Success Tastes like Banana Pie.

On Fridays I usually go spend some time with the California girls. Their mom, Marianne, has quickly become my best friend here, and one of my all-time role models. Her life has been filled with dramatic adventures, like putting herself through law school, moving to the US and learning English fluently, starting her own business here (with her husband of course), and raising 3 amazing girls. Somehow she does all this with grace, extreme patience, beauty...and with a level head on her shoulders. On top of all this, she is an INCREDIBLE cook, and lucky for me she has offered to teach me a thing or two :-)

The first thing we tackled was a banana pie, all made from scratch. I wish we could have filmed our time in the kitchen that day, because it was just a hilarious cliche. I was such a clumsy mess that at one point, ALL the girls, even 6 year old Marie, were at my side trying to give pointers. Apparently in French schools, they teach you to cook as early as elementary school...the way they introduce fractions is with a cake recipe!

Anyway it was the best thing I've ever tasted and it was one of the best moments of my life.

"Do you need help??"

LOL 

Ok so not the most beautiful looking pie...but mmm was it good! Marie's touch was the little random squares on top haha.

After that, the weekend was for Charlotte, Richard's niece, who turned 2. I can't really explain how I felt about the chaos that is a 2 year old's birthday party. All I can say is that when we got back, I required immediate skype-therapy from my loved ones back in the US. Children are scary!  

Then...amazingly this week...I worked!!! My American friend Erin got like six new jobs all at the same time and started giving me her left-overs. Twice this week, I spent 6 hours a day teaching English to this rich German man who owns a beach clothing chain and some restaruants. I snuck a few pictures of his apartment...complete with a pool in the living room...to show everyone how amazing it is if you're rich.

Then today, Richard arranged for me to go out on a whale watching boat ride! It was lead by Stefan, our scuba dive guy (and the only person I feel safe enough to go into this shark-infested ocean with!) We didn't end up seeing any whales...but we followed a pod of dolphins for a while and it was amazing. They apparently like to surf the waves, and they also travel in big groups. It was pretty amusing to watch...every time a wave started forming, I'd look inside it and see like 7 dolphins just under the surface, coming straight for us! Then suddenly they are on the other side of the boat, doing flips and somersaults...one dolphin jumped up and did some kind of crazy double back flip...I awarded him ten points. It felt SO GOOD to be out in the sun, riding the waves. It makes you feel so small...especially when you look out away from the island and you just see waves...until at some point far far away, they turn into the bottom of the sky. After that, we saw a giant turtle, and then did some snorkeling. For some reason, Stefan chose to snorkel at the beach by my house...the one that has a red flag with a shark on it that means no swimming. I believe it might be the beach with the most shark attacks on the island. But the visibilty was incredible and I still have all my arms and legs so we're good.

dolphins!

Ok so maybe it isn't so scary to imagine settling down here, after all.

My name is Jen, and I'm additcted to dramatic leaping.

If I were an animal, I'd have to say that I'd be a flying squirrel. A flying squirrel does not actually have the ability to fly...but instead, it glides from tree to tree. Which means every time it leaps, there is a possibility that it could miss something and fall to its death. I have to admit, I am addicted to that feeling right before you take a leap. For me, it usually happens at the airport, after you check in and you're about to go through security. You say goodbye to whomever you're leaving, and your heart starts racing because you know in just a little while, you'll be airborne...and what happens after is a big exciting question mark. It's all very dramatic. The adventure. The thrill. The adrenaline. I swear, it's so addicting. And I guess that's why I keep moving cities/states/countries every couple years when I get bored or when stuff stops being fun.

woohooo

Ever since I was little, the only other thing that has ever given me that same high as traveling and risk taking, is acting. It enables you to connect with humanity by physically putting yourself through (someone else's) life-changing experiences...it's intoxicating. The word "drama" has recently become this ugly thing with negative connotations, as in: "I think you need the drama in your life," a phrase I've been told (and offended by) multiple times. Lately, though...I've been thinking that it's true. But why is that such a bad thing? Drama doesn't have to be synonymous with crazy ex-girlfriends, crying yourself to sleep every night over a guy, and constantly running away. In fact, the word "drama" came from a Greek word meaning "action." And yes, I do want action in my life. All the world's a stage, right? I never ended up pursing acting in a serious way...so instead of acting as a career, I just happen to be starring in the movie of my life. Aren't we all doing that anyway? Aren't we all actors? I just prefer my movie to be a little more...exciting...is all. And have multiple exotic locations.

I disagree. Why no drama?!?! Drama makes you feel alive. It is a first kiss under the stars, driving across the country in pursuit of love, and leaping off rocks hand in hand into the sea. I think the word everyone is searching for is simply "Negativity."

I'm fully aware that my gliding from tree to tree days are numbered. There is an emotional crisis gathering in my head, reminding me that I'm approaching 30, I want kids and a family, and oh yeah...for the first time in arguably my whole life, I'm in a good relationship with a normal guy who I love and respect, who loves me and wants to be with me. None of these things scream "drama." The story that played out getting us to this point was amazing and crazy and worth a couple Oscars maybe. But after? The part where he works late and I'm learning to cook and iron? It's dawning on me that it's the first time my life has been without action, without drama...without something I'm working to achieve. There is no end point to work towards now. This is it, this is happily ever after. And my emotional crisis is asking me if I'll I be able to be happy like this...normal, without my addiction to the leap. Do I have commitment issues? Is normal life going to be enough for me? I want and need it to be. But already, I'm freaking out. I've never been without a job this long before. My day is filled with reading, teaching myself stuff I've wanted to learn, taking walks by the beach and not worrying about anything. My boyfriend works a lot, but every second we are together he focuses everything on us, and he treats me like a Princess. I know it's crazy...but all of this perfection and normality is really starting to stress me out!

How do you measure success when there's no more hurdles to overcome, like surviving your time in the Army, or finishing your college degree, or getting a promotion? When you have everything (important) that you've always wanted? I have no idea what to do with myself after I wake up, and I struggle with the guilt of not having to go to work. I know, I know, you're probably shaking your head right now and thinking "Wow, your life is so horrible...that must be nice!" And it is! And I'm so sincerely thankful for everything--I promise you I am. I'm just...kind of worried that my inner flying squirrel might end up trying to sabotage it.

So, now what? I really wish I knew...

Housewife Adventures

It has been my experience that in America, people of our generation no longer care if you have domestic skills. In fact, I would even go as far as to say that it is fashionable, even kind of like a proud act of feminism, to be the exact opposite of a 50's housewife. I mostly attribute this to Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City, who used her oven to store old issues of Vogue. I am gathering that this is not how it is in France. I have been randomly informed, multiple times and by multiple people, that there is a French proverb that says something about a woman who can cook is a woman who you can marry. 

Since I have lots of time on my hands, since Richard works 10+ hours a day (very un-French), and since my source of money is currently his credit card...I decided it would be nice if I could help out around the house. 

As with all other projects I have tackled in my life, I decided to dive right in. I spent one entire day while I was sick in bed online, looking up recipes to try and writing down ingredients. Like a good little French girl, I went to the market the next day and collected all the things I needed. When I actually got to the cooking part though, is when all the trouble started. I was so happy to be finding good, easy recipes in English that I forgot to think about the fact they are in American measurements, and everything here is in metric. Also, it was then that I realized that Richard has absolutely nothing to measure with. Nor does he have things like pots and pans. Anyway, I did what I could with what I had, and surprisingly my chicken piccata was not too shabby. (Thanks Pinterest! And adding loads of butter for no reason!) I made a giant list of things that would make my domestic life easier, and I waited all day on Friday for Richard to take me to one of the big Walmart-like stores after work. I was so excited!!! 

When we finally got there, I gleefully ran through the store like a little kid, straight to the cooking section. I scanned the shelves for a cookie sheet. Then I scanned again. I saw a lot of things I have never seen in my life, but I saw no cookie sheets. I also did not see any normal cake pans (only pans for Fancy french cakes,) cupcake pans (WTF is a Madeline?! It was the closest thing to a cupcake pan, but still not what I wanted,) or measuring tools (except for one dumb cup that supposedly had all the measurements on it, but turns out that it doesn't.) I was broken-hearted. I looked sadly at my long list of things that would make my life easier...if I lived in America. Richard put his arm around me and I hung my head as we walked towards the door.

On the way out, a man selling fancy cheese calls us over. A few swift movements of his ninja-like sword A.K.A. giant cheese knife, and we were tasting the "Best Comte in the World," which was accompanied with the "Best Ham in the World." I believe it really might be the best ham in the world, because the hunk of thigh or whatever part it was that he was slicing off of, cost about $1,000. Maybe the pigs were fed a strictly gold-laced grass diet. Anyway, we left not even minutes later with $100 worth of cheese and ham. Richard was really happy. Sigh. Only in France...

These are the things I learned from this experience: 

1. I am not a person with natural abilities in the kitchen. When I cook, it is pretty much an all day event...from finding a recipe that I need to follow word by word, then going to the market (since I can't drive, it is a 20 minute walk one way), and then converting the measurements of every. line. of the recipe...maybe one day it will get easier? 

2. There is no actual "Walmart-like" haven in Reunion Island. There are big stores that have slightly more than the little stores, but there is no one place that you can go to for everything. If you have specific needs, it is much more like a treasure hunt. You have to find the one place on the island that carries what you want. (Cookie sheets DO exist here!) Then you have to pay 3x the price you would pay for it in the States. 

3. If you can't find something that you want...this includes clothes, Mexican food, spices, pickles, or soft pretzels...you will have to figure out how to make it yourself. 

4. I also have no idea how to iron Richard's important work clothes. I will probably be spending all day on YouTube after I post this blog trying to figure it out.

The End.

(P.S. I tried to end this post with a picture of a young girl who was both fashionable AND a house wife, but appartently that doesn't exist. Yet.)

Getting to Know the In-Laws...

This past week I spent a lot of time in the south at Richard's family's house.

The first two days I was there without Richard, since he works in the north. I was terrified. 

His family has always been very nice to me, but there was definitely a thick cloud of awkward in the room with us every Sunday when everybody would gather together for lunch. They would speak to each other in either Creole or super-high-speed French, and I would sit at the table in silence, eating and drinking a little too much, since I had no way to contribute to the conversation. Any time I tried to stumble my way through nervous small talk, I ended up just utterly embarrassed. And constantly, in the back of my mind, I wondered with some jealousy how families in Réunion can be so much closer than families in America. 

My first Sunday back I was dreading going over there, because they all knew about what happened this summer; how I broke Richard's heart and told him I no longer wanted to come back to the island to be with him. But instead, something cool happened. His sister, Aurelie, pulled me aside after lunch and said "Listen. I know what you had to decide wasn't easy. I just didn't realize you were having such a hard time here before! I stay at home with the kids, so I have nowhere to be during the day. What do you like to do? How about I pick you up this week and we hang out?" I was thrilled!! We spent the whole next Tuesday together, talking about everything under the sun and hanging out with the kids. In that one day, everything changed. I entered a new level of knowledge...about her, their family, and Richard. That surface image I had of them...this perfect, untouchable family who all come together on Sundays for lunch, actually had a history! With problems! With hurt feelings and mistakes! I immediately loved them all that much more. 

Aurelie and Cristof's kids; Arthur and Charlotte

Charlotte likes to steal my sunglasses. 

That night, Richard's mom invited me to go to her---get this--- country line dancing class!

I have never been country line dancing, so it only seemed too perfect that I would learn this sort of thing here, in Reunion Island, in French, after living in Texas for the last five years. However, I was pretty panicky about spending time alone with Richard's mom--easily the most intimidating person I've ever met. She's very nice, the perfect hostess...but quiet and strict...serious about everything. Anyway I decided to be brave and go for it. What's the worst that can happen? I'm not gonna lie, the drive there was pretty awkward. She brought me an apple because I was hungry, so I just dorkily munched on this apple in the dark, neither of us really saying anything. We didn't have to...the apple was doing all the talking. Oh my God why was it so loud?!?! 

I was easily the youngest person there by like 20 years. But it didn't matter. We learned the Celtic Cajun Country Dance (I promise it's a real thing, you can youtube it!) and I was profusely thanking my "Dancing for the Actor" college professor for preparing me to quickly learn dance moves. I breezed through the dance perfectly, as did Mrs. Serveaux. It was the first time I really saw her open up and laugh. Since that night, she's been starting conversations with me (this is a shocking first) about dance and reviewing the steps. It brought us to a new level, as well.

Next door to the parents, in a small, very old Creole house, lives Richard's Grandma and Grandpa. They are definitely of another era, and they prefer to live the old way. Richard and I took Aurelie's kids there this weekend, since they have a large backyard full of animals. Cows, sheep, baby goats, and a healthy amount of chickens were having a little farm party, so we went to go join. The interior of the house reminded me of Charlie and the Chocolate factory. Grandma, who seemed to be sick and must not weigh more than 30 pounds, was sitting up in bed covered in blankets. Richard explained to me that she doesn't know what an American is...so he just told her that I come from a country far far away. I didn't know what to expect. I kissed her cheeks and said hello. Richard said "Grandma, this is my girlfriend." Grandma looks at me, then turns to Richard and says in a slow, shakey voice, "she's not fat." Richard laughs softly. "No, no, she's not..." And that's all that Grandma had to say. I guess it wasn't the worst review I've recieved in my life...

The kids were restless and they were tugging at me to take them back to the animals. We saw Grandpa on the way out...dressed in a totally cliché French cab driver hat, he was cooking some ground corn in an old pot over a fire. He offered us home-made fried pig intestines to snack on. Oh yum! Grandpa started speaking Creole to me, but luckily I deciphered enough of the French in it to understand his questions. He wanted to talk to me about Obama and Clinton. I guess he knew a little bit more about America than Grandma did :-)

Immigrant Beginnings

I have no concept of time. Have I been here for two weeks, or three now? Everything is a blur of blue ocean waters, palm trees in the breeze, and feeling content.

The backyard at Richard's parent's house.

My afternoon jogging route.

People stopped at the side of the road to watch the whales go by.

I'm here on a tourist visa (which means legally I can stay in France for 90 days, then I gotta leave the country) until November 18th, because everything happened so last minute and because getting a legitimate French visa is really an art form, very difficult to learn. Also, this "tourist" time was supposed to be me trying on island life to see if it fit me...with an easy out--an already paid ticket home--if it didn't. I know I have like two months to go, but I think by now, you and I both know I'll be moving here at the start of the new year. So that means something else...these three months have morphed into my little head-start to becoming an Immigrant. 

Richard signed me up for driving classes. I don't even know how to describe the horrors of driving here. The cars are tiny and all are manual transmission, something I tried only once-- in one of my nightmares. Driving is dangerous enough for me in an automatic car, why do people need to add a billion new steps to making the car go?!!? My first lesson consisted of me attempting to get it in first gear. This only happened 30% of the time. In addition to learning stick shift... nothing is the same. The signs are all different, the roads are all different; they have theses really confusing roundabouts EVERYWHERE instead of lights and regular roads. And of course, they are all on some insane incline, so when I stall the dumb car out at the entrance to the roundabout, it takes me like 20 minutes to gather enough courage to start up again, knowing I will be rolling backwards into the line of angry cars beeping behind me. Despite the fact that the two way roads are the same size as one of our LANES back at home, AND they constantly curve dangerously around mountains, everyone loves to go like 110 kilometers/hour. I don't know what that means in miles, (It's probably like 40 or something that makes me look dumb) but it feels entirely too fast considering if you crash, you will probably fall off the mountain and die. Then, there's the wildlife. Can someone tell me why there are always chickens in the road? Why aren't they gated in someone's farm? If it's not the chickens, it's feral dogs that jump out of nowhere, sit in front of your car, and start yelling at everyone. There's also bikers and motorcycles cutting you off to get ahead, construction traffic complete with guys guiding you directly into oncoming cars who had no clue you were coming, and don't even get me started on the parking. I haven't even tried to tackle it yet, since I failed my driving test in the States due to parallel parking...the ONLY kind of parking they have here. Driving on this island is like playing a video game...one I am definitely losing. 

This image strikes fear into my heart. 

I still don't know what this stuff means. Also, you can't see it when you're driving because the steering wheel is blocking it all. 

Terrifying Roundabouts. Seems so easy on paper...

This is a two way road...

My face is like this for the entire hour of driving lessons.

Immigrants also need to do a few other basic things, like study the host language, (my French classes start later this month, and as for Creole...well, I'm trying...) find a job, (ok so legally I can't work on a tourist visa, but we are setting things up for work with a private English Academy when I come back in January...) and create a home. (Richard's bachelor pad now has a washing machine, food in the fridge, and an iron!! His mom also sends me home every Sunday with some recipes. I think it's a hint.) On top of that, I found an Immigrant friend~~an American girl named Erin, who married a French guy and moved here with him last October. She knows pretty much everything there is to know about becoming a French girl. Although she has not tackled the driving issue here yet. She's leaving that little obstacle up to me...