My French Studio

I've been in the new place a month now, and I must say, my stress level has plummeted. I'm enjoying the new found freedoms of living on my own, the greatest of which is being back in the center of the action, Metz centre-ville.  I'm loving my workstation for painting, my two glorious windows which provide lovely natural light.  Outside, I step onto a beautiful medieval street, one of the oldest parts of the city.  Steps away are my favorite boulangerie, shopping, my other assistant friends and of course, my beloved Cathedral.  

Of course, the euphoria had hardly begun when darling France decided to throw yet another obstacle my way.  

A few days into my stay here, when the depression over the move was finally subsiding, I noticed mysterious bites appearing on my body, and as the weeks passed, they multiplied all over my arms, legs, and back.  Larger and more unbearable than mosquito bites, and curiously more numerous after a good night's sleep-- oh god, could it be?  A Google search quickly confirmed my worst fear: bedbugs (in French, punaises.)

The problem on its own was easily solved with a few chemical treatments of the room, but it seemed more terrible than it probably was since it was the latest in a succession of misfortunes to befall me in a short period of time. On second thought, no, it was pretty damn terrible even as an isolated incident!

At times, I liken France to the ultimate lover: beautiful, enveloping, and irresistible.  At the same time, she is aloof, out of my league, and delights in torturing me... It's like a game for her. Like a moth to the flame, I keep coming back for more, because the fact is, I love her so unconditionally, I would be honored to have her walk all over me for the rest of my life.  :-)

Joking aside, I wouldn't trade my experience in France for all the world.  The evolution of my strength of character, the friends I've made, my progression in the language, and the little unexpected details that pop up unexpectedly... all of this makes my life more complete.

I never would have imagined emerging from this devastating situation, but the fact is, I am enormously at peace now. It happened in a painful way, but each day that passes, I'm more and more convinced it's for the best. I may no longer have a view of the glorious cathedral, but now, I'm close enough to hear the bells.

I've converted the table into my art station.

The courtyard outside my window. 

Natural light in the evening has a lovely effect.

The Great Escape

While in Lourdes, I had managed to reserve myself a studio apartment by phone in the Metz centre-ville.

Now came the messy part: Extracting myself from the current apartment with as little confrontation as possible.  The idea of staying even one more night there was humiliating and intolerable to me.  The thought of a mere face-to-face conversation with her, her boyfriend, or her son caused my heart rate to quicken.  The last thing I wanted was to cry in front of her.  I would leave the same day as my arrival in Metz.  There was no other way.

After a sleepless overnight train from Lourdes to Paris, my anxiety began to mount on the brief ride from Paris to Metz. In my mind, I tried to retreat to the tranquility of Lourdes, but by the time the train arrived in Metz, I was sweating profusely.  I headed directly from the train station to the new apartment, where I dumped the contents of my suitcase, and of course paid my first bill for my studio.  Because I had to pay the first month's rent right away, plus the 200 Euro deposit, my paycheck for March was completely obliterated at the reception desk. Fighting back tears, I handed over my credit card, recalling my financial woes of only a few weeks ago.  Now that my rent is three times higher, what the hell was I going to do? 

After settling up at the reception desk, I caught a bus to the apartment I had called home since October.  

With a thudding heart, I climbed the stairs, and sighed with relief to find no one at home.  As quickly as possible, I carelessly hurled my belongings into my suitcases, racing up and down the three flights of stairs, stacking everything on the street level.  I hadn't realized how much I had accumulated in my time in France... books, shelving, art supplies, clothing, shoes... and of course my food in the pantry.  My hasty packing meant that I could fit less into my suitcases than normal.  I had to resort to filling garbage bags.  Seven or Eight trips later, I had evacuated my belongings.  I called a cab, requesting a large car to accommodate my things.  The entire time, my anxiety was affecting my breathing, I was positively petrified that she would return before I had finished.

I raced back upstairs one last time.  I scribbled out a note thanking her and her son for their kindness in taking me in, telling them that I would miss them, and that they could call me anytime.  I signed it with all my love... and then as an afterthought, left a tiny bottle of Lourdes water next to the note, along with my keys to the apartment.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done, taking the high road rather than expressing my hurt, my rage.  I could have sought revenge in a number of ways, quite easily, but even fantasizing about it made me feel queasy.  The spirit of Lourdes was inside of me, and to do anything less than honorable would have made my pilgrimage a lie. 

I kissed the cat goodbye, and left the apartment for the last time.

When I arrived downstairs, the cab driver had arrived in a station wagon.  He stared mournfully at the piles of things lined up on the sidewalk, and I apologized profusely and helped as much as I could. As we drove away, I sighed with relief, realizing I had gotten the worst over with, and had successfully avoided an encounter with her. Within minutes, we had unloaded my things in front of my new apartment building, and I was standing at the base of the stairwell, defeated, wondering how on earth I would survive the agonizing process of getting everything up three flights of stairs.  I couldn't lose momentum, I told myself, and trudged on, gasping and cursing up every step.  

I glanced at my watch.  I had arrived in Metz at 12:30pm.  It was now 3pm.  Impressive.  The confrontation I had feared was simply not to be.  I looked around my place.  I realized that this was my first apartment of my own.  No roommates.  No parents paying the bill.  It was small, but not without a certain charm.  There were two windows that filled the room with light.  A large table, which would be ideal for painting.  Lots of shelving and closet space... a desk, a bed... it was mine.  My own French apartment.  

I collapsed on the bed, overwhelmed by sleep deprivation and ragged emotions.  I thought I could finally breath a sigh of relief, but for some reason, all I could do was cry.  

Unexpected Obstacles

I've been blindsided by something I should have seen coming for over a month.  The only way to properly tell this story is to backtrack to the beginning of January, when I had just returned from my Christmas vacation in the states... 

Cue the flashback music and fog...

Hélène and I were preparing for a night out with her friends, when someone sounded the doorbell.  Thinking it was our friend, Yannick, who we'd been expecting to pick us up, I buzzed him up.  I opened the door to face Stéfan, her boyfriend, suitcase in hand.  He was trembling a bit. "Elle est toute nue," was all I could come up with, pointing to the bathroom door.  In my surprise to see him, I had just told Stéfan that Hélène was barenaked in the bathroom.  He stepped inside, closed the door, and they spoke in excited, hushed voices. When they exited the bathroom, I went in to finish my makeup.  Lying on the counter was his wedding ring. Now I understood, the ring, the suitcase.  He'd finally left his wife.  Transfixed, I stared at it, that simple gold band became the saddest thing I'd ever seen.  I imagined a wife tucking in her two daughters, holding back tears as she explained that Papa wouldn't be living at home any longer.

It had taken me awhile to understand the... intricacies... of their relationship.  I had asked too many questions, like "Why do you only see each other Friday afternoons? Why doesn't Stéfan go on your holiday to Tunisia with you? You're not planning to spend Christmas with him? Would you like to have a double date when Jim comes to visit me?"  Fed up with my naïve questions, Hélène finally revealed the truth, she had met the love of her life too young, and when they finally found one another again, he was married with two kids.  I supposed I was always programmed to automatically detest the "other woman," yet here I was living with her. I was her friend. I felt for her.  My perspective changed.  How could someone who had had the heart to take me in, who had shown me such kindness, truly be... bad? Not to say I agreed with her choices, but I was a supportive ear to her throughout, and did not judge.

Just as she had taken me into her home without a second thought, she prepared space in her closet for Stéfan's belongings.  In the space of three months, her household had grown from two to four inhabitants.  When she told me he'd be moving in with us, I had a sinking feeling inside. She asked me if it would bother me, and I assured her that it was fine, but within, I knew that the entire dynamic in the apartment was about to change. And change it did.  Nicolas's behavior plummeted, and Stéfan made no attempt to mask his disdain for his presence.  Hélène became a stranger to me. She was constantly occupied with Stéfan, whether it was arguing, cuddling, or discussing their new lives together.  The three started taking meals together.  I felt like an outsider.  I withdrew to my room often, because I felt uncomfortable, as though I was intruding on their new "family."  

I developed severe resentment toward Stéfan.  Now I had to wake up even earlier to have a prayer of getting into the bathroom before him.  I'd avert my eyes quickly if our paths crossed when he walked around in boxers, afraid he'd think I was checking him out.  Arrogant ass, he probably thought so anyway. He constantly mocked my accent whenever I spoke, causing me to become nearly mute in his presence.  He strode around with an air of entitlement, helped himself to my shelf in the fridge, walking into my room uninvited to check out the view of the cathedral.  He also took it upon himself to lecture Nicolas about his 'unacceptable behavior.'

Hélène seemed more anxious than ever.  She clearly would have preferred to have been able to openly date Stéfan as a normal couple after having to keep their relationship clandestine for over two years.  To go from hardly seeing him to living with him in a snap was taking its toll on her.  On our trip to the covered market, for the first time since knowing her, I watched Hélène purchase a gigantic slab of beef.  A self proclaimed disaster in the kitchen, Hélène normally only prepared very simple meals, but now Stéfan was here, and he demanded MEAT.  He did not help with the preparation or the cleanup of the meals, nor did he compliment the chef.

I digress. I could go on for hours about the discomfort of the past two months, but it simply doesn't matter.  The fact is, I was hiding inside my own home.  I was an outsider. Still, could I complain about the great location, cheap rent, and unlimited exposure to French language? Plus, the fact that she asked if I was okay with Stéfan's moving in implied that I was safe... right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to last week.  One of my best friends and I were three days into a two week whirlwind tour of five European countries. It was a dream trip we had been planning for years.  We had just enjoyed a fantastic day in Bruges when a text message from Hélène popped up.  "Hello Jamie, sorry to have to tell you this now, but you'll have to find a new place to live.  I need to recover your room as soon as possible. The sooner the better. Thank you. Have a nice vacation despite all."

I was already on an expensive trip I couldn't afford with tons of unforeseen expenses. I burst into tears.  I would never find another place with such affordable rent, and with the bulk of the trip ahead of me, I wondered if I should cancel and go back.  What really struck me was the cold tone of the text message. Why notify me by text, and why tell me when I'm on vacation, powerless to do something about it?  Trembling, I called her immediately, despite the obscene charges on my cell phone. I began in French, but after a few shaky sentences, I had to switch to English.  Over and over again, I asked her what I did wrong and apologized for whatever it was.

She remained completely expressionless, and quietly replied that there were too many people in the apartment now, that she needed to focus on her new life, and that it was too much for her.  It was so unlike her to be so cold, so heartless, that I wonder if Stéfan might have been sitting beside her as she received my phone call.  She said that there was a chance that Stéfan's children would be staying in the apartment as well, and that the situation was too stressful.  

Needless to say, the prospect of not knowing where I would live and if I would have enough money cast a shadow over the rest of my trip with Genna.  Not only the physical problem of housing, but the emotional aspect of knowing that I would not be seeing my supposed best friend in France, her lovely parents, her friends, and most of all, her son, Nicolas, again. To just disappear out of their lives like this, made me feel so... divorced.   

Genna was clearly distressed by my reaction to this situation, which she had a right to be. After all, she had spent a great deal on this extravagant trip as well, and my tearful anxiety attack definitely put a damper on it for her, and probably sparked one of her own. But at the end of the trip, she knew where she'd be living, she had a reliable income, she would go back to the states where she had loved ones around her.  What would I be returning to?  I tried to keep the pain and panic inside, for fear of upsetting her more.  But she definitely noticed when I became quiet and withdrawn for extended periods of time, or when I snapped.  Overall, I resolved to make the trip as enjoyable as possible, and succeeded most of the time, but I cried into my pillow every night, yearning to be able to talk about it with someone.  Limited contact with Jim and my family made me feel that much more alone.  

Just a few days earlier, I had wanted desperately to renew my contract for another year, but suddenly I've lost the will to stay in France altogether.  I know the actions of one person don't represent the will of an entire country, but I feel as though France herself has rejected me.  

So much for my "Miracle in the Cathedral." I guess the circumstances of our meeting weren't miraculous at all.  Visions flash through my mind of our weekend with her parents in the countryside, our long walks, our movie nights, the Christmas markets in Germany, our intimate conversations over Belgian beer, our shopping trips... it's over, our little international family.  I'm confounded. I don't get it. 

I'm feeling more alone than ever.

Packing chaos

This is a bird's eye view of the chaos that is my bedroom at the moment, due to my efforts at packing for France. What you don't see is the mess that spills into the hallway.  I've concluded that one suitcase will simply not be enough to move across the ocean for nearly a year. Some stuff I definitely need has been packed, and then there's the vast majority of of my belongings that litters every horizontal surface... trapped in Traveler's Limbo. To pack, or not to pack?

Interesting how the condition of this room mirrors my current state of mind: confused, scattered, and overextended.  By this logic, my anxiety should be dissolved as soon as this mess is.  My mission today is to conquer this lawless cave of doom, and emerge composed, self-assured, and completely undaunted by this new life that awaits me in two weeks.  To think, my troubles can be over in a matter of hours.  

I think I'll take a nap first.