Dreams

France as the sole subject of this blog be damned.  This post is primarily about a recent dream.  

I have a weekly event known as No-Alarm Wednesday, as it is my one day off during the week.  This week, there was a bonus round:  No-Alarm Thursday.

Many students were on a field trip on Thursday, cutting out two of my three classes.  Now, with a commute of nearly an hour to get to my middle school, to go there for an hour of class was a most undesirable outcome.  I honed in on a 60ish year-old woman (and that is the first time I have strung those words together) named Dominique, whose class on Thursday was the only obstacle to a glorious reprise of No-Alarm Wednesday.

On Tuesday, I saw her in the hallway and wasted no time in mentioning that there was a field trip on Thursday for the other classes.  "So I'll just come for your class," I said, casting the rod.  She grabbed my fishing pole, slammed it over her knee, and said, "Ah, c'est ca.  Pas de souci, ca marche.  Je suis un peu pressee la." ("Yes, that's right.  No worries, that works.  I'm in a bit of a hurry here.")  She sprinkled the remnants on the ground, and was on her way.  This wasn't over, Dominique.  

This very same, otherwise sweet lady gives me a ride to the nearby metro station every time I'm at the school.  So it came down to the six o'clock drop-off, when I desperately reiterated, "Alright, well, just your class on Thursday then."  And she responded with some mots doux (gentle words), perhaps the most doux that I have heard since arriving in Lyon:  "Ce n'est pas la peine de venir.  Je m'en occuperai."  ("It's not worth coming.  I'll take care of them.")  Hook, line, and sinker.  

As a result of this low-key work week, I'm coming off a week of wild, non-cyclical sleep.  7:30 a.m. bedtimes; some naps.

I haven't seen the likes of this since my roommate saw very little daylight one week, my junior year of college.  The highlight of his week was when the house was awakened at 10 a.m. to the sound of aluminum cans pelting the walls of our dilapidated, beloved house.  After another nuit blanche ("white night," which means "all-nighter"), he was slap-shotting crunched-up aluminum cans in our backyard, with Christmas music blaring from the iPod dock.  I just wanted to give a shout-out to college, which I miss dearly.

Anyways, when my sleep schedule becomes erratic, some mad libs of dreams come about.  My most recent dream went as follows:

I was at a high school basketball game with some friends, and I was legitimately wondering whether it was still cool for us to be there.  Next thing I know, my mom is waking me up (in the dream, not on the real), asking me what I did last night.  She sat on my bed (later to become a bunk bed... watch your head, Mom), and just then a white, marble-looking insect resembling a Mancala piece crawled up the wall.

I turned away, presumably, as the next time I looked, this insect had become furry, still predominately white but with black spots.  I exclaimed to my mom that this bug looked like a rabbit, and naturally this shaped the following events.  

Suddenly, there is a bunny sitting on the top bunk, and I can see through the wooden bars.  I start punching the bars, enraged by this unlikely transformation.  The climax of the dream- the "You can't handle the truth!" moment- was when I said, "This is just great, Mom!  Add this to your encyclopedia of life:  There are now bugs that turn into rabbits!"  I cannot often quote dreams, as I either don't remember or fall back asleep before transcribing the events.  On this occasion though, I woke up with a smile after my impassioned rant.  I thought my line had some zip to it.

At our high school psychology fair, my good buddy and I chose the very abstract, impossible-to-receive-less-than-a-B subject of dream interpretation. Despite our grueling session of research the night before the fair, I have no theories regarding this dream.  Do you?

***

After an awkward pause in which she judges my choice to include this entry in the blog, a female blog reader, obviously gifted at making conversations in these types of situations, says:  "Oooh, oooh, Dan, do you ever dream in French?"  (She smiles at me with her eyes, and runs her hand through flowing, golden hair)

A:  Yes, I do dream in French from time to time, but don't get excited, missie.  It often involves those around me not understanding a word that I'm saying, which of course is enraging.

Dan's Finances, and Whatever Subjects Should Follow

[The original entry date is January 5th, 2011.  It has been reposted here because blogspot was tweaking out due to the use of italics and accents on letters.  I am as disappointed as you are, and hate that the four words just below are not italicized.]

Bonjour mes chers amis,

I'm packing a lot of punch into the salutations lately (my one other entry), so I'll keep going with that.  If you understood the salutation, pat yourself on the back:  your junior high and high school French courses/resignation from the "popular group" tryouts (Spanish course takers) were not without value.

I've embarked upon an exciting January of frugalness, due to some quick spending of the December paycheck.  Here are some causes of my plight:
1.  My rent was bumped up from 225 to 300 euros.  I initially lived with three others, whereas now I have just two roommates.  (-300)
2.  I noticed that a Madrid-Rome flight had only three remaining seats, so I had to book two seats for my friend and I (more on upcoming vacation later on).  If the flights arriving in Madrid or departing from Rome sell out, this will go down as a mistake.  (-108)
3.  I'm sick of eating refrigerated, previously-cooked eggs right after working out.  My weight room is equipped with a refrigerator, and I often head straight to work from there.  It was time for a change.  (-63)

In other news, I am participating in an endeavor that I deem to be quite important.  Since early November, I have been tutoring a 46-year old doctor who speaks limited English.  I go over to his apartment at least once a week to eat dinner with the doctor, his wife, and their twin 18 year-old daughters.  All the while, of course, we speak English and I note any phrases that give them problems.  Thus, I benefit from a nice home-cooked meal, the company of a great family, and some euros.

Recently, we have moved on from simple conversations, to the French-English translation of an abstract for a medical article that he will soon submit [this is the aforementioned important endeavor... not the sitting down for free dinners (although that too is important to me, because the quiches are amazing)].  The article is about a potential treatment for patients suffering from allergies to apples, this of course being a leading cause of griping among the wealthy.  Should the doctor's abstract be accepted, he would head to Istanbul this summer to present his Elwood-polished English, and I might get a postcard out of it.  I should really be working on the translation right now, in fact, but I owe you people an entry.  Also, I would really like the counter of visits to the blog to surpass 10,000 by the end of the year.  I just picked that number, but it sounds doable.

About the upcoming vacation that I alluded to... It will begin on February 26th.  My large football player of an American friend will be coming to Europe, and I will travel with him during my two weeks off.  We will see how he does with European portions.  The itinerary is as follows:  Lisbon, Madrid, definitely Rome (due to Reason 2 above), and Dublin.  Stories should arise from this voyage.

I recently went on a tour of a prison in Vaulx-en-Velin.  I took pictures of the premises, and would like to share them with you:

Nope, that is actually one of my two schools.  I do not know if these pictures capture the dismal atmosphere of the school.  I do know that literally the first thought that popped into my head upon arriving was "Face/Off," the 1997 action film with John Travolta and the always-horrible Nicolas Cage, who also got a shout-out in last year's blog.  (What if this blog got so big that Nicolas Cage read it?  New goal.)  In the movie, there is a high security prison in which the convicts' boots are magnetized so as to not allow them to lift their feet off the ground, which would be handy at this school, with the terrors running around and all.  The building is essentially one large hall, with two stories of walkways above, hugging the perimeter such as in, well, a prison.

This post lacks a little beef (there's some French rap for you), but I've got important medical documents to work on.

Bonne Annee,
Dan

For nobody in particular, but especially you, Russ.

Ramblings

Bar Afterthoughts Thoughts After a Bar

Bonjour à tous,

It is 00:21 here (that’s 5:21pm to you, Chicagoans), and I am looking on with weary, post-Happy Hour eyes.  But Phil gives me strength.  Despite this drum-infused strength, the title of this Microsoft Word document is “January 12^th blog attempt,” so if you are reading these words, it means I got hot late, Hibachi-style.  (Cyber chest bump if you understood that.)  Thus, I press on with the hope of triumphing over my doubts, and the desire for a tangible finished product may result in publication of a sub par entry.  Alright, absolved from pressure and ready to go.

At the bar tonight, I watched a pair of dogs flirt for hours on end.  A homeless-looking, grayed, go-getter of a hound worked relentlessly on a beautiful Black Lab.  The lab was playing the game, giving him just enough time at the helm to leave him wanting more, and then backing off.  But the tramp did not back off.  He wanted to be her dog.  What I’m trying to tell you is, I don’t have much to write about right now.  But also, that dogs are allowed in bars in Europe, which is awesome.  

And don’t be a passive blog reader; if you can find motivation from this tale, go right ahead.

Well, might as well mosey on back to what brings me to France in the first place (theoretically):  teaching English.  Lulled into a false sense of security by a calm sea of bi-focaled cinquième students, I hastily and irresponsibly labeled the entirety of my student body as “angels.”  I rescind this first impression, as the troisième classes have gotten comfortable with me and I have been awakened from my blissful dream.  [Cinquième is the equivalent of seventh-grade; troisième the ninth-grade]  My goal with some of these older classes, who are unanimously indifferent towards learning, is to finish the period.  “But Dan,” you say, “What about Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds?  She really got through to them.”  That, my friends, is the stuff of Hollywood.

Luckily, there are students like Andrew.  He came to France from Iraq a few years back, and is a year behind due to problems with his French.  This round, little guy does not stop smiling.  I’m always very excited when he pops in my room in between periods to chat with me and work on his English.  The other day, some of the older girls and Andrew were in my room, and they condescendingly asked him why he was there.  “Parce qu’il est mon pote” (because he is my friend), I said, and Andrew’s smile grew even bigger.  So although I have some problems with the students, there are indeed cool moments.  Take that, Michelle.  

Since you’re wondering, on the fashion front, if France is a dog park, I’m this guy.

Not so much this year, but going into last year, I was on a quest to better my wardrobe.  To get Frenched out a bit.  Unfortunately, there are no improvements to be spoken of.  Jeans or corduroys and a tee-shirt, and I’m on my way.  If I can make it to that January paycheck, I may be taking advantage of some serious sales that are going down in Lyon.  Worry not, you'll be in the know.

Be well, take care, and safe travels.