Feeling restless and vengeful tonight for numerous reasons. I promised myself that, in starting this blog, it would not turn into some sort of confessional distended epic poem—conveniently hung out to dry online for anyone to see. That stuff isn’t professional and it certainly isn’t very interesting. Suffice to say that I am un peu bouleversée this evening.
I used my angry energy to finally clear the apartment of the junk that last year’s assistants left behind in their wake. I cleared the kitchen of its extraneous pieces when I first arrived, so all that was left was everything else. In the laundry closet, which I never use and where most of the crud seems to have gravitated: a giant papier-mâché pinata horned head; Christmas ornaments and Joyeux Noël wrapping paper; a black vinyl handbag big enough to stuff a toddler into; an empty photo album; too many half-used candles and dead batteries to count; a broken floor lamp; two pairs of running shoes; and a mini step machine, still in its garish orange box, with a price tag reading “ASS 59,99.”
I didn’t exactly enjoy myself, but at least I now can say that I directed my anger towards a productive end on what has been an otherwise unproductive and frustrating day.
My initial culture shock has worn off, and since coming back from Christmas vacation, I feel I have passed through an essential phase of adjustment — one that I recognize from but never quite reconciled with on my three-month sojourn in Ireland in 2007. France no longer charms me as it used to. Gone is the “idea” of France that I nourished since my elementary-school-John-Lennon-glasses years. On the other hand, I appreciate this country much more than I did before living here. This may be the closest I’ve come to real love in my life—real love must mean coming to terms with one’s disillusionments and still finding desire and reason enough to continue.