Escaping to the English countryside or on Starship Voyager

Several weeks ago, I received a copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice in the mail from my sister J. It is one of my favorite stories and I greatly admire Austen's wit and intelligence. I finished the book rather too quickly, and, having created an appetite for a food wholly unavailable in Guadeloupe, I sought nourishment online. I was lucky to find Andrew Davies' 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice in its entirety on Youtube. But I did not expect the cache of English-lit-as-costume-drama available. Ever since, I have been indulging in the genteel notions, the charming dialogue, the silly bonneted women...

I have always been extremely fond of costume drama, especially the more recent BBC productions. But I do suspect that my current preoccupation is also some form of escape. It is easy to fret too much. Having gone over and over again the same fears and worries, I believe that I have worn actual grooves into my brain. Nothing like a trip to Meryton (or Barton Park, or Cranford, etc.) to break the habit and to put some distance and perspective in place. It does remind me, however, of another time in my life where I found escape in costumed characters in a non-existent world...

It began with an unexplained rash that developed on my grandmother's skin. It was probably the result of the summer heat and her polyester wardrobe, but she insisted on having an ambulance come and bring her to the hospital. I wonder now whether or not my grandmother had begun the whole thing out of caprice on a slow summer Sunday. That supposedly unbearable rash would disappear on its own during the hours-long wait in the ER. What was wrong, the doctor said, was not her skin, but her blood pressure; She would be kept for observation. And then, as if prompted by the sickness and dying in the hospital beds around her, my grandmother's health deteriorated rapidly. I am inclined to believe that this collapse came from fear - that fear which secretly inhabits the heart of every old person, where a unimportant trip to the hospital sends them to their death. The details of her sudden and unexpected decline are now confused with subsequent hospital stays. But I do remember that within a very short while, she was unconscious and intubated in the ICU. I remember walking home from the hospital that first day, wailing loudly. Unemployed that summer, I sat with her throughout her hospitalization, keeping her company when she was still conscious, monitoring the comings and goings of personnel when she was not. I spent hours keeping watch over her softly breathing body. It had been my first experience with dying. Perhaps dying is not the right word, as my grandmother survived for another two years. But I had never before given death such solemn attention.

Then, at night, while my parents and sisters slept soundly, I would sit up to watch syndicated episodes of Star Trek: Voyager. My sister S. had been a faithful fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation in the 90's and I had watched with her; therefore my like of Voyager was not wholly spontaneous. Still, I had never shown more than a glancing interest in any of the Star Trek series before that summer, and yet suddenly I was an avid watcher. I found I could not go to bed without having seen that night's episode.



It begins with the opening sequence - the clarion horns, the powerful drums - whose uplifting notes soared. The show was, for the most part, very predictable. There was a certain percentage of drama, and a slightly smaller (but no less significant) percentage of comedy. There was often a moral, or at the very least a discussion of some ethical ideal. And in every episode, a good dose of sexuality, often offered up in the body-hugging uniform of one Seven of Nine. Star Trek Voyager's greatest attribute was that there it reflect my reality in the least. Talaxians? Warp cores? The entire show seemed uniquely crafted for escape.

Television shows that emphasize the necessity of phasers or bonnets, and those who watch them, often seem to elicit the contempt of those with more mainstream tastes. Those who would lose themselves in non-existent worlds are clearly out of touch with reality. But sometimes, that is exactly what's required.

To Begin Again

Write. Write poetry, - write in rhyme, - if it is only "One, two, Buckle my shoe, Three, four, Open the door." Form the habit. It is often convenient. It is a refuge from ennui. It may do good. Any one of you who refrains from writing for fear of ridicule, is a coward. Don't be a coward ... If your heart is stirred within you to write, write! (1)

I have been avoiding this blog since I came back to Guadeloupe after a summer in New York. I had come back with a new determination to succeed...

You see, I have no intrinsic need to write. I have not filled notebooks with first poems or scraps of a novel. It took me over a decade to fill half the pages of a journal. Instead, I write to satisfy a need. As I wrote some months ago, "Blogging is a way of saying, I exist! ... It is an outlet for my creative and intellectual energies, which otherwise would surely wither and die inside of me, making me very sick." In that same post, even as I was affirming my need to write, I foretold its end: a more complete and satisfying life would eventually supplant that need.

Not writing, then, became a proxy for that more complete and satisfying life. Eager to succeed in that goal, I got ahead of myself and choose not to pick up writing again. Its a distraction, I told myself. Truthfully, not to write was a blunt demonstration of will. But, who was I fooling? I would have gone on fooling myself if I had not come across Hamilton's words in Elaine Showalter's book "A Jury of Her Peers: American Women Writers from Anne Bradstreet to Annie Proulx" (2), a literary history of American women writers. It is difficult not to feel moved by womens' early struggles to express themselves through writing. I may enjoy privileges and rights that were only imaginable to Hamilton and her fellow women writers, but I find myself in a situation where I am bound by similar constraints and where 'emotional needs and frustrations drive me to the pen'.

I am still determined. Really, I have no choice. But there is a place for writing in my life and I do myself a disservice to hasten its obsolescence.

This is so serious for my simple posts on my tarts and my hikes. Dickensen and Brontë it is not. But such is the power of writing, where quality nor longevity determines the value to the author herself. And so, I begin again...


(1)
Hamilton, Gail. Country Living and Country Thinking. Montana: Kessinger Publishing Ticknor and Fields, 1863.





(2)
Showalter, Elaine. A Jury of Her Peers: American Women Writers from Anne Bradstreet to Annie Proulx. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009.

Its been a surprisingly busy two weeks. So much so that I haven't had time to write. Perhaps a taste of the life that is possible?

M. and I will be leaving Guadeloupe in a few days for New York. I have been excited about the trip, but far less impatient than I was in January. Actually, I've noticed that I daydream less often about New York than I used to, even though I still miss it terribly. Could this also be a taste of the life that is possible?

With so few days left, though, I'm beginning to think about New York a lot. I am looking forward to so many things. I am already planning the meals I will have - a slice of New York pizza, two dollar dumplings, Italian pastries. My preoccupations about food leads me to wonder if I would adapt better to Guadeloupe if I could somehow eat the same things as I would in New York.

Why Do I Blog?

A few days ago, The New York Times published an article about the high failure rate amongst blogs. According to the article most people begin blogging seeking fame and fortune. When those things fail to materialize, the blogger loses interest and the blog dies.

That article encouraged me to write a post about my own motivations for blogging. Why do I blog?

In my very first post, I wrote that I was beginning "with the same good intentions and aspirations of wit as hundreds of other amateur bloggers." It was vague and somewhat dishonest. But, about a month later, I was much more specific, writing:

I started this blog for a few reasons. I feel a blog is a wonderful way of sharing my experiences and my new life with family and friends, all of whom now live several layovers away. However, I blog mainly for myself - a reason, I think, that is fairly common amongst bloggers. I blog to reflect upon my experiences and my life in Guadeloupe, and to do so in an intelligent and thoughtful way. The prospect of having an audience ensures that I take the time to blog, and do so in a somewhat serious manner - both of which gives blogging a great advantage over a personal diary. Finally, I started this blog in hopes that it would help me adapt. I thought it might help me generate the excitement I lacked in making Guadeloupe my new home.

I had originally thought that blogging would be a good way to share my new life with my family and friends back home. I was mistaken about that. As my sister J. told me recently - simply and bluntly - 'I don't read your blog.' Although this is disappointing, it doesn't diminish my desire to blog.

I have no illusions that my blog will gain a large readership. Nor do I have expectations that my blog will lead to lucrative deals offering financial independence. Perhaps if I lived in Paris. Instead, I am the first to admit that Guadeloupe, and my life here, must interest very few people, if any at all. This suits me just fine.

Because I write this blog for myself. I don't think I had thought very hard before writing the post quoted above, but even then I had a very clear idea of why I was blogging.

Not wanting to seem stupid, I often research the topics I write about. Usually, research is just simple searches on the internet, but often it includes extensive reading. I have learned a lot this way. Blogging also encourages me to think thoughtfully about the things I learn, to understand Why Things Are the Way They Are. And somewhat miraculously, it has helped me feel more enthusiastic about living in Guadeloupe, as I had hoped it might. Certainly, blogging does not eliminate the enormous difficulties of making a new life here, but it seems to help.

I have the illusion that this is some grand adventure, and I, the brave explorer. Blogging gives me the impression that I am not alone in this strange new land, that there is at least one person who expects me to live through the day to write about it...

Blogging is a way of saying, I exist!

There is one reason that I did not foresee would become a motivation. I have not been very successful as a freelance translator, and the days and my life idle. Blogging allows me to work, to be productive. It is an outlet for my creative and intellectual energies, which otherwise would surely wither and die inside of me, making me very sick. Sometimes, on days where I have nothing to write, I come simply to look at my blog, fondly, as women past might have looked upon their children and said, "At least I have done this!"

I imagine that when I have made myself a real life in Guadeloupe, this blog will no longer be of use to me and I will allow it to simply die. But, I think those days are farther than I would like, and so, until then, I will continue to write.

Brune,

In many ways, Guadeloupe presents an opportunity to perceive the world differently. I've noticed that there is a greater selection of Black women's magazines available in newsstands. Never having bought a Black women's magazine before, I now find myself drawn to them. Why exactly, I am not quite sure. There is the novelty, of course. But, when I flip through Elle, Vogue, Marie Claire,... it simply doesn't seem very interesting.

I came across Brune, magazine in December. I suppose you might call Brune, a women's 'lifestyle' magazine, focusing on fashion, beauty, health and entertainment. The French-language magazine is internationally distributed, and countries listed on the cover for pricing include France, Morrocco, Tunisa, Africa (no specific countries listed), Belgium, Switzerland, Canada, and the USA.

Some things that I like about Brune,:

- A gorgeous spread in the January/February '09 issue.


















Above, designs by José Esam, photographed by Ernest Collins, styled by Pascal Patrice.

- Introductions to African designers:

Above, catwalk photos from the 2009 Vlisco Fashion Show. From left to right, designs from Paul-Hervé Élizabeth, Karim Issaka, Thula Sindi, Eloi Sessou, Karim Issaka, Pepita D (Jan/Feb 2009).

- Beautiful black models

Above, Marion, photographed by Mario Epanya, styled by Patience Ohéma, make-up by Mario Epanya (May/June 2009).


















Above left, Didier, photographed by Ernest Collins, styled by Pascal Patrice, make-up by Mashu.
Above, right, photographed by Norman Pogson (Jan/Feb 2009).

Some of the articles are pretty interesting too. Numerous profiles on successful Black women. An interview with Lucette Michaux-Chevry, a long-time politician from Guadeloupe. Beauty tips adapted to heat and humidity.

I suppose it might seem strange for an Asian woman to be picking up a copy of Brune,. Surely, I am not what the editors had in mind as a reader. But it isn't any more strange than for me to be reading any of the magazines listed above. Those certainly weren't made with me in mind as a reader, n'est-ce pas?

Endless Summer

Photo: Phil Mansfield for The New York Times. Click here for related article.

When I was a young child growing up in New York City, summer was synonymous with scorching days ending with hot balmy nights, rainbow icees eaten in a plastic bowl with a spoon, and running around in a swimsuit at public sprinklers. Our family was young, and money was being squirreled away for a home and for three college tuitions. There was no money to go away. Not that we did nothing all summer.

I remember going to Coney Island occasionally...


and to the Bronx Zoo...


and, maybe the highlight of several summers, the Queens fair...


...always with a picnic lunch of ham and orange cheese on Wonder white and a soda, both wrapped in aluminum foil.

When my sisters and I were a bit older and there was more money, my mother would take us sightseeing in nearby states. We would travel farther and farther as we got older, across the country, across the Atlantic...

But there was never a summer house, a place where one would return, summer after summer, to bike on dirt roads, to swim, to read quietly at a bay window. Though, I didn't know about that then as a young child. I would learn about the summer house later. I would learn that the summer house, the dirt roads, the swimming, even the bay window, belonged to families different from mine. I didn't regret my childhood summers, but I relished the thought of having a summer house one day.

The one day came sooner than I could have imagined. Without knowing it, I've lived in a summer house for several months now. Mornings spent at the beach. Lunch on the terrace. Afternoons reading quietly. The day seems long, but the days pass quickly in a blur of white sunlight. Summer must feel like that in a summer house, slow until the sudden end, when autumn and school sweep us along. I've lived here 9 months already, 9 months of endless summer.

Driving Through the Metaphysical

Its been a month since I began practicing the code.

The code consists of 40 multiple answer questions testing would-be drivers on road signs and markings, passing, intersections and turns, etc. An image with accompanying question and responses are played on a screen. One test is played every hour, where a maximum of two different tests are played each day. Occasionally, the staff lets the video go through the explanations, but most of the time an instructor reviews the answers with the class.

Because I know I am a nerd, I can admit that I actually enjoy the class. The hike up to the bus stop and the bus ride itself are not great, but they constitute acceptable inconveniences for an excuse to get out of the house. The testing itself doesn't bother me. Having gone through the New York public school system, I respond well to these types of tests. Of course, the questions can be tricky, but like any sort of standardized test, the more you practice, the better you get. My fellow classmates have proved quite amusing as well. There are the slick young kids who drive fear into your heart with the recklessness in their answers; les mémés (grannies/thi ah mo) who struggle heroically to follow along; and the general comedy of watching somebody else sputter an incoherent answer, only to be sassed by the instructor.

Wrong answers are common, obviously. But certain questions seem practically unfair. Almost all aspects of life in Guadeloupe are determined by the national government 4,000 miles away. The rules of the road are no exception. The problem is Guadeloupe is not France and that fact is all the more obvious when driving.

There is snow, for example (Which headlamps - high or low beams - should be used when snow is falling?). Or fog (What is the maximum driving speed when fog limits visibility to 50m?). These meteorological situations simply do not exist here in Caribbean Guadeloupe.
And there are things like railroad and tramway crossings, tunnels, highways - none of which exist on this island. Yet, here we are, all 20 of us, head down, shoulders hunched, scribbling away.

At the same time, there is an entire range of knowledge pertinent and particular to Guadeloupe that is simply not addressed: How to share a narrow two way road with a ‘titan’ (1) overloaded with cut cane; The significance of incredibly long lines at every gas station; Maneuvers for avoiding a collision with coconuts, iguanas, goats crossing the road.

Above, sharing the road with a tractor overloaded with cut cane.

Above, watch out for falling palm leaves!

The disjunction between our reality and the advertised reality is a ready-made metaphysical exercise. It is entirely possible that certain students have never experienced snow. And yet they must imagine themselves driving through this thing that is called snow. More practically, the disjunction leads to considerable confusion. There was the older woman who took the photo of a pay toll to be a gas station. The short discussion of whether a photo showed falling or fallen snow. It is a distilled example of how France puts Guadeloupeans at a disadvantage.

I improved my scores quickly in the first month and was beginning to score sufficiently high enough to consider taking the written test soon. But, I've been informed that I will not be allowed to take the test without a carte de séjour. And no, a recipssé is insufficient. I've pushed back the remainder of my lessons until August, when I will (hopefully) have my carte de séjour.

I was a bit sad to stop going. Insignificant as it might have been, it gave me a sense of independence. I also felt that a license could be considered some sort of accomplishment; it would have been at least a goal which had, up until this time, escaped me. But more importantly, getting a license represented a positive affirmation that, yes, I was making a new life for myself in Guadeloupe. There could be no clearer sign of acquiescence than the New Yorker who gets herself a license.

Of course, not long after, I was sad that I was sad. Who mourns for the loss of driving exam test prep?


(1) Titan is the nick name given to the massive open bed trucks that are used to transport cut cane from the fields to the factory. They are fear-inducing, and much larger than the tractor pictured above.

Will You Be My Friend?

Making friends in a new place can be hard. Especially if there isn't some activity that provides a built-in system for making friends, like work or school. Its not really a surprise, therefore, that despite arriving nearly 9 months ago, I have made no friends. M.'s colleague-friends don't count. And certainly not the imaginary ones who compliment me on my colombo.

Of course, email and online telephony make it incredibly affordable to keep in touch with far away friends. Since my town has been equipped with high speed internet for over a year now, my friends can not email and not call with an immediacy that is striking.

Thankfully, I am married to my best friend. But, one friend is not really enough. How else to complain about the other?

Inevitably, there is what could be considered a lowering of standards. Not in quality, mind you, but in what kind of relationship constitutes a friendship and who, in my new system of categorization, is considered a friend.

So, with the new standards in place, here is my (modest) list of new friends:

Our vegetable lady
The woman who sells us our vegetables every week at the market in BasseTerre was perhaps my very first friend. Like most of my new friends, Marie-Denise (that's her name) did not immediately become my friend. She remained polite but distant with me and M. But after buying from her stand consistently every week, she has warmed up appreciably. She even calls me by a term of endearment, doudou. Of course, I've heard her use doudou for other customers, but that doesn't diminish her obvious affection for me in particular. We are now so close that she occasionally gives me produce for free, and her husband makes off-color remarks with ease.

The driver for the little bus in our town (the skinny one)
This was my first friend that I made on my own. Not daring to cross the threshold my first week here, I finally mustered up the courage to take the bus to the bourg. Fears conquered, I went with some frequency to the bourg, to buy bread, to pick up the newspaper, to go to the library - just to get out. And more often than not, he would be the one to drive me there and back. Sometimes, I'm not quite sure what he is saying when we chat since he has a bit of Antillais accent, and he also tends to mumble, but friends don't need words to understand each other. Unfortunately, now that I go to BasseTerre quite regularly, I go to the bourg far less. But, there is no risk of losing him as a friend; when we pass each other on the road, I wave and he gives me a friendly "ça va?" flash of his headlights.

The secretary at my driving school
I've only been going to the driving school for about a month, but I can already see that the secretary is going to be my new best friend. She's about my age (or older...her generous curves makes me think she might already be a mother). She's got an adorable chuckle and laughs easily. I like for my friends to have a sense of humor. And since I had to submit an application full of personal information before beginning my lessons, she already knows my life story. Now, I just have to learn hers. Yesterday, I discovered her name is Madeleine. I'm sure there's quite a bit more - who doesn't have a complicated life story? - but I've already got a good start.

Morning Routine

A colleague of M.'s came back from Easter vacation with a special souvenir for me: a copy of the New York Times...the Sunday edition too, no less - nice and thick! I'm guessing he picked up a free copy on the plane, since it was delivered to me in a duty free plastic bag.

What a pleasure it is to be able to read the paper with breakfast!

That Elusive Carte

Settling in France can be quite a challenge, and a perhaps bit of a surprise for Americans who are accustomed to the visa-free access they enjoy when traveling to the country. I've had the pleasure of getting to know French bureaucracy both as a student and as a jeune fille au pair. M. and I signed a PACS some years ago, and we married last year. All required a long list of documents, photos, certificates, even a chest x-ray, a blood test...The long list of required papers for a titre de séjour was therefore no surprise:

• Valid passport;
• Birth certificate and its certified translation;
• 3 ID photos;
• Proof of domicile dated within the last three months;
• If you are being accommodated, attestation of accommodation by the person accommodating you dated within the last three months, their national identity card or titre de séjour, and proof of domicile;
  
• Proof of your resources and your spouse's resources (tax statements, work contract, pay stubs dated within the last three months, etc.);
  
• 2 22cm x 11cm window envelopes;
• Long-stay Visa bearing the mention of (D) overseas département - Guadeloupe - family member / Spouse;
  
• Customs (police aux frontières, PAF) entry stamp specifying the date of arrival in Guadeloupe;
  
• Family record book;
• Marriage certificate;
• If the marriage was celebrated outside of France, the foreign marriage certificate with its transcription;
• Copy of the national identity card of your French spouse;
• Sworn statement of a shared life;
• 2 documents proving shared life (rental agreement, bank statement, tax statement, social security statement, etc.).
  

Plus photocopies. And of course, they reserve the right to request further documents.

Despite having everything in order, I did not receive my titre de séjour yesterday. Instead, I received what is essentially a receipt documenting the fact that I began the official steps towards getting a titre de séjour (une récipissé de demande de titre de séjour). It can be a maddeningly frustrating to jump through hoop after hoop, and have nothing in return. M. and I often wonder what an absolute nightmare it must be for people with much more complex situations, lack necessary papers, etc.

The highlight of the five hour wait at the Bureau de l'État Civil et des Etrangers was the man who wore a large oversized red tshirt emblazoned with the raging face of Al Pacino as Tony Montana in Scarface to his appointment. I have the feeling that the absurdity was lost on the man.

Springtime

The temperature has been getting incrementally warmer as the cloudless days of carême are slowly swept away by the rain storms and heat of hivernage. For some reason though, I was wrapped in a feeling of spring-time today. Perhaps it was the color of daylight; white clouds spread thinly across the sky have been passing over Guadeloupe the entire weekend, softening the usually stark light of a Caribbean sun. It might be an internally-timed recognition of the coming of spring. Though, it was probably sparked by reading a description of the first game day at the new Yankees stadium - a beautiful April day with temperatures nearing 60°F. I was surprised that it was so warm already. I had forgotten it could be warm elsewhere also.

Lolling about on a lazy Sunday morning, the open windows framed a blue sky. I couldn't see the ocean, the palm trees. Just a bit of green from the large breadfruit tree and a blue sky. Funny how a blue sky can resemble another. I was overcome with memories of spring in New York. After so many months of dreary gray cold, the exhilaration of feeling the first breath of warmth, or the unchanging joy of tiny buds of green suddenly unfurling into leaves and flowers.

I miss the seasons; the renewal, the movement, the change. There is no more efficient reminder of death, but no greater reminder of life. Of course, there are seasons here, too. Two as opposed to four. I wonder how many carêmes and hivernages will pass before I learn to love these seasons.

Regret and Longing

In the evening the port became beautiful for perhaps five minutes. The laterite roads that were so ugly and clay heavy by day became a delicate flower-like pink. It was the hour of content. Men who had left the port for ever would sometimes remember on a grew wet London evening the bloom and glow that faded as soon as it was seen: they would wonder why they had hated the coast and for a space of a drink they would long to return (1).

Every day is almost perfect during carême, but one recent Saturday the skies were particularly clear, and from the national road the ocean sparkled like a million diamonds. I could even see the individual houses on les Saintes islands facing Guadeloupe, the islands themselves made up of pleasing green and brown slopes surrounded by blue. And this scene framed by the lush vegetation of volcanic Basse Terre.

I am not blind to the beauty of Guadeloupe. But, having been somewhat obliged to move here, I have been somewhat resistant to the island's charms. During my first few days, I would look bitterly out the balcony towards the ocean, and considered the view unequal compensation for family and friends left behind.

But, if limestone cliffs can be worn down by the Atlantic over time, so too can a heart momentarily hardened by sacrifice. How could I ignore the charms of island paradise forever? There are even moments now, when my family and friends absent themselves from my thoughts, that I feel lucky to live in Guadeloupe. What an opportunity it is to live here.

It makes me wonder how I will feel if I ever leave Guadeloupe and make my life elsewhere. Will I regret the beautiful island days and long to return?



(1)
Greene, Graham. The Heart of the Matter. New York: Penguin Books, 2004.

The Problem with Hello

Having lived most of my life in New York City, I am conditioned to act in particular ways - a characteristic which I share with all people who live in large metropolis. There are just so many of us in a city, crowded together, on top of one another, in such small spaces. Those unaccustomed to this kind of living must wonder how it is possible to maintain sanity and composure. It is possible because every person is encapsulated by anonymity. Moreover, an unacknowledged agreement exists between every person that that anonymity must not be compromised. That cloak of anonymity, in fact, provides physical space by effacing the existence of others. To acknowledge the other is to deprive ourselves of physical space.

Years of living amongst friendly Midwesterners, I'm afraid had absolutely no effect. But of course, I had no reason to change my habits since I was just passing through. Guadeloupe is different because I intend to stay, at least for a while. M. and I live in a quiet little neighborhood far from the larger cities of Pointe-à-Pitre and Basse Terre; there is simply no physical pressure to provoke the need for anonymity. And of course, there is island culture, which almost demands a certain degree of familiarity and friendliness amongst strangers.

Still, habits die hard. The confrontation of my city attitudes and expected behavior is best illustrated when I pass a stranger on the street. It is absolutely normal - and indeed expected - to greet anybody that one comes across with a simple 'bonjour' or 'bonsoir'. But lacking the habit of doing just that, I find myself in a slight panic whenever I cross somebody else's path. When should I greet them? When our eyes first meet? When we're within arms length of each other? And what happens when we're on opposite sides of the road? Are women expected to initiate, as they do for handshakes?

Even the most insignificant social interaction is a intricate combination of expected attitudes and behaviors. I am completely awkward when it comes to hello. I underestimate the distance my voice will carry and often my greeting dissapates in the air before the person has heard. I hesitate, and there are moments of tense eye contact. I stumble and begin again, greeting them twice. Sometimes my silence is misjudged and the stranger's hello comes too late for me to respond in kind. So lost was I that in the beginning, I ignored adorable grannies and had warm hellos for louche individuals. I am getting better at it; most of my hellos pass now with studied ease. Though I wonder how long it will take before these hellos become an ordinary reaction, and not the result of intense analysis and speculation.

That Elusive License

(Above, the goal: a French driver's license)

Somehow, I managed to make it to my mid twenties without learning how to drive. Not particularly hard for a native New Yorker, but surprising still since I've lived in various elsewheres.

It never seemed odd that I didn't have a driver's license. Growing up, most of the people I knew didn't have one. I didn't realize how odd it was until I went to a large Midwestern university for undergraduate studies. Somehow, it would come up in conversation and people would be in disbelief. There isn't a need for it, I would explain. And that made sense to them. Quickly, not knowing how to drive became a characteristic I proudly assumed.

Still, I began to have the idea that having a license might be useful. I eventually got myself a driver's permit. Sadly, though, I lacked the follow-through to get my license: I allowed the permit to expire (yes, they do expire). Subconsciously, perhaps, I was reluctant to prepare myself for a life outside of New York.

But I left again anyway, this time for graduate studies. Not having a license or a car was crippling. Somewhat quaintly, I had thought learning to bike might be sufficient, mistaking the Midwest to be similar to the under-served areas of the outer boroughs. The reality sunk in the first time I biked home, laden with grocery bags, uphill. And yet, I returned to New York after two years, still without a license.

I have finally met my match. Life in Guadeloupe is simply not possible without a car (and by extension a license). Of course, there are buses, but they are dreadfully inconvenient. It was only this past year that formal stops were made. Previously, buses stopped any where - convenient for anybody getting on or off, but made for a very long ride for everybody else.

I signed up for driving lessons today. I don't know why I didn't begin sooner. I suppose its more of that same reluctance that has kept me license-less all these years. I am nervous about the whole thing. Though I think most people would be nervous about driving in Guadeloupe. The narrow roads are shared by cars and lorry trucks alike; people often walk along the roadside. The roads twist and turn, sometimes in hairpin curves. And most worrisome, Guadeloupeans prove that they are every bit French especially when behind the wheel.

I'll have to pass the written exam (le code) before I start actual driving lessons. I'll be studying all day tomorrow since I have my first session for le code on Thursday.

My Japchae

(above, a closeup of my japchae)

I don't think I could've waited any longer to try my hand at one of Maangchi's recipes. I thought I would give her recipe for japchae a try, despite not having many (most) of the ingredients. The noodle used in Maangchi's recipe is dangmyun, or more commonly known as cellophane noodles. I had to swap the dangmyun for my Assi brand 'oriental style noodle pasta (1),' which I typically eat in a noodle soup. I also had to replace the beef with a fried egg since I have nothing but frozen ground beef in the house (fresh meat being all but unavailable during the strike). With the exception of the mushrooms - both types - I had the remaining ingredients. Though, to still call it Maangchi's recipe is perhaps a stretch.

I was rather pleased with the way it turned out. The noodles were a bit dry; I think dangmyun is inherently more moist. So, next time, I will think about retaining some of the noodle liquid if I use my wheat noodles again. Somebody commented that they used regular spaghetti to great effect, so I might try that too. I think I can get some cellophane noodles in the Asian foods section at Carrefour, so I'll try to look for it once the strike is over.

I think in normal circumstances I would have never felt the urge, nor had the courage to make my own Korean food. I suppose this is the upside of living in a culturally homogeneous island. Either I broaden my culinary range, or I forgo Korean food all together. I don't really see it as a choice.

I suppose that is what living elsewhere is about: the changes that are encouraged and obliged by a wholly different life. Learning to cook Korean food is a small but meaningful gain. That is what my friend A. calls it, a gain. In the immediate past when I had difficulty characterizing my new life other with terms other than of loss, A. told me to try and see the situation in terms of what I had gained. Sound advice from someone who has always shown me the way.



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Pigs and Kimchi

Since my return, I've been obsessed with two things: having a pig, and Korean food. The two make an odd combination, perhaps, but represent two things sorely missed in Guadeloupe.

The first is garbage pick-up. Since the strike started more than a month ago, sanitation workers have come 'round exactly once, somewhere in the middle of week two. M. has kept our garbage bin at the end of the street to place the maximum amount of distance between ourselves and the stench. Since there simply isn't enough room in the bin for a full month's worth of garbage, M. has been sorting the garbage, putting perishables in the bin and non perishables in trash bags on our terrace. But, even this can only go so far. Garbage bins are overflowing at the end of every street, and there is a disgusting number of flies in the air.

This has led me to fantasize about having a pig. Every vegetable peel, every cantaloupe rind, every carrot top could go into the slop bucket. Of course, a compost pit could do very much the same thing, but a pig seems so much more efficient. I find it a minor miracle that one could raise an animal on the vegetable matter that one throws away. And isn't it possible to use a pig's manure as fertilizer? You could have the pig and the fertilizer too!

The second is Korean food. I am not exactly sure why I have such a craving for Korean food. After all, it seems more natural for me to want Chinese food, no? However, I am able to reproduce a number of Chinese dishes with an acceptable level of authenticity that keeps my appetite at bay (though, I do miss Chinese vegetables). I can even make two or three Indian dishes. But I have never really made Korean food. After living a year with a Korean girl, though, I was inspired to make my own version of bibimbap. In truth, my dish is so far from the original I call it my ginger beef dish out loud, and bibimbap in my head.

I had intended to bring a jar of kimchi back with me to Guadeloupe, but was thwarted for the lack of space in my food box. On the plane ride over, I read this article in the NYTimes, and promptly despaired the kimchi left behind. With the help of the internet, my cravings for Korean food has blossomed nicely into a 24-hour food fantasy. The best find is Maangchi's video recipes for making Korean food. Many of the recipes call for ingredients that are most likely unavailable here. But, I think I could manage gaji namul (eggplant side dish), or sigeumchi namul (spinach side dish) without too much trouble. Maangchi also has a recipe for making kimchi. It seems a bit daunting, but I believe my cravings may push me past my apprehensions. Of course, I could try purchasing kimchi online, such as at Granny Choe's kimchi, but I think the shipping costs must be incredibly high.

The Leaving

It was my belief that a proper good bye might allow me to better embrace my new life in Guadeloupe. But I left in a rush, as I often do, with the feeling of unfinished business.

It was a wonderful month spent in the company of family and friends. There were big family dinners and quiet drinks with friends. I went to museums, and browsed in book stores. I ate Chinese tea, Korean fried chicken, Italian pastries. I walked...blocks upon blocks of endless city.

With a summer trip back already planned and paid for, it was probably useless to try and see my leaving through any prism of permanency. Still, I cried when I said good-bye to my sisters and felt miserable for a good while after.

I had a strange feeling the first day back, something that bordered on disbelief. How it is possible to have so easily passed from one world to the other? I felt I had been deprived of my family and friends, from my city with far too much ease. And yet, I felt that I had come home. This was my house, my kitchen, my bed. This was my husband.

I think I was misguided in thinking that without putting New York behind me, I would never make a home in Guadeloupe. And I have expected too much of my first months living here. It was only natural that I should have such doubts and apprehensions, dislike and regret. But, these are merely symptoms of change and adaptation, and in no way predict my failure to live a new life.

I've come home with a sense of optimism. And with a bit of luck, I might just be able to make myself a life here after all.

Homecoming

It seemed natural that upon landing in American territory, I should be greeted with the sweet smell of warm and sticky cinnamon pastry. I felt the French of my environment dissipate and replaced by the American.

I was disappointed that Luis Muñoz Marín Airport was outdated and worn. There were low ceilings and cracked 'leather' seats. Not far from my gate I purchased a sad looking hot dog and ate it sitting next to passengers wearing thick winter coats. My light trench coat seemed defiant...and delusional.

As the second plane flew through endless white, my thoughts sat quietly, no longer troubled by the tearful goodbye, not yet excited by the anticipated reunion. Encapsulated by cabin pressure.

We landed early. The world seemed immediately larger. Yes, I was still on an island, but one with the proportions of a entire continent. Even when crowded with other passengers there was vastness. Not just of space, but of possibilities.

When my sister S. found me at the carousel, she cried, like she usually does. But this time I cried too. She presented me a with a winter coat, a scarf, a furry hat and a small sandwich from Wholefoods. I had been wondering about cheddar cheese lately.

It was cold, of course, when I finally stepped outside. But not any colder than I expected. What surprised me was the sun. A winter sun gives off such crisp white light. The light met the hard lines of buildings, lampposts and roads. As we road the Q10, the sun set quickly behind greenless trees.

Its good to be home.

The Life and the Dream

Contrary to the impression that my blog may have given these past weeks, my life is not a continuous procession of cake-filled holidays. Adapting to my new life is a daily struggle, and on far more days than M. would like, those struggles end in tears.

This is not my first time living outside of New York. I moved away for my undergraduate studies, for work in France, and for graduate studies. But it was different then. I left without saying goodbye. I moved away knowing I would come back in 4 months, in 6 months, in a year. And, while I made a life for myself while away, it was not my life. My life was waiting for me, back home, in New York. I considered those moments away to be tangential to my real life, side stories to the main plot. In the meantime, New York - or, at least the parts that mattered to me - lived in suspension. The life of my friends and my family plodded along, but slowly, and superficially without change. Of course, I missed birthdays, barbecues, peruvian dinners, but these were minor, and as long as they were kept to a minimum I could always "catch up."

I have always known Guadeloupe would be different. I told my friends and family that it would be years before I could move back. Three years, 5 years. But, I knew, even then, that we would be here much longer. Time builds familiarity. Familiarity brings habit. Habit breeds permanence. I've started to believe that I will live here for the rest of my life.

So when I cry, I cry for the accumulation of family parties, cozy dinners, at-home movies that form a life, an entire life that I will not be able to catch up to.

There is more than that, though. Accepting a life here means more than giving up a life in New York. It means giving up a dream. A dream that combined everything that I have always known and everything that I assumed would be.

It was in that spirit that I read Thomas Beller's article in the NYTimes published last Friday. He writes about his studio apartment in the West Village where he has lived for 13 years, and his impending move. He has fond memories of that apartment, but writes: "To what extent does living with the past impede living in the present? Or living for the future?" I teared up when I read those lines. I hadn't asked myself those questions, but felt that I had been living the hard truth of the answer for several months.

At the end of the month, I am going back to New York to finalize paperwork. I think I will take this opportunity to formally say goodbye to New York, in the hopes that in doing so I can let go and embrace my new life in Guadeloupe. And the dream? M. and I will share new dreams for our new life together. But, I will keep the dream of New York, deep in a crevice of my heart, in the hopes that someday it might come true.

Mail Delivery

Mail has taken weeks - months, even - to arrive from the United States. Whereas mail from France métropole takes less than one week to arrive. Clearly, distance is not the issue.
I suspected that perhaps American postal workers didn't know where Guadeloupe was located. I cannot blame them; Guadeloupe did not exist to me before I studied France. I thought perhaps postal workers took Guadeloupe to be a Spanish name (gwa-da-loo-pay). It seems fairly similar to Guadalajara, those G-U-A-Ds. So I thought maybe mail was being redirected through South America. Venezuela, for example. That seemed logical. That may be the case, but now I know that at least one letter has taken a detour to Africa. It makes me wonder where in the world are the remaining letters and packages...