Two innocuous words that when used together have the ability to put the brain into complete spiral.
Well, this is my fourth attempt at a blog post. I have been thwarted at every turn. Twice, the wifi cut out in the middle of me writing…once my piece was lost due to my own error in closing the window, and then the second time it was saved, but alas the moment of inspiration was lost.
When I create, whether painting or writing, I tend to work until the piece is done. I will go back and edit or modify a painting at a later time of course, but the initial genesis always comes out in its first iteration in one sitting. So I have a few posts now sitting in construction, and I will attempt to come back to them, but for now I am surging forward.
It has been a hard week with a few emotionally dramatic scenarios occurring. They are not my stories to tell, but they have been dramatic and traumatic. I think Roo will allow me to say that he was mugged. He is physically ok, but mentally quite shaken. A guy accosted him at the skate park (about 2.5km from our apt) and tried to take Roo’s drink off him. Roo stood his ground and then the man followed him into the skate park course and started to point and pull at Roo’s knee and elbow pads. Roo had the good sense to leave the park, but unfortunately the guy followed him…keeping out of sight. When Roo opened his cross body bag to retrieve his key card to enter the building, the guy sprang on him as Roo was closing the door behind him.
The guy grabbed him by the scruff and thrust his hand into Roo’s open bag and made off with some cash. He couldn’t steal the whole bag as it was attached to Roo so that’s at least a consolation. The loss of money was little consequence compared to the awful feeling of violation Roo felt being accosted in our own front lobby. So that has very much eroded his sense of safety and well being. And it’s really unfortunate because Roo was just starting to feel at ease, making small circles from our apartment to get familiar with the area. Our neighbourhood is very safe and it’s just very unfortunate that this crime of the skate park followed him home.
Roo’s courage and resilience has impressed me no end and I am pleased and relieved to see him recovering. This incident has however lessened his love of this city, and he is struggling with not wanting to remain here. This is a familiar predicament for me because I was an exchange student to Venezuela and I had some exceedingly traumatic events occur and I was desperate to leave. I didn’t disclose to my parents the full extent of what had happened so they didn’t know what I was dealing with, and insisted I stay. My mom grew up in the Middle East and a day where bullets didn’t ruin the family’s good sheets while they were drying on the line, was a victory. My mom is made of tough stuff and I know wanted me to grow from my challenges of living abroad.
But do I think leaving Venezuela would have been the right choice for me? I do. I stopped going to school in Venezuela because I was harassed there by the boys, and I turned to exercise as a means to cope. I lived in a tiny gated community of about 6 houses in the mountains and we had a shared driveway that was about 1 km long at about a 40% incline. So I sprinted up it. Again, and again and again. I also found a gym I could go to and feel safe and so I worked out. Class after class after class. When I arrived back in Canada I was wiry and lean (and absolutely totally mentally wrung out.)
My physical prowess inadvertently put me in perfect condition to hit my next chapter of life which was starting in the Canadian Navy as a Fighter Pilot trainee. I arrived being able to surpass all the physical fitness standards set for (women and for) men. I could do chin ups for days and as the smallest person was always the ‘marker’ when we formed up. (The marker was the one around whom everyone else had to keep the proper distance so the squad stayed in perfect formation while in motion. It was kind of a thing of beauty to be honest, but I was often shrieked at to slow the pace while we ran for miles as one.) So perhaps the challenges of South America prepped me well for military life, but Rupert is not training for military forces and he is also only 12. So we are working our way through finding what will feel like the right path forward for him.
Regardless of what we all decide is the right choice for Roo, I know this experience of living in Paris (regardless of the length of time) will inform him for the rest of his life….and I don’t just mean the being mugged part. That was an unfortunate experience but there have already been soooo many good ones. So it’s a matter of finding the balance of how many good ones we pack into his bucket before he returns home to Victoria.
As I sit writing this, my hair is in a wild mess on top of my head. We are now at day 3 without hot water and feeling like I’m back in the military, on a multi-day field exercise where personal hygiene isn’t a priority. But I have to take a moment and let off some steam, and say, ” ummm, WTF?!…last I checked I am living in PARIS….one of the largest metropolitan cities in the ‘modern’ world. Why on God’s (still mostly…) green earth is it taking 2-3 days to get a part for a boiler in a building that has just been gutted to the studs?! ”
This is a rhetorical question, because in France in this situation one just shrugs one’s shoulders and simultaneously exhales whilst also saying ‘Ufffffttt….’ and trailing off. I mean honestly I would expect this from some enchantingly quaint town in rural Italy, but not in the freaking centre of freaking Paris. Sorry there is a lot of ‘freaking’ happening here, and let me just say that I’m actually toning it down.
I wrote about the challenges of the French bureaucracy….I accidentally typed that as ‘bureaucrazy’ and really, no spelling mistake could be more apropos. In order for us to ‘validate’ Georgia’s student visa we need to pay a small ‘administrative’ fee and present her visa and passport to our local city hall. In order to pay the aforementioned admin fee, however, we need to have a French bank card or credit card to pay. Those are the only two accepted forms of payment.
I am now about a month and a half into the process of getting a bank account. I’ve given them copies of everything under the sun, I even have my IBAN number AND have given them 800 Euros to open the account. I felt like I was just about there, but do you think I can get the bank to give me the bank card to be able to access my bank account?! Absolutely not! That appears to be a whole different thing. I’ve been to the bank four times. They now know me there. They actually KNOW my first and last name just by seeing me. At least I have that going for me, except they just shake their heads and give me the French ‘uffffttt’ about where my bank card is. Apparently they are waiting from authorization from the heavens. God, if you are listening….I know you have WAY bigger fish to fry….world peace, starvation, environmental peril, the ill and the suffering…..they all take priority, and I want them to, but…..I just kind of really need that bank card in order to get some $hit done down here in the earthly realm.
I’m not one to watch many movies, but lately I’ve just needed to escape into some kind of feel-good screen therapy. My latest drug of choice was a delightful little movie called ‘Letters to Juliet’. I am most certainly NOT recommending it because I don’t want to hear from anyone who says it’s a cheesy giant cliche. Maybe it is, but it offered a little bit of welcome happy magic to me as I feel like I’m floundering in a french quagmire of challenge.
Letters to Juliet is the story of a young girl played by the absolutely gorgeous Amanda Seyfried who stumbles upon ‘the secretaries of Juliet’ who are the Veronese women hired by the city to reply to all the letters written to the famous Juliet Capulet. In a lovely twist of fate involving her ill-suited fiance, she ends up replying to an overlooked letter from 50 years ago and setting off a chain of events that leads to the search of one woman’s unrequited love.
The story is a beautiful adventure through the most absolutely stunning Tuscan countryside. It is everywhere I would like to be right now. And it gives me pause.
When I was looking at being an exchange student all those years ago, I had wanted to go to Australia, but my mom insisted I go somewhere where I would learn a different language and expand my cultural awareness. So I went to Venezuela.
When Georgia was applying to design schools, it’s no secret that I thought the ‘right’ choice for her was the Design Academy in Eindhoven in Holland. But when she got the nod from Paris, everything else faded to black. She was determined to be here, and I wanted HER to make her own decisions. But I also didn’t think it would be a great idea for her to hit Paris alone. After all, Paris is a big city, with the propensity for danger. ( #MuggingMuch ?! ) So I wanted to accompany her and ease in the transition.
I’m not sure I’ve succeeded thus far with easing much, however. I think my frustration with most things French hasn’t been very easy for her (or Roo) to endure. And maybe it was a mistake to think I could handle the chaos of all things big city-ish nevermind, en Francais. Big cities and I are not bosom buddies. I question my sanity in being here every time I head to the gym to out-run my thoughts and to enjoy the gym’s wonderful peace and quiet.
I was on the treadmill the other day and my favorite Prince song came on. I couldn’t believe the flood of memories the song brought back. These must be some of the best song lyrics I know. (I know I don’t get out much, but the whole ‘Trojans/horses’ analogy is still as amazing now as it was all those years ago.) I was close to Rupert’s age when the Purple Rain album came out. My beloved aunties bought me the cassette for my birthday and I played it non-stop on my waterproof bright yellow Sony Walkman.
Anyway, with one thing and another I find myself daydreaming about the ‘what if’s’. And if Roo and I happen to disappear, I can tell you where to find us. I will have found us a bright orange Ferrari California and we will be racing through the rural Italian countryside in search of the next best olive oil, with Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” blaring in the offensive way in which only North Americans are capable.
