes, and light hair): No, sorry. The United States of America.
Fellow schoolmate (clearly disappointed): Oh.

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CSI discovered that many of my favorite things in life begin with the letter B: balconies, brick walls, books, bagels, blogging, backgammon, boys, Besançon, bleu cheese, blankets, bracelets, bacon, blackberries, boots, babies, and the Bible.

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February 2nd was the Fête of the Chandeleur (or Candle Celebration). I didn't know that the French had a day set aside to celebrate my family! "If Candlemas Day is clear and bright, / winter will have another bite. / If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain, / winter is gone and will not come again." The celebration was originally to celebrate Jesus being presented at the Temple 40 days after His birth (and thus, candles being lit to celebrate)...but it has turned into a groundhog type day of seeing if winter will continue and eating crepes to celebrate. Even still, I was able to make many French people laugh with my declaration that the French were actually celebrating me and my family on the day of the Chandeleur.

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My grey hair is bizarre. It is contained to just the front half of my head--there's a distinct line from one ear, over the crown, to the other ear...and all the grey hair is in front of that line. Not only that, but I have this one solid streak (I call it the Tunisia streak, because it definitely popped out while I was there) that is about a half inch wide, and can be hidden when I part my hair on one side. The streak is kinda cool, though, because it looks like I did it on purpose.

So one day, CSI and I were looking at the bizarreness in the mirror, and she exclaimed, "It looks really cool! Have you ever seen the Graduate?" I stopped her and said, "Look, Missy 23-year-old, if you are about to compare me to Mrs. Robinson, you better watch yourself. I do not wish to be likened to an icon of middle-age seduction." She did it anyway. Told me my streaks look like Mrs. Robinson's. She insists that it was a compliment, that she was telling me I look like a movie star. I told her she could have said Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffanies instead.

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I was expecting a package from my mom. One particularly lousy day after language school, CSI and I walked into the hotel. The front desk girl, who knew I was expecting a package, grabs a clearly-American package and walks towards us...and then says to me, "Not for you." And hands it to CSI. I was so disappointed it was laughable. My package arrived the next day, and I got a chance later that week to practice using the word "the next day" to tell this story in French. And oh! My Auburn National Champs t-shirt (a surprise) was in the package...which made it an even more awesome package than expected. Thanks again Mom!

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In language class yesterday, there were two particularly awesome cross-cultural moments. First, we'd listened to a song that mentioned the French identification card, which for American, is the equivalent of our driver's license. It's a plastic card with picture, important info, and is used to prove that you are who you say you are. When Prof pulled out his to show us, everyone followed suit to pull out theirs. It was the first time at this school that the class got so rowdy that the Prof couldn't get us to hush. It was awesome to see that (1) all of us, no matter our nationality, had a little plastic card, (2) that the cards really did seem similar, again, no matter the nationality and (3) how fascinated we all were with each other's cards.

Then, for an exercise in using the imperative tense (do this, do that), he chose me and the other English speaker to be "artists," and we had to make a living replicate of a famous French painting by telling our classmates how and where to stand. After we'd successfully gotten the class to recreate a live version of one of my favorite paintings, seen below, someone started to take a picture. One of the Arabs who was "in" the painting jumped up as if on fire and yelled, "No! No! No!" Not because, as some Muslims have a problem with being in photos because it's an 'image', but because he didn't want the photo to be posted on Facebook. The whole class erupted in laughter...because, again, no matter our nationality, we all have Facebook

accounts and none of us want embarrassing photos posted for our friends to see.

Radical January

Honestly, January didn't feel Radical. It felt hard. By the end of the month, I was asking God for a do-over. I started the month off sick. Then the Chef and his wife left suddenly for the US, and by the end of the month I was missing them. Tunisia fell apart and then so did Egypt. Language school was rough and I felt like I wasn't making any progress at all in language. Every single day felt like a day where I was walking this road of life alone with no one to encourage me to press on, my language teachers only correcting me and never acknowledging the times I got it right, and my whole class treating me like I'm an idiot for my faith and the way I live my life. Emotionally, it was just a rough month.

I didn't pray through Operation World, but prayed for Tunisia and Egypt instead. Speaking of which, click HERE for a great way to pray for Egypt, if you're feeling at lost of how in that area.

In regards to spending and giving sacrificially...this month was interesting.

1. The beginning of the twice-a-year-only SALES in France began. It's 1 of 2 times a year (the other being July-August) when things are affordable here. Stuff gets crazy-marked-down. Clothes for under 10 euros. I mean, crazy. But for the first time in my whole living-in-France existence...I didn't go. I didn't participate. I just held back. Because I don't need anything right now. I may be tired of all my clothes, and they may be wearing out a bit, and it may be the best stewardship of my money to shop for clothes NOW if I needed them...but I don't need them. So I didn't go. And I'll confess--it was hard.

What was hardest was fighting jealousy of those who could shop. Fighting bitterness against other believers who God doesn't seem to be challenging with this Radical experiment the way He is me. Why am I being asked to not buy even one thing for myself during these sales, so I can give that money away, while other believers get to shop all they want? That same attitude carried over into other areas of my heart: Why does God answer others' prayers, but doesn't seem to even hear mine?

Whiny, I know. Just being transparent here, folks.

2. The other way that spending and giving sacrificially this month was interesting is that, other than the sales, this month was EASY. I made a menu each week, then created a grocery list according to the menu, gave myself a budget...and voila! I spent exactly what I'd budgeted--or less--and ended up with actually a bunch left over at the end of the month. Incredibly easy. Who knew making a menu, shopping list, and a budget would simplify my life so much?

The rest of Radical...I read my Bible daily. I'm still memorizing Ephesians. I'm still watching sermons online. I only went to church twice...eek (skipped because I was sick once and exhausted from French the other time). Again, just didn't feel like a very Radical month.

But perhaps a stale month in a year of 12 months isn't so bad...habits are still being formed, mentalities changed, and perseverance built. But here's hoping that February doesn't make me long for a do-over.