Anticipation

Because I was doing research at the University this summer instead of going to France with my family, my relatives teamed up to get me a plane ticket to go see them this winter.

It means that:

1. Grandmother The Cook will spoil me rotten and make me more food than I can eat. And I will eat all of it, because Mother will not be there to tell me that it's really not a good idea to eat three servings of apple beignets.

2. Tiny Grandmother will take me shopping in bookshops and teach me how to knit (again) and take me skiing (maybe) and make tarts with this autumn's preserves of rhubarb and coings.

3. Radio Grandfather will take me to his English Club's first meeting of the semester so he can brag about how well I speak English and take me to the celebration for his 60 years of amateur radio and show me how he can sort of use his computer now and ask for a lot of advice which he will promptly forget.

4. Grandfather Busy Bee will show me the latest extension he's built to the house and the new aviary I've been asking for since I was seven and play endless games of belote and shiftily try to cheat and pretend to look offended when we of course call him out.

5. Cousin Baby Bird won't be the baby bird I fed mushed peas to because she turned nine yesterday, but she will still take my hand and drag me to her secret fort and snuggle with me on the couch or play mommy.

6. Cousin Grand Loup will boast of his newest football victories and pick on his sister a little until mother makes him stop.

7. Aunt Raspberry will talk to me about science and research and my love life.

8. Godfather and I will have awkward conversations because our relationship has always been awkard.

9. Aunt and Uncle Ebay will make witty cracks and be slightly pushy and over-generous.

10. Gay Uncle will call me "ma puce" and "ma grande" and challenge me to checkers and petits chevaux and tell funny stories and about whichever Parisian wildlife he has recently adopted as a pet and then remember suddenly that I'm a lot older than he remembered and talk about how I could almost fit in his pocket when I was a baby.

10. Godmother will be the bustling, busy, wonderful woman she always is and take me shopping for purses and shoes and make cracks she thinks aren't that funny but really are side-splitting and maybe will get angry and yell a lot because she gets tired.

11. Bearded Uncle will be loud and ask me about my life and career and not really take me seriously and be a bit scary although he doesn't mean to be.

12. Eldest Cousin will be overbearing and a bit annoying and parading her new boyfriend.

13. Boy Cousin will be in Cold Country With Bears and Moose and Mounties.

14. Favorite Cousin and German Cousin might ignore me a bit because I don't wear makeup or watch TV shows or listen to top 40 music or party a lot.

15. Distant and Not-So-Distant Relatives Who Show Up To Family Gatherings will tell dirty jokes and drink a lot at the New Year's reveillon.

16. I will get to eat my first galette des Rois in six years, a real one, with frangipane and a fève and Grandmother The Cook will accidentally give me the slice with it because she knows it makes me happy.

17. There will be snow and fireplaces and a hot iron in my bed to warm up the sheets before bedtime.

18. Winter potatoes will be suitable for making pommes dauphine.

19. The hilltop tower in which Radio Grandfather and Tiny Grandmother live will be very windy and shake a bit windy.

20. Most of all, there will be family and lots, lots of love.

I'm leaving on the 27th, and I can't wait.

A Love Hate Mixed Feelings story

"18/20, Good work."

She hands the paper to the group of guys sitting in front of me. The class applauds, this was a difficult devoir.

"17.5, 17, 17, 16.5..." The grades go down steadily. Oh well, I wasn't expecting a stellar grade. I know I should have done the Algebra portion and she the Geometry, but we didn't think it through. Maybe we'd get a 13.

"12, 11.5..." I begin to sweat. As long as we made the moyenne...

"10, 9.5..." She still hasn't called our names. This is bad.

Finally, there is only one paper left. And she doesn't look happy.

"Mesdemoiselles X and Y, please come to the front of the class."

The walk to the blackboard seems endless. Eventually, we stand there, trembling and on the brink of tears, facing a now-silent classroom of knowing stares and an irate teacher.

A long silence. Then:

"Eight. Eight out of twenty. What in the world were you thinking, Miss Archduchess? I know that you are worth more than a 3/10 in Algebra. You should have looked over Miss X's work, if not done it yourself. Better yet, you should have worked it out together. Miss X, your Algebra is truly terrible. Miss Archduchess, your Geometry is not much better. I am appalled. Both of you. I want this paper signed by both of your parents, and I want a reworked copy on my desk next week. Class dismissed."



I should have known better. Really, I should have.

I'm terrible at math. And it took me until my senior year of high school to realize that.

I thought it was my best subject, but I should have noticed the pattern: when certain kinds of thinking were involved, it became obvious that I did not understand Math. Not in the least.

The first sign was a 6.5/20 on a Geometry test in 5th grade. The teacher put it down to my recent illness, and aside from some snickering, no one thought the worse of me. In eighth grade, there was The Paper. When I handed it to Father to sign, I received a resounding slap. In tenth grade, there was the 73 on the Matrices test.

And, finally, Calculus. An entire year of terrible grades, homework that made sense and exams that didn't, late night lessons with Father, and his constant disapproval and disappointment.

I'm terrible at Math, and I know it.

But I also figured out in seventh grade that an object fitting the requirements of Poincaré's Conjecture would be a hollow sphere in which the inside and outside surfaces were joined in the fourth dimension. I once received a 136/100 on an assignment because I found the problems so fascinating that I kept going and made my own. I received a perfect score on the national Calculus exam at the end of twelfth grade.

I can't help but shudder whenever Calculus is mentioned, but I would gladly take a Topology class if I had the opportunity, intend to take an entire semester's worth of Discrete Mathematics, and find myself looking at data of biological functions in terms of their derivatives and sometimes integrals.

Mathematics and I, we have a complicated relationship. I fear them, dread them, despair in the knowledge that in ignoring them I may be digging my scientific grave. On the other hand, the titles of Math books and classes appeal to me like a choir of sirens, delectable in their familiar yet strangely exotic names.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and the median of a non-isosceles triangle was staring me in the face, taunting me.

Pillow fight!

Tonight I did something I have been wanting to do for a very long time now: take part in a flash mob.

Now, there is a bridge in The City famous for its colony of Mexican free-tailed Bats. Every night during the summer, and for most of the year, people gather at sunset to watch the bats take off for the night. They sit on a little grassy hill, with pillows and blankets, with their families and sometimes a picnic.

We brought pillows to sit on and be comfortable. Apparently, many of the onlookers had decided to be as comfortable as possible, because there was an inordinate number of pillows.

The Sun continued on its journey downwards, and we settled down, slapping at the many bugs buzzing around, waiting for the bats to come out.

Except that, at 20:00 sharp, an altercation broke out. People started arguing, then hitting each other with their pillows. Soon, there was a massive pillow fight.

There were yells and screams and thuds everywhere. The dead and wounded lay everywhere on the ground.

Suddenly, at 20:04, we sat back down on our pillows, just in time to see the first of the bats come out. There were cheers and applause everywhere.

The bats poured out for ten minutes, twenty minutes.

We finally left. On the way to the car, we met several pillow carriers and shared a knowing smile and a wink with them.

And then went for ice cream.

Let's start at the beginning

For it is a very good place to start.

Packing, unpacking, repacking, losing things and finding them again, fitting them in the trunk of a very tiny car, carrying them up two flights of stairs, unpacking again, rearranging, sleeping, meeting with people, registering for classes, getting supplies, reading books, setting up University accounts, wondering where my roommate went, meeting with friends, taking a shower, discovering my roommate actually exists, finding classes, going to classes, telling friends about first day of class, missing friends who are not here, writing my little brother long emails.

I have been here, what, three days? And there are still so many things to do, to take care of, to see to.

I am, as always, and even more than last year, enjoying college. I love the dorm I am in. I love my quirky roommate. I love being able to spend so much time with my friends. I love the classes I am taking, even though I haven't been to all of them yet because classes started today. I love being back in the City.

Of course, not everything is rosy. I miss The Boy, I miss my family, I miss my little brother terribly. And, this year, I miss Beautiful Music Friend who is now going to Music School Very Far Away. I am dreading the beginning-of-school depression I suffer through every year no matter how well everything is going. Mother is still threatening to leave any minute, although Bro and Sis flat out refused to take the entrance exams she registered them for in an international school in France.

I shouldn't have listed the minuses after the pluses, but at least I saved the best for the last:

All of last week and then some, Girl In The Snow was here.

What does one say to a very dear friend whom one has not seen in five years? It doesn't matter. We recognized each other in an instant at the airport.

She is taller than me now, but her eyes, her hair, her face, even the way she twirls her hair when she is talking have remained the same.

She brought an album of all the pictures of her birthday parties when we were little and all the pictures of the trips we'd been on together. I had pictures of some trips and one of my birthdays. I didn't remember ever being so little as we were in the pictures, and I forgot some of the people who were there, but sitting down and looking at those pictures together was wonderful. We helped each other remember, people, places, and things, sitting together on the beach in Brittany, milking cows at a farm, the raclette dinner in the Alps, the mustachioed balloon and the pirate raid on the Musée National de la Marine.

At home, we talked about France. She told us about her school, Famous University With A Name That Sounds Like Sorbet. She told us about what had changed and what had remained the same in our neighborhood. She read at least half of my collection of French books.

Then, we took her places. We took her to see the City Back Home (or what little of it there is to see), the shops with their extravagant selections of everything, the cars with their extravagant sizes, shapes, and numbers, and the people, with their extravagant accents and bellies. We took her to Place Where The Alligators Roam, where birds abound, alligators bask, and giant spiders don't do much aside from spinning equally giant webs. We took her to Place Where Texas Was Born, then to the House Of The Last Texan President Which Happened To Also Be A White House, But Slightly Smaller Than The Other One. We took her to The City to tour campus and move my boxes in early to comply with University regulation. She met authentic Texans, ate authentic BBQ and burgers, listened to authentic country music, saw authentic armadillo roadkill, and was probably on the whole very disoriented. But she was happy.

She left Sunday morning, on a plane bound for Other City Where Presidents Live, to take part in a project restoring First President's garden to its historical conformation and search for artifacts.

I've talked to her since, and we can both tell that this time together, though short, has begun to fill the gap that naturally formed after such a long separation.

I'm very glad for it.

Little things

Lying on the still-warm driveway with Mom, Dad, and Bro looking for shooting stars.

Unpacking messy boxes and packing back up very neatly.

Organizing my bookshelf by alphabetical order.

Cleaning out my closet and finding old postcards and pictures.

A freshly rosined bow.

Comfortably cuddling with Bookish Friend and Beautiful Music Friend after not seeing them for two months.

Thinking up crazy costumes for a birthday party.

Bro affectionately calling me "booger brains" and knowing it really means "I love you"

The stash of French candy Sis brought back in her suitcase for us to share when Mom isn't looking.

Uncles who call me "ma puce".

Freshly roasted chicken.

The very flat toad in front of Very Smart Neighbor's mailbox.

New school supplies.

The excited ramblings of Childish Booksmart Friend and the triumphant laughter of Fiendishly Intelligent Friend.

Secondhand books.

Planning to pick up Girl In The Snow at the airport in three days.

Walking barefoot outside in the street.

Sitting on the back porch swatting mosquitoes and looking for shapes in the green tree leaves.

The last days of summer and the tenuous promise of visiting my mother in France this winter.

Audience

As I was waiting at the bus stop this morning, a construction crew was tearing up the sidewalk.

I watched.

A bulldozer lifted one end of the section, two and a half meters of solid concrete, on its end like a lever. One man placed a small chunk of concrete where the slab had been, and the engine dropped it back on top. It snapped cleanly into three smaller pieces.

I watched.

The dust was stirred. It reminded me of my grandfather, building things.

I watched.

He shoveled gravel and cement dust in the old bétonnière, connected to the tractor for power. The mixture inside turned and turned--sloshTHUMP, sloshTHUMP.

I watched.

He kneeled on the floor of the chicken coop, smearing the whitish paste with a flat mortarboard. Countless times, I had seen this gesture. When he tiled the kitchen floor. When he made the bathroom. When he transformed the back room into a bedroom. When he changed the potato room into a cellar. When he tore down the first chicken coop and replaced it with a second living room and yet another bedroom. When he built the pigeon volière I'd been asking for since I learned that birds could fly and decided they'd be happier there than in a small birdcage.

I wasn't allowed to touch, but I watched.

The woman was moving her arms over a dark sidewalk. Her hand held a piece of chalk. A drawing took shape. Before I could see what it was, my father pulled my arm and I had to move on.

I watched.

The men clad in yellow slickers threw dozens, hundreds of fish on the ice. In the early morning light, bids were under way for the night's catch, fresh out of the ocean. My five year old hand held on to my father's.

"Are you here to buy some fish?"
"No, she's just watching."

I watched.

The cook threw a handful of onions in the pan, waved his spatula around in one flowing movement and grabbed spoonfuls of several sauces and spices. He angled the wok down and there was flame all over. In one smooth wave of his hands, the fire had consumed itself and the dish was ready.

I watched.

A line of ants crept along the crack in the stairs. They walked along the stair all the way to the wall, disappearing into a crack. Their nest had obviously been disturbed, and they were in the process of moving out.

"Did you lose something?" Someone stops next to me, looking concerned.
"No, I'm just watching." I receive a strange look in return for my simple reply.

Still I watched.

The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training. The dogs and their owners went round and round in a circle, exercising various commands.

I watched.

The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training a second time.

I watched.

"Aren't you bored? I though you came because you felt like you had to, like my grandchildren did."
"No. I came because I like to watch."

I like to watch.

Watching doesn't take much, but watching well takes more concentration than doing nothing.

I am sad when the people I am with move too fast for me to watch. There are so many interesting things to see on the side. When I go to a festival or an exposition or a museum, I prefer to go by myself, although I do miss the company a bit. By myself, though, I can take the time to stop and watch. I can stay as long as I please, watching whatever I find.

Watching is interesting. Drawing a portrait, fishing off a dock, cooking a tart, cleaning a railway station, feeding a hippopotamus, carving leather, writing a letter, playing an instrument.

Everything is interesting. I don't know why more people stop and just watch.

Love bite

Beautiful teeth of gracefully carved wood gently bite, leaving a little purple bruise on my skin.

A manifold beauty of sight, sound, smell, and softness purrs beneath my hands as horse meets steel.

Ages collide. A ditty from long ago mingles with the curves of ancient wood, the blood of a faraway tree, and the hair of long-gone equine.

On the first day, it is painful. A raw spot. Gradually, it bruises, like the delicate skin of a blushing lover. I look at it from every angle, rubbing it, marveling at the texture.

I have grown to love it, this love bite, this badge of honor I had lost almost a year ago.

My music is beautiful. My violin is beautiful.

Next semester, I will study under a professor at the University, a professor with a soft voice and kind words and beautiful music. Under his guidance, I hope to learn what I never really did and finally become a real musician.

I am back, for real this time. I won't put you down again, you exquisite instrument. I won't let the music stop.

Pongal

Today was the celebration of Pongal, hosted by the Indian student association. On the plaza, they had set up tables with quantities of paper kites and food and loud Indian music.

One of the disadvantages to paper kites is that they tend to break easily. Fortunately, they also had a roll of duct tape to fix the kites, but they ran out quite fast. By the end of the day, my kite was torn to bits. In addition, only a few people succeeded in actually flying their kites (a couple of them went all the way to the top of the tower and even beyond the main building), but it was fun nonetheless. I ran around in circles to try to get mine in the air, but it kept crashing to the ground.

I liked the juxtaposition of the kite and the phrase.

Melodies

Three days a week, at exactly 13:00, the bells in the tower begin to play. For a quarter of an hour or more, the Man In The Tower graces us with melodies and music.

The University is accidentally arranged in such a way as to bend, stop, and reflect the sounds coming from the tower.

As you walk along, a cascade of music envelops you. It comes from the left, then the right, now behind and then in front.

You walk through the music and it follows you along, walking you to class.

Sometimes, before it gets too late, the Man will play at night.

Even when it's eight o'clock at night and I'm walking home after a tedious lab, even if he doesn't always hit the right notes, I'm always grateful for the Man In The Tower and his music.

My music

I was a musician.

Was, because I'm not sure that I am anymore.

I've played the violin for the past eight years. During those eight years, I have played nearly every day. In an orchestra, by myself, with a teacher. Every day.

When college started, it stopped.

No more orchestra. No more lessons. No more practice.

For the first two weeks, I faithfully trekked across campus to seek out an unoccupied practice room in the music building. I worked over and over on the last assignments my private teacher had given me before I left. I prepared audition music in the hopes that I'd be accepted in the University's non-music majors orchestra.

But I wasn't. I didn't make the cut. They didn't take me.

For another week or so, I kept on practicing, but halfheartedly, only every other day. Then once a week. Then I stopped. I didn't feel like walking a mile in the scorching Texas heat with my heavy case slung on my shoulder, to practice a music that no one would hear, no teacher would comment on, no one would correct and improve.

I've never done music by myself. I've always had a conductor to tell me what to play in class and a private teacher to make me work solo. My musical education is severely lacking. I didn't start with the right bases, never learned to memorize a piece, never structured my practice and my playing. I am utterly incapable of playing in front of a judge or an audience of any kind without fumbling, being terrified out of my wits, or bursting into tears. I am not the musician I should be after eight years.

I decided I couldn't keep this up by myself. So I stopped.

For four months, my beautiful violin lay in its case in a corner of my room, collecting dust. At first, I was ashamed and apologized to it every time my eyes wandered over to it. Then I tried to avoid it, hoping that the horrible feeling would go away if I pretended it wasn't there.

It didn't.



I finally started playing again tonight. And it was hard. Only four months of disuse has left me crippled. Yes, I can play. I can play the notes I learned almost a year ago, but I can only play them because I already know the music. I am not playing music, I am playing a recording. It isn't music if it's not coming from inside, and nothing has ever sounded so hollow as those etudes. My pride hurts. I thought I was too good for my violin, and was punished for it.

But I can't let it go. I can't go back to not playing.

I've decided that, since I can't get lessons from the University until next year, if at all, I will find a teacher elsewhere. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if I will find the time. But if I don't start again this semester, I never will.