Changes 06-11 -- 05-12

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It’s Friday morning at 11:50. The weather was stunning yesterday, but today is overcast and a bit on the chilly side. I’m sitting at one of the Maîtres du Pain’s very wobbly tables and waiting for one of the absent-minded servers to take my order. For such a nice little café, the service is inexcusably awful. Dire, really. Upon several occasions, I’ve waited nearly half an hour for one of the fine young men to take my order, and ended up getting so frustrated with the unreasonable wait that I went to the counter and asked directly for my Verveine. Despite its shortcomings on transportation of hot water and tea bag in a timely manner, the atmosphere is lovely. The couple to my left are getting quite romantic, as the sappy-eyed gent gently fingers the engagement ring adorning the young woman’s delicate hand. My friend Allan sits across the patio from me, intently flipping through some pirated films (they are everywhere in Marrakech), and I proudly note that the sound of French chatter has started to sound less like, “zzzzJE SUISzzzzzALLEZzzzzBONJOURIzzzzzÇA VA?zzzzz “ and a bit more like, “Salut! Ça va? Je vais bien, et toi? Ça va bien. Qu’est-ce que tu veux faire aujourd-hui? Merde, mon expresso est horrible!”

After over four months of understanding so little of what’s being said around me, it’s going to be a mental overload to return to the states and understand everything. I’ve had several people on this trip accuse me of being a good listener. I think that this is because I’ve been traveling in foreign countries and am just so damn grateful when I hear a word that matches a mental picture, that as soon as someone says something I can get my English-speaking brain around, I’m captured. Hooked. I remember my first day in Ireland after spending a month in Taglio di Po where very little English was spoken. Dear Lochlann, you will never truly know how absolutely riveting I found your stories.

In less than two weeks, I will be flying into Denver, Colorado. When my plane lands on the runway, I will have been traveling for eleven months and nine days. I will have visited Madrid, Cazorla, Acebo, Venice, Taglio di Po, Florence, Bologna, a good half of Ireland, Copenhagen, Nice, Toulon, Cassis, Saint Tropez, Paris, Marrakech, Essaouira, Agadir, Casablanca, the Atlas Mountains, and many more small towns that were wonderful, but as I have a very serious blockage when it comes to remembering names, I seem to have forgotten them. It took me less than one year to save for this impulsive adventure, and about five months of spending random afternoons in coffee shops, getting all the hardcore dreaming/planning figured out. I didn’t spend too many afternoons at coffee shops, though. I was always far too guilty to spend a dollar on an Americano when I knew that I needed that dollar for plane fare.  The fall of 2010 and the spring of 2011 were spent living for the fall of 2011 and the spring of 2012. While I’m very happy that I was able to save enough money for this trip, I never intend to live so frugally again. If I’m so set on the future that I won’t allow myself an Americano, then there’s something dreadfully wrong with my worldview. I will never again sacrifice my present to create a future. Teaching yoga in Brazil doesn’t seem feasible anymore, so my next trip will probably be: one month in the south of Italy, one month in Greece, and one month in Turkey.

When will I go?

When I’m ready. I’ll teach yoga, direct children’s theatre, submit plays to competitions, knit freaking amazing hats, and enjoy my life in the meanwhile. My next trip will be entirely funded by money I’ve earned through working jobs I love. I no longer want to feel guilty spending money I’ve earned through working unfulfilling jobs. I remember going to City Market for my bi-weekly shopping trip, eyeing a Green & Blacks chocolate bar (ginger is my favorite), and thinking, “three dollars… three dollars for a chocolate bar. This chocolate bar equals twenty minutes sweeping a floor. Would I really spend twenty minutes of my life sweeping a floor for this chocolate bar? No. No, not really. Not even Green & Blacks dark chocolate ginger is worth that. “

While this logic was very good for my waistline, it wasn’t good for my peace of mind. I never felt good buying anything – unless it was something that would help me to gain the skills I needed to someday work a job I enjoyed. I long for the day when I can go to City Market, lovingly eye that same seductive chocolate bar, and think, “three dollars… three dollars for a chocolate bar. This chocolate bar equals ten minutes of teaching yoga. Would I really spend ten minutes of my life teaching yoga for this chocolate bar? Hell, yeah. Bring on the chocolate.”

I anticipate being a very fat, very happy yogi.

Flipping back through my journals is an amusing activity for me. It’s always humbling to see how so few of my plans turned out the way I’d thought they would. According to my original plan, I should be in county Claire right now, learning how to birth cattle. I was never supposed to work with George and Maria, visit Roisin, couchsurf in Galway, spend Christmas in Copenhagen, au-pair in the Riviera, couchsurf in Marrakech, or spend my final ten days in Paris. Things not going according to plan used to be a huge frustration for me (threw my MUST HAVE EVERYTHING MANAGED personality for a major rollercoaster ride), but now I enjoy watching things unfold. I’m not passive. I still make decisions, but I don’t feel any guilt about saying, “God, Ireland is f*cking cold. Think I’ll switch things up and head south for the winter.”

A lot changes in a year. Plans change. People change. Countries change. I found out that I’m a Canadian citizen. You know.

My little sisters will be so grown-up. Anna got her second ear piercing and Jaime is teaching dance classes. I’ve seen pictures of them wearing some of my old clothes, and it’s weird to acknowledge that the clothes fit. My older brother will be getting married. I’m going to have a sister-in-law by mid-August. My parent’s house flooded and they’ll be a new floor. My mother’s getting quite involved with gardening, and my workaholic father now takes Saturdays off. My best friend finished ranger training and is now a certified badass.

My younger brother doesn’t seem to have changed much, though. Jared is still obscenely cool. Always has been, always will be.  

Thinking about the changes waiting for me at home makes me think about the changes other people will notice in me when my behemoth bag and I finally roll back into GJ for the summer of 2012.

My week at Pueblo Ingles taught me how to have hour-long conversations with perfect strangers in spite of a language barrier. As everyone seemed to enjoy my company and conversation, I left the eight-day program convinced that I was a generally likable person with fairly nice things to say. I ate blood påté for the first time, learned to drink wine socially, and gave my first yoga demonstration.  Having to jabber on for a minimum of twelve hours a day removed my self-conscious filter. I learned how to talk about anything whatsoever without a twinge of embarrassment, as the actual content of what I was saying was irrelevant.  There were no requirements that one must wax on about interesting subjects – just that one must wax on in English.

06-11-11

I’m in Cazorla, finishing off my third day of Pueblo Ingles. It’s a wonderful experience thus far. Talking and connecting with strangers is getting easier and easier with each one on one. Something that used to terrify me now excites me. It’s hard to believe that there was once I time I was so afraid of human contact that I would burst into panicked tears if Mom asked me to phone someone for her.

I certainly hope the Spaniards are getting something out of this, because I’m having the time of my life. The weather is perfect, the food is phenomenal, and the activities are all really enjoyable. People find my story very unique and like listening to me tell it. Homeschooling isn’t exactly a common practice in Spain, so many of the Spaniards regard me as a sort of extraterrestrial/miracle child. As I have so little experience outside of my homeschool bubble, I actually am some sort of extraterrestrial. From planet Bourget/select few friends that cohere to planet Bourget’s core values. There’s nothing wrong with being from planet Bourget, though. I just need to learn how to navigate between it and Earth with more tact.

Speaking to people with limited English is challenging and liberating. It’s challenging because I have to slow down and learn to annunciate properly. It’s liberating because I know that if I say something stupid, they’ll probably be concentrating so hard on understanding the English that they won’t notice the stupid.

MY DAYS IN MADRID

A letter to my sister:

Anna,

There are a lot of statues of horses in Madrid. Spain has a very famous riding academy with all the Lipizzaner horses, so a lot of children start training from very young ages to become riders in the Lipizzaner shows. When I was at Pueblo Ingles, I met a very nice Spaniard whose nephew was training to become a professional rider. Have you ever seen a Lipizzaner show? I bet you'd like them.

I leave for my yoga training program tomorrow! I'm excited to get out of the big city of Madrid and back into the country. I'm also looking forward to eating good food again. I have a very difficult time buying food here. I'm in the heart of Madrid, so everything is touristy and very expensive. The shops are arranged in a very confusing way, and as I don't speak any Spanish (and very few Spaniards speak English), it's hard for me to navigate my way around buying a few pieces of fruit.

I love you very, very much. Talk to you soon.

Your sister,

-Aimee

My month at yoga training in Acebo taught me that I could never be a vegetarian. EVER.  It also taught me to accept my body (and its many shortcomings), accept my thoughts (and not identify with them), and the multiple mosquito bites speckling my tortured hide made meditation a must – for only when focusing tremendously hard on something other than my itching back could I manage to fall asleep at night. I learned how to wash my clothes by showering inside of them, and to reuse floss in my obsessive, unhealthy frugality.  I learned how to share showering space with spiders the size of my REI dishcloth/towel, and I learned how to truly enjoy the most emotionally supportive environment in which I’ve ever been. I pushed my limits physically, emotionally, and mentally (trying to grasp the logic behind vegetarianism proved quite arduous for me), and came to a much deeper understanding of myself. An understanding that made it easier for me too like myself – something this self-deprecating perfectionist has always had a difficult time doing.

06-21-11

My yoga program starts today. Part of me feels like a fool for registering for teacher training when I’ve only been practicing on again/off again for one short year, and part of me relishes the boldness I feel when I create unreasonable goals for myself.  And this is certainly one of my unreasonable goals (followed by the goal to travel alone on 4000 dollars for as long as I can).

I made it to from my hostel in Plaza Mayor to the airport and hotel in fine time. I spent an hour analyzing google maps and the Madrid metro system, figured out how long each stop would take (taking into account that the metro is quite empty in the mornings, due to the very late Spanish lifestyle), and added up the metro minutes to calculate the time I ought to leave. I then gave myself an extra hour that I might have enough time to get lost and un-lost again, but as I didn’t once lose my way, I had an hour and a half to wait at Hotel Clement. I couldn’t withdraw cash on the way over, but thankfully, the first thing this study-aholic did when she got to the hotel was take out her distinctive purple book on the yoga sutras. Another yogi in training recognized the book and told me not to worry about the cash. “Vidya will be chill about it.”

Oh, how I love the hippies.

I’m excited for yoga school. Also, I wish I could nap. I’ll probably be able to sleep quite easily on the six-hour bus ride.

Just do the best you can in Lalita. Do your best and enjoy it. You’re not here to be stressed and unhappy. Embrace learning. Be healthy. Be good.

06-25-11

I haven’t been able to sleep the last two nights; the mosquitoes have been so bloody awful. We closed the windows, but there were so many mosquitoes inside that it didn’t make a bit of difference. Mette, Maria, Ingrid and I had to bury ourselves under our stifling comforters in a hot, humid room in order to escape the rapacious bugs. I have a halo of squashed mosquitoes around my pillow. Unfortunately, the opportunistic insects do not recognize their slaughtered brethren as a warning sign – just as a signal that fresh blood must be nearby.

I think that today marks the end of my chronic soreness. While I could hardly walk up the dirt trail, climb the makeshift wooden stairs, mount the step-ladder, and crawl into my spider infested bed last night, now I simply have a minor limp. I am very grateful for this improvement.

The power went out today. This whole retreat center is run on solar energy, and I think all of us yoga wannabes just love our electronics way too much. So it’ll be a candlelight dinner tonight. Which is absolutely fine, as it doesn’t get dark here until ten thirty. I’m still having a difficult time adjusting to the length of days here. I enjoy going to bed early and waking up early, and since it doesn’t get dark until so late and we have no blinds or curtains to speak of (and there are four of us in the room), my overwhelming desire to crawl into bed at 22:00 is effectively thwarted. 

The Austrian lady (Sue) has a terrible allergy to onions and garlic. She’s thrown the kitchen for somewhat of a loop, as EVERY Spanish dish starts off with a healthy dollop of olive oil, and a generous helping of onions and garlic. Paella without garlic is unfathomable to the average Spanish palate. So yesterday afternoon, when the kitchen staff forgot that Sue was also celiac. She went from nine in the morning until seven at night with no food.

This vegetarian fare is really messing with my system. I’m gassy all the time. I have terrible digestion, but I seem to be losing weight and my skin is clearing up. During meditation, every stomach rumbles away, the cow bellows as if it’s in labor, a rooster crows every two minutes, mosquitoes buzz around my ears, and I’m supposed to ignore the ache in my lower back and “let it all go.” Which is something that has never been easy for me. Letting go. I’m so much better at holding on to things, even if the effort is tearing me up. Something to work on. J

06-30-11

I’m so tired. It’s six thirty in the morning, and I already feel completely drained. Not a good start for my day.

I’m sitting in the corner of the dining room, doing homework and scrawling away in my journal. Being a bad yogi. And such. I might have even made eye contact with Doug, which is a capital pre-mediation crime.

Today we have to do two hours of twists for our morning routine. I’m a little nervous because I feel like excessive morning twisting could release the gas that’s been building up all night. Which would be so unpleasant for everyone.

Stupid vegetarian food.

My lack of spending money makes me feel a lot like a stingy mooch. I want to be a generous person, but I don’t know what I can be generous with. I’ve decided to do a lot of soul searching to try to find ways to be constantly giving without spending money.

Massages are always good.

07-2-11

I had a breakdown in yoga practice yesterday morning. Every time I went into downward facing dog, I’d start to feel the tears welling up. But every time I jumped forward into Tadasana, I switched off (or did my best to switch off) so that no one could tell what an emotionally hard time I was having. I’m a lot harder on myself here. I keep thinking, “Oh my god. You’re going to be TEACHING this? You can’t even do the splits. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Today will be better. I will be in a better mood (although I am quite stressed about my routine for tomorrow) and today is the first day of student teacher trainers. Given that we can only teach a seventy-five minute class and that most of us are new to this teaching business, I’m anticipating easier classes. One in the morning and one in the afternoon.

If only I can get through meditation without dozing off. That’s the real challenge of the day.

I’m going to walk into town after I finish talking to Svetlana on Monday. I’m going to buy some floss, feminine products (period’s coming up. Alas) and splurge on some dark chocolate (period’s coming up. Alas).

I’m a little frustrated by how little say I have in what I do here. In what I eat, in where I sleep, in how to dispose of the giant spiders crawling across my sheets at night.

Today is Saturday the second. Only eleven more days. I can do this. I have the stamina, the courage, and good sense enough to finish this intensive course and finish it WELL.

07-04-11

Fourth of July. It’s strange to think that today is a huge national holiday in my country but that it means absolutely nothing here. It’s strange to think that I won’t be seeing any fireworks tonight.

I had another breakdown yesterday, and it was by far the most intense yet. I keep thinking that I’ve hit my bottom and then realizing just how much farther I’m capable of falling.

Yesterday I learned that I have bone on bone compression in my hip joints that prevents nearly all turn out. Because of this, I will never be able to do poses like Lotus, which require externally rotated hips. Stretching and trying to get there regardless would only put a lot of strain on my knees. Which would lead to pretty serious injuries.

My body feels like it’s breaking and my heart feels like it’s going to cramp and spasm itself into a tiny ball of furious pain and then explode into my ribcage.

My neck hurts from all the heart openers.

My shoulder is swollen.

My wrists are shot.

Why? Because I didn’t physically prepare for this program and am pushing myself too hard.

I need to find the balance. I need to let go of my desire to operate in extremes.

I would also like some f*cking meat, please.

07-09-11

Four and a half days of yoga training left. I’m going to miss the environment here, but not the routine. Not the incessant yoga, not the vegetarianism, not Vidya’s monotone voice. Not the sketchy internet, the high pitched mosquitoes, or the dive-bombing gnats.

I am going to miss being able to communicate with people about shared passions in English. I’m actually quite nervous about working on a farm where my host speaks about zero English.

07-13-11

Today is the last day of yoga training. One more meditation, one more asana practice, one more philosophy lecture, one more night with the mosquitoes, and one more test. One more day of vegetarianism. One more day of Ruthie’s Jokes, Coralie’s wit, and Iwona’s wisdom. I’m going to miss Ingrid’s laugh and Mette’s generous smile.

Things I’ve gained:

·      Friends

·      Flexibility

·      The knowledge that I could never function as a vegetarian

·      More muscle in my legs and arms

·      More flubber in my belly

·      More awareness of my body

·      Better balance

·      A good routine

·      Patience with myself

·      A lot more calm

·      A lot more generosity

·      FIGS. F*cking figs, man.

My days in Venice taught me the joys of getting lost in a beautiful city. I also learned just how divine Italian gelato is, and how excruciatingly difficult it is to find a bathroom in the toilet-forsaken city.

07-20-11

Sometimes I think about the family I left at home and I think, “What the hell am I doing?”

I really want someone to travel with. I need me a travel buddy. This aimless wandering around Venice has been breathtakingly beautiful, but has gotten me really lonely. I’ll be meeting Carla soon. Here’s to the next four weeks of my life! May I continue to learn and grow and meet amazing people!

My days in Bologna and Florence taught me how much I adore charcuterie. It also strongly reinforced my adoration of gelato and made me feel like a skank for getting the cold shoulder in various churches. Due to the unacceptable bareness of my own. I was so busy eating pork and getting thrown out of churches that I neglected my journal.

My month at Agritourismo Ca’Lattis taught me how to communicate without words (or with very, very few). It taught me how to laugh at myself and at situations instead of getting frustrated and embarrassed. When you don’t understand, just laugh. Everyone understands laughter, and people are far more patient with you when you’re laughing than when you’re scowling in confused frustration. I learned how to make sheep mozzarella, how to enjoy a ripe fig, the sound an angry goose makes, the rapturous bellows of mating donkeys, and how delicious pork wrapped in rabbit is. I learned how to plant beans, ferment sardines, schlep snails, and weasel my way into the prized kitchen of a jealous chef.  I read several plays by Oscar Wilde and William Shakespeare, and wrote nothing at all. Here’s a letter I wrote to a good friend during that time:

Hombre,

My days are a lot less cluttered than they used to be. I think this trip is helping me gain a bit of focus and perspective -- two things I desperately needed. The yoga training did a lot of good for me mentally and emotionally. My nightmares are gone, I'm not as anxious, and I'm a whole lot easier on myself about the little things. I don't spend my days (or the entirety of them, anyway) beating myself up for all the things I didn't get around to doing or all of the areas wherein I'm still so woefully incompetent. I've read two Shakespeare plays, a bit of Mark Twain's travel memoirs (which are hysterical, by the way. He's such a witty, racist bastard), and a bit about permaculture during my stay. I work on my plays every now and then and try to keep up a yoga routine (although the Italian lifestyle is NOT very conducive to yoga...). Other than that... I just help out around the farm. I feed animals, work in the garden, rake hay, and help out in the kitchen.

Yesterday, I did nothing but help in the kitchen, read your email, and give

Laura a badass foot massage.

And it was a really good day.

I don't know if I'm able to relax so much because I'm being constantly stimulated by the whole being immersed in a completely different culture thing, or if I'm just mentally drained and relishing the chance to recuperate. Whatever the reason may be, I think that the wonderful simplicity of my month here has been very good for me.

We'll see how things go in Ireland.

Thanks again for writing to me. It's a little isolating, being the only one here who doesn't speak Italian... I've gotten pretty quiet again. Everything moves in slow motion for me. The few words I know in Italian come slowly. I move slowly because I want people to be able to correct me before I make a fatal mistake due to a misunderstanding. I eat slowly because the food is so good and there's so much of it. I'm enjoying this bubble of slow motion, but I wonder if it's something brought on entirely by the language barrier. I would like to maintain a bit of it in Ireland. Slow motion is good for my digestion and my brain. ;)

But it is so very nice to have a conversation (even via email) with someone

in my language.

Missing you, too. Come visit me in Ireland. I'll be there Thursday.

-Hambre

My days with Lochlann taught me how to ride a bicycle on the left side of the road in the pouring rain through a busy city whilst following a fellow who doesn’t signal. On very little sleep, with a flying/chocolate induced headache, and right off the plane.

My month at Moyleabbey taught me how to be happy regardless of unpleasant circumstances. Here are a few journal entries:

08-27-11

Today’s a free day, and I really feel like I’ve earned it. The work here is hard, tedious, and boring, but I have a strange, unexpected contentment regarding it. Maybe it’s because I know it will be over soon. I don’t particularly like the work, I’m a little lonely, I’m cold, my body is sick, but I am not unhappy.

I must be developing as a human being. I will reach Samadhi any day now.

I’m considering leaving for home around Christmas. I’ll see how the other farms operate, how my money holds out, and whether or not I can handle the cold.

08-28-11

Today… patience with Kai. Focus on the things you’re giving rather than on the things you’re receiving. Don’t be afraid to ask for space. If you find yourself getting irritable, just say that you need some recharge time. Don’t let yourself get upset.

I have a feeling I’ll be eating a lot of tahini at this farm… as there is absolutely no other way to get the calories I need.

Just be thankful to be here.

·      Ask about scanner at lunch

·      Ask how late the butcher shop is open (NEED MEAT)

·      Ask about sending letters/postcards

We had a fire last night. It was a marvelous thing to fall asleep in a room that wasn’t an icebox. For the first time in over a week, I didn’t wake up sans feeling in my nose and toes.

08-30-11

I had such a dismal day. It’s been such a long, lonely, quiet weekend. Why am I so much lonelier here than I was in Spain and Italy? I have more difficulty communicating with Irish people than I did with Italians – even though we didn’t speak the same language.

I am learning quite a bit about Irish culture. I just don’t really like it, is the thing. No wonder they have such superb theatre here. Life is so dismal that they definitely need it.

The people are friendly, but I seem to run into the quiet ones who make me feel really awkward in conversation. If there is a conversation. I never know when they’re finished speaking. They never make any comments when I’ve finished, so I feel like I have to continue speaking until they make an acknowledging comment allowing me to shut-up.

I enjoy the cat that resembles a raccoon.

The French couple didn’t know what French fries were. This provided the best amusement of the week.

08-31-11

Yesterday was lovely. The work didn’t seem too long or too hard, the food was decent enough, and I had a fun time with the French couple. Be happy to be here. Jump at the chance to learn. Engage the family more. Ask more questions. Eat less cheese.

09-06-11

I miss theatre. I saw yesterday that Jesse Keeter was cast in a film. I was just as good as him, way back when. Now I don’t know what I am. Why am I really here? To learn about organic farming or to escape from my many rather overwhelming failures? Is it the desire to connect with the earth and discover different cultures in the process, or is it my failure in theatre, relationships, work, and school that has driven me to where I am now?

I’m beginning to think it’s the latter.

What am I going to do about it?

It’s still bitingly cold, but my long-underwear is doing an admirable job of keeping my ass nice and toasty. Warmest my ass has been in about two weeks.

I can’t wait to receive my laptop and start submitting plays to competitions. The idea of actually making money off of my hard work (artistically) boggles my mind.

09-07-11

The French leave tomorrow. I will be sad to see the  go, but happy to have the mobile home to myself. If I do indeed get the mobile home to myself. I hope I am the only WWOOFer for these eleven days. I don’t like sneaking around in the mornings.

Part of me really wants what Jason has. My own house, a lucrative job, and family close by.

Why did money never matter to me before? I guess I was too busy with school. That gave me all the satisfaction I needed.

Dude. Screw Ireland. I wanna go home for Christmas and then move to a big city on the west coast.

I’m glad that I’m not packing up and leaving immediately. I am learning here. I’m also glad that I’m being flexible enough with myself to leave early, if needs be.

09-16-11

Today is the last workday at Moyleabbey Organic Farm. I can make it through with a kickass attitude.

I worry too much about things like money and whether or not I’m missing my calling and how all my family members are doing better in life than I am.

I’m having a hard time being happy for the happy.

Do I want to be a vagabond?

Is that the life I’m choosing for myself? Will that make me happy?

I think so. As long as I can write and interview and keep friendships and stay healthy.

I spend a lot of time doing menial labor. I do things I normally wouldn’t like. Such as weeding carrots. I’m very lonely (most of the time), but I’m still happy (even though I’m miserable). Happier than I’ve ever been, really. I constantly tell myself, “Aimee… you’re weeding carrots.” Then I say, “Yes, but you’re weeding carrots in IRELAND.” Which seems to make all the difference.

If I had someone with me, I would like to keep moving like this, month by month. I enjoy the 30-day commitment, as it gives me enough time to get to know my hosts and to become a helpful, working member in their lives – but it makes leaving more difficult. I feel uprooted and alone every time I move on, but I like that I’m absolutely free to create a new self every month in a manner that would prove difficult if I had a travel buddy. I don’t like that I was too shy to spend evenings chatting with Thomas and Pauline. At my next placement, I will be a CHATTERBOX, and I will have NO one around to say, “What’s going on? This isn’t you – you’re just being an insecure chameleon, changing personalities to fit in better.”

Moving like this is a way to shape myself into the person I WANT to be, as I start each month with a completely blank slate. No preconceptions. No expectations. It’s incredibly liberating and devastatingly depressing to realize how much of my previous behavior resulted from the ways in which people expected me to behave (given my past behavior) and not a result of what I believed and wanted for myself.

I read a lot these days. I sleep a lot. I eat a lot. WWOOFing seems to agree with me.

WWOOFing doesn’t seem to agree with Amy and David, though. At least, WWOOFing HERE doesn’t seem to agree with them. I’m glad. It means that I’m not out of my mind in thinking that the hours are unreasonable.

I get to cook tonight. I’m thinking peppers, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, and rice in tortillas. Goodness, I hate cooking for macrobiotic people who don’t use eggs. But even cooking without eggs is better than pruning gooseberries.

I fell in love with a book that’s missing pages. “Another Roadside Attraction” by Tom Robbins.

When I have tons of money in the states, I’ma gonna buy this book. Twice. Just to make bloody sure I have those goddamn pages.

My fingers are cracking.

I feel comfortable around David and Amy now that I know for sure that they don’t want me here and I didn’t expect them.

Taking a shit when you know that a couple having sex can hear you is so bloody awkward. I wonder how many orgasms my efficient but gassy digestive system has undermined.

Time to go steam some carrots and leeks.

09-17-11

I finished all the work at my first farm in Ireland! I went out with a spicy brownie bang (albeit made with carob and egg substitute). Dinner was really great. I thoroughly enjoyed the steamed kale.

Seeing David reminds me of how much I miss American sensibilities and humor. In general. We are a pretty funny nation. I haven’t had this much contact with an American since Anthony in Taglio di Po. I think I’m very attracted to the energy of American men.

It takes about a month for me to adjust to a new schedule. The work days felt painfully long near the beginning, but now they feel fine. I kind of enjoy them.

But this has been an easy week.

Virginia Woolf was an incredibly sexy lady, if the picture on my kindle screen saver does her any justice. Damn. I think we have the same jaw line. If only I had her voluminous hair.

09-18-11

Man, that coffee sure made it hard for me to sleep. But here I am with another cup. I believe I’m addicted. The taste is divine this morning, but I don’t enjoy watching the rhythmic shaking of the liquid. These walls are too thin. I hate it when my coffee quivers in time with the lovemaking I can’t help hearing (and feeling) occurring in the other room.

My month and a half at Sinead’s taught me how to make red onion marmalade, how to make facial scrubs and moisturizers, how to carve terrific pumpkins, how to participate in Druid moon ceremonies, how to hitchhike, and just how many perfectly good vegetables organic farmers have to compost because people won’t buy them. I shall certainly use this bit of knowledge to my advantage upon my return to the States.

09-25-11

I’m at Sinead’s. God, I am so happy to be here. I feel so at home and my loneliness is almost gone. The work is hard, but I have something to look forward to here. A warm bed, a warm dinner, a glass of wine, good conversation.

I certainly didn’t realize how awful my last placement really was until I got here.

09-30-11

The last day of September. I’ve been with Sinead for ten days now, and have enjoyed every one of them. Market was yesterday. It was a fun, frigid atmosphere, but it was frustrating to see so few people buy from Sinead’s booth. I had a similar feeling at the agritourismo when nobody showed up for lunch or dinner. Guilty and burdensome. Oh well.

I met Maria today. She seemed very pleasant. Told me that I’d be helping to train two four-year-old fillies to hunt. I’m a little worried about my skill level not being advanced enough, but I’ll go and do the best I can.

Irish conversations are hard. Everyone needs to be jumping in with impressive one-liners constantly, or they’ll be left out. As I’m very bad at interrupting and my long-windedness is nearly legendary, I tend to sit on the sidelines when the Irish start their banter.

10-16-11

I’m about to start another week of work at Sinead’s. She’s just come back from her vacation in Portugal, so I’m sure she has a lot of catch-up work for us to do. I enjoy the woman, but it was definitely a relief to just share the house with Kim this last week. Not having the boss/landlord/host around for a few days was nice. I’m an equal with Kim, which makes everything a bit less tense. There’s something inherently stressful about living with the person for whom you’re working. I’m getting a little tired of this lifestyle. I want to be able to settle down for long enough to build some sort of community. I’m getting tired of living in other people’s houses. It’s hard, not having a place I can call my own. Except this side of the couch. Which I’ve commandeered from Cat.

 I’m constantly on edge, feeling as if I’m encroaching somehow.

Things I’ve done well at this farm:

·      Taken advantage of the opportunities Sinead’s given me to explore and meet her friends

·      Spent very little money. I still have fifty Euros left.

·      Had the courage to teach yoga

·      Have never had a bad attitude about the work

·      Have done my best to be social

·      Got my laptop

·      Have gone above and beyond as far as pumpkins and red onion marmalade and dinner parties are concerned

Things that I need to work on:

·      More consistency in my yoga routine

·      Healthier eating habits

·      FLOSS

·      Ask more questions and write more of the answers down

·      Don’t talk about things like aluminum in anti-perspirant. People don’t want to know that their deodorant can give them cancer.

·      Have a consistent writing schedule. For plays, letters, and blogs

·      Take things less personally. In general.

·      Be better at owning up to the stupid shit you do. Everyone makes mistakes. Own them and apologize for them.

·      Try to leave a conversation knowing more about the other person than he/she knows about you.

·      Have more respect for the way people choose to keep their homes. Sinead doesn’t have to cook with olive oil. That is her personal choice. While I think it is bizarre and unreasonable, I still need to respect it.

·      Be just a little cleaner than the cleanest person in the house.

10-18-11

Yesterday was quite busy. We worked four hours in the morning, between harvesting and chicken coop cleaning (I NEVER want to keep chickens in a coop). Only a two-hour afternoon, but it was a very intense box veg two hours.

A letter to a friend:

Hombre,  

Ireland... Ireland is cold and wet. I cannot say that enough. 

Wet. 

Cold. 

COLDWETCOLD. 

People eat far too many potatoes. They call them spuds, though. I threw a dinner party for Sinead's friends (which means I cooked and she bought the food) the other week, and Sinead refused to let me plan a meal without spuds. “This is Rland, Aimee. Where are the spuds?” I made a chicken encased in salt, a beer chicken, a wine chicken, chocolate soufflé, onion/garlic/thyme tart, leek tart, and was planning on making roasted vegetable kebabs, but Sinead overruled my kebabs and asked for mashed spuds. 

Fecking spuds. I don't understand it. No flavor. Stupid texture. Just a bunch of calories and a huge amount of sugar. 

People drink SOMUCHTEA. It's all black tea, though. By black, I mean Earl Grey. When you ask for black tea, it means "tea with no milk." When you ask for tea, it means "Earl Grey". Sinead makes some hippie tea using comfrey, clover, and calendula, but that's as herbal as it comes. I miss the fruity teas. How I would love some Orange Zinger right now. 

Lemon Zinger would be passable, too. 

But seriously, the stereotype of the Irish is that they drink an abundance of beer. While I'm not negating this stereotype, a far more appropriate one would be of an Irish lad with a mug of Earl Grey. 

Irish people have terrible style. I'm not one to judge style at all (yoga pants suit me just fine), but a lot of the clothing here truly is horrendous. I think a lot of it has to do with the weather and the influence of American TV. They want to wear really short/revealing clothing, but they just can't because it's so ridiculously COLDWETCOLD. 

So they layer. They wear tights underneath their short shorts. Attractive shirts are few and far between because of the necessity to constantly wear jackets/slickers. 

There are socks specifically designed to be worn with wellingtons. I am not joking. 

Cilantro is called coriander. 

Zucchini is called courgette. 

People say, "that's deadly!" when something strikes their fancy. 

There are quite a few excellent coffee shops and bookstores in Kilkenny. 

Although Ireland is an island, very few people seem to eat fish. This is ridiculous to me. If I lived on an island, I would be consuming fish all the time. 

Blood sausage is very tasty. 

Parsnips sautéed in butter and nutmeg. Do it. 

Each county has a different accent. Kerry is the county with the leprechauny accent most Americans are familiar with, though. Kildare and Kilkenny have had much more down-to-earth accents that aren't as whimsical, but are much easier to understand. I'm excited to hear what the accent sounds like in Tipperary and Leitrim. I'll head out to Galway and Mayo after I finish the rounds in Italy, so that I can hear the western accent and see the Cliffs of Moher. 

The rivalry between counties is intense. "Dubs" generally get a lot of animosity from the rest of Ireland because they've got the largest city. People seem to pick on the "Tips" as well. People resent Kilkenny for always winning at hurling, and there's a bit of resentment directed towards Cork for their food revolution. 

Which is very much needed. My god. 

I've started teaching Sinead yoga in the mornings. I'm a terrible teacher right now, but I can see myself getting good and finding a lot of fulfillment in teaching. It would be a great thing to travel with, too. Freelance yoga teaching to pay for plane tickets? Yes please. 

10-24-11

I go to Dublin tonight on a bus that leaves at eighteen thirty-five. I need to print off my ticket and pack my things at lunchtime so that I don’t have to worry about it later.

Loads of people honk at the pumpkin stand as they drive by. Are they encouraging me in my pumpkin selling endeavor, or are they being snarky? I find this behavior a little odd. Only one person has actually stopped. Sinead is not going to be happy. I might as well have been helping her with the harvest. In this shite weather harvesting can’t be one iota of fun.

Sure wish someone would buy a pumpkin.

Nobody wants a pumpkin. And it’s lunchtime, my toes are frigid, and I have to use the loo.

The loo… I wonder if that’s a word I’ll keep when I return to the States. Loo… “Excuse me, could you please tell me where I can find the loo?”

I just sold four pumpkins. WIN.

Wake up to watch the sunrise more often.

10-28-11

I, Aimee Bourget, am officially hung over. I guess the funny part is that I went out drinking Wednesday night, felt quite OFF all day Thursday, and puked my guts out Thursday night. As soon as I’d finished preparing the dinner. I will never forget how miserable that whole experience was. I swear, I threw-up everything. Including my stomach acid. Which has a burning metallic taste.

My psoriasis is out of control, I haven’t practiced any yoga in the past two and a half weeks (except to drunkenly show off at Kevin’s), and my writing is lagging terribly. I drink too much wine, consume too much sugar, overdo the dairy, and LIVE for my morning “latté”.

This is not how I want to live.

I’m manning the pumpkin stand this morning/afternoon. No one has stopped. Most of these orange beauties will probably be thrown into the compost heap before Monday. Sad life of a Jack. Only desirable one day out of the whole year.

Someone (anyone) please stop and buy at least one of these lovely, vibrant pumpkins so that I don’t have to tell Sinead nothing sold.

I was so cold last night. Cold and thirsty. But I couldn’t get warm because I had to keep leaving my bed to vomit, and I couldn’t hydrate because even the smallest amount of water made me nauseous. I have NO idea how people can make themselves that miserable on a consistent basis.

I just sold a carved pumpkin!

11-01-11

This morning was my last at Sinead’s. I really am going to miss her. And Kim. I hope that I’m able to go to Wales and work in the pub over Christmas. My next two hosts have canceled on me, so after Maria’s, I really will be homeless. I found a round-trip ticket to Paris for only 144 dollars. Maybe?

I’ll contact a few families in the south of France to see if I can volunteer with them.

My bus is late. Surprise, surprise. The bus driver is probably off having tea somewhere. But the sun is shining, so he can have as much tea as he likes. I couldn’t care less. Especially since I have an hour to wait in between stops, and the SUN IS SHINING. It’s Ireland, and the SUN IS SHINING.

*Insert hallelujah chorus

11-02-11

Today will be my first time riding with Maria. It’s wet and windy and cold. A perfect Irish day. The horses are gorgeous, enormous, expensive, and highstrung.

I’m nervous as hell.

Worst case scenario – things don’t work out and I get sent back to Sinead’s.

Best case scenario – things do work out and I have the time of my life. Maybe things will work out so well that I’ll stay for Christmas. Although I would like to find a way to get to Wales. No, I want this to be my last month in Ireland. Until spring, anyway. How short one month seems.

It’s a very dark morning… I hope it lightens up before the ride.

I just gave myself a very nasty burn on the lip by eating boiling cabbage. Brilliant.

11-06-11

It’s COLD outside, but I am almost toasty inside with my cup of coffee.

Ach. Coffee. How I’ve grown too fond of you.

Saturday was long and lovely. We went to the market (in Cahir) around eight, I helped set up and then I had the morning free to wander. We didn’t get on the horses until about sixteen forty, so it was quite dark by the time we arrived at the stables. We un-tqcked and I made my leek quiche. Much positive feedback regarding the addition of nutmeg. Thank-you, Laura.

We go for a long, steep ride today. I didn’t know why I had expected to get the day off – it IS Sunday, but horses still need to be ridden, and no one else is going to do it.

Never try to high-five anyone outside of America. It isn’t done.

I’m going to start talking to animals incessantly when I leave here. Leon and Tubby and I have extensive conversations, but my conversations with This One are by far the most stimulating. Tubby talks to me about what a fine hunter he was in his younger years, and Leon whines about how I don’t let him eat horseshit. I sometimes congratulate the mice on how sneaky they are when it comes to avoiding Maria’s traps, but they never take the time to respond properly.

My knees hurt. The ride yesterday was quite difficult for me, as THIS ONE decided to spook at just about everything. It was tense going, and I hope I don’t have to deal with that sort of spookiness today.

Maria keeps calling me Abbie just like Laura kept calling me Leslie. They both felt bad and apologized profusely, but I don’t mind. I have the satisfaction of knowing that they’ll call the NEXT person Aimee.

I would stay here longer, but I don’t feel like an adequate rider to handle these horses.

11-07-11

Maria said to be ready by a quarter past seven. It is now past a quarter to eight, and I still hear her rummaging around in her bedroom. I have been breakfasted and coffeed and am ready to go. Just wish I could use the internet. Ach. Stupid green “I’m not working” light.

One of the fellows we ran into last night (the master of the hunt) had visited my hometown years ago. He loved it, which made me a little homesick. It’s been a long time. Five months come tomorrow since I left my mountains.

Everyone keeps asking me whether or not I’ve tried the påté. I must try the påté before I have to answer “no, I have not yet tried the påté” again.

There are so many newspapers and magazines on horses. Better Betting, etc. The Irish Field seems to be the big one, though. I’m not sure if I like the competitive, top-class horse environment. Horses couldn’t be business for me. I would be far too stressed to enjoy them properly. If I ever am able to get a horse again, I will just be trail riding it. Up the mountains of Oregon.

11-09-11

Yesterday was five months. Wow. That kind of boggles my mind a little.

I really need to get some internet tomorrow and buy plane tickets to Denmark and France and to organize stays with couchsurfers.
I didn’t do very much work yesterday. I rode out from six to ten fifteen, followed the hunt from eleven to two thirty, and cleaned until four. I guess you could say that it was a good amount of work for a volunteer, but I always feel guilty when Maria does the dishes. Probably because I spend so much time writing and trying to get the Internet to work.

I’m so, so tired and I’m not sure why. I think I may be coming down with a winter bug.

11-12-11

Communicating with George is always very interesting. He has such a strong Austrian accent, but he always corrects me on my lazy American “D” substitutions. Like when I say, “liddle” instead of “little”. He stops for a moment, looks vaguely confused, and then says, “ach, little.” I think this will be very good for me. After leaving George and Maria’s, I will have perfect English.

George is just so intelligent and playful that I don’t know how to handle him.

He told me last night that the cheese in my salad was too strong. I agreed with him (I make it a point to always agree with George), and he looked quite shocked.

“Vat is zis? A voman agrees vis me? Zat never happens, does it, Maria?”

There are so many mice in this house. I blame Leon for the way he barrels through the doors all the time and practically begs the critters to come in where it’s warm.

11-14-11

Goodness, I feel awful. I need to go back to the states and get my own place. I need to get a real job already.

George mentioned a few days ago in a somewhat offhanded manner, “If you get bored, you may clean za drifevay.”

I either assumed that he was joking (as I don’t believe in boredom) or I assumed that it could wait. I should have just cleaned the littered driveway right away. George cleaned it himself while I was at market today, and I felt thoroughly miserable about it. I’m jumpy and gloomy and sullen. He said he was disappointed in me. Why do I care so much for George’s good opinion? I hardly know the man. I don’t know how to get over that little comment. “I vas disappointed in you.”

Damn.

At least he liked my courgette.

We’re supposed to ride out quite early today, but I don’t see that happening. It’s six fifteen and Maria is peacefully hacking away.

This whole blanket thing with horses strikes me as a little ridiculous. Take off the indoor blanket, saddle up, put on the sweat sheet over the saddle, take the sheet off to ride out, put it back on immediately after the ride is finished, remove the sheet to rinse off the sweat upon returning, put straw on their backs to absorb the excess water, and buckle the sweat sheets on again. After the water has been absorbed, remove the sweat sheet and straw , throw on their turnout rugs, and release them into the paddocks. Before it gets dark, venture out with a bucket of grain to coax the horses in for the night. Once in the stalls, replace the turnout rug with the indoor rug. Really. Horse blanketing could be a way to employ (and keep busy) all the bums in Ireland. Oy.

I think Tubby just breathed his last breath.

Nah, he’s still twitching. We’re good.

11-17-11

It’s hard to believe that I’ve only been here for two and a half weeks. I feel like I’ve learned so much in this short span of time. About horses, about myself, and about George.

11-18-11

Only twelve more days at Knockara. I’m going to miss it here. I’m not going to miss the invasive feeling WWOOFing gives me, but I am going to miss George and Maria. Desperately.

11-19-11

It’s official. My period has died. All that yoga training and vegetarian food has so effectively screwed my hormones that I haven’t menstruated in six months. While I haven’t exactly missed it, not having a period does worry me a bit. My body does strange things.

I see the mouse at least once a day now. That is one happy, warm, confident creature.

Leon is driving me nutty with his whining. I’m not going to let him into the kitchen because Tubby has pood on the floor and I really don’t want to watch him eat it this early in the morning. You’d think that he’d give up whining and scratching after half an hour, but boy howdy, the dog’s got stamina.

I’m jumping Lithai this afternoon. I’m a little concerned, as I haven’t jumped in quite a while. George says he will tell me how to ride, though. So I’ll do my best to listen and to do exactly as I’m told – as if I’d never ridden a horse before.

After dinner last night, George flashed me a satisfied smile and said, “Ve hired a rider and ve got a chef.”

“But George, I ride too.”

“Ach, yes. Ve hired a rider and ve got a rider AND a chef.”

11-24-11

Happy Thanksgiving, America. I’m going to miss you this year – you are hands down my favorite holiday, and I really wish I could be celebrating with my family in California right now. I’m very fortunate to be able to spend this American holiday with such good people, though.

German sounds wonderful in George’s mouth.

11-27-11

Only four more days at Knockara. I really am going to miss it. I love Maria, George, and Tubby. I love This One. I love the work schedule. Everything suites me so well.

George did not like my salad yesterday. Ach. I am losing my status as chef. Tonight I make lamb. George does not care for lamb.

Tomorrow I will try to make lentil soup. It is George’s favorite.

11-29-11

It rained an absurd amount over the last few hours. We won’t be able to ride out until later. The stalls will be filthy and the trails will be slick with mud. It was windy all night. George says it will stay like this for the rest of the day.

I need to take a picture of his man on za moon. Playing golf vis no clubs.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen George move around so much. It’s a little disconcerting. In and out of the bedroom. In and out of the fridge. Up, down, up, down, over and over again. I hope nothing’s wrong.

My time with Roisin taught me how to enjoy an evening out and exposed me to the wonder of Western Ireland. She also made it apparent that one can never be truly happy until one has a Jack Russell Terrier in one’s life. All in all, my two weeks with Roisin and her family was such a magnificent experience that I didn’t bother to take time to journal about it. Journaling is something I tend to do when I am having an emotional meltdown or I have an abundance of time on my hands and don’t have the inspiration to write plays. When I was with Roisin, I was far too busy playing with Bunny to pick up my pen to journal. Who in the world would write down their thoughts when they could be engaging in a fierce game of tug-a-war with this?

My time with Sarah in Galway taught me the importance of good footwear and the wonderful quality of Irish smoked fish (I lived off of smoked fish, cheese, and chocolate during my stay with the young filmmaker). I learned that when one buys boots after experiencing mild frostbite, one should always purchase boots quite a bit smaller than you think you need. If you neglect to heed this advice, your feet will be swimming in the boots when they deflate.

My time with Lorna and Matthew taught me just how delicious a hot port can be, the monumental importance of Big Bird to the employees of the G Hotel, and how to be a graceful loser at the game of scrabble. A game about which I tend to be a tad too passionate.

My time with the Maenchen family taught me how to effectively museum hop, how to enjoy Danish Christmas and New Year, and what the best cup of coffee in the world tastes like (not debatable).

My time with Baris taught me a bit about Turkish culture and drastically reinforced my dislike for my green bag. No one wants to lug that thing around the coast of Nice all day. I also learned just how difficult my next couple of months would be, language-wise. I had such a difficult time communicating with the locals. I knew the word for “where” and I had a picture for “train,” but even pointing at the picture and desperately asking, “Ou?” got me absolutely nowhere.

My time with the Pernots taught me how unreasonably delicious blood sausage truly is. I learned that I cannot tolerate caffeine, chocolate intake must be moderate, and alcohol should be limited to weekends. I learned how to befriend a three-year-old French boy, and to survive as a celiac in the most bread infested country I’ve seen thus far. I learned about the French navy, teaching English, and (in the end) how to be more assertive about my needs.

01-18-12

I’m nearly two weeks in France, and I’m working through the isolation of not understanding the language by eating far too much cheese and chocolate. And sausage. I’m gained a lot of weight though, so I suppose I need to discover a different method of working through isolation. Cheese, chocolate, and sausage doesn’t appear to be sustainable.

02-06-12

Leaving Baris. On the train for Toulon. There’s a boy crying three seats in front of me and across the aisle. I can’t see his face, but I can see his head bobbing up and down and I can hear him trying to stifle his sobs. There is a girl sitting on a bench outside the train. She’s dressed in grey and reading a paper. She detachedly smokes a cigarette and glances at the crying boy every now and then. He is looking at her, and she returns his attention with such coldness. She doesn’t keep his gaze. He blows kisses to nothing.

How French.

Goodness. The train lurched forward a few feet and revealed another man at the window, returning the crying man’s kisses. Never trust a first impression.

02-08-12

Today marks eight months of travel. Eight down, three to go. I am feeling confident about Marrakech and my ability to find places to stay. I’ve had nearly thirty responses to my open couchsurfing request in the last twenty-four hours. Seems like being a young American girl is good for something.

God, it’s grand to get to watch Caroline teach. Since I’m considering getting my TEFL, it’s lovely to have the opportunity to see what it would be like. She’s as good of a teacher as she is a parent. I could teach English and I could enjoy it, but I could never teach as well as Caroline.

I feel much more American now that I’m traveling because I’m so aware of the stereotypes others have for me based on my nationality. We all speak with a Texan accent, apparently.

03-06-12

My last hour and a half with the Pernots. I made myself so nervous about Marrakech yesterday that I went to bed with a raging headache.

It will be new, sure. It will be a bit frightening, undoubtedly. But I want to be the type of person who can travel to Morocco. Spur of the moment and alone. I want to be gutsy and crazy enough to do this. My spirit isn’t naturally adventurous or risk-taking. I have to force myself into situations where it’ll have to improvise and make do.

My time at the airport taught me just how important it is to make sure your flight leaves at a reasonable time. Five o’clock in the morning is not a reasonable time, Aimee. Be better to yourself next time.

03-07-12

I really thought I’d be able to be inside the airport. I’ve been waiting outside the gates (it’s frigid) for six hours. I imagined wandering around the shops and maybe falling asleep on a carpet for a few hours. Alas.

I’m frozen.

Someone ought to have informed us that the bathrooms are closed between twelve and five. Do they think people waiting up all night just stop peeing at this time?

Another forty-five minutes. Just forty-five minutes and I can relieve myself.

My bag weighed in at 18.6 kilos. Or something like that. I’ll probably throw a few more things before I get back, so I’ll definitely have space for my Moroccan garb.

My time with Mike taught me how to relax and enjoy a completely new culture. I learned what it would be like to not have to worry about a lack of money keeping you from experiencing all the divine foods and monumental sights your taste buds and eyeballs can possibly tolerate. I learned how to operate within a male-dominated culture. I learned that sometimes one has to be a complete ass in order to maintain personal space and not be constantly bothered by toothless hoodlums selling orange juice and inviting you up to their mountain riads for "oogie boogie". 

I sometimes fail at being a complete ass.

03-09-12

This is only my third day in Morocco, and I’ve seen so much that I feel as if I’ve been here for a month.

I hate it when people in the streets talk to me because if I respond, they won’t leave me alone. So I make a concerted effort to find something absolutely fascinating to the left of their earnest faces. This experience is comparable to when I couldn't look at my friend Jon during a romantic scene in Fiddler on the Roof. He was wholeheartedly serenading me and I was busily memorizing the mole in his left ear. 

This ignoring makes me feel like a first-rate asshole, but my host assures me that it's the only way to get people to leave you alone. This only makes me feel moderately better.

03-21-12

I’ve been in Morocco for two weeks, and I’m loving my time with Mike. Things can get a little awkward on occasion, but it isn’t overwhelming. I wish he wouldn’t hit on me quite so much, though. It makes me feel quite uncomfortable. Like he expects something out of me. I hope he’ll be satisfied with my company and my cooking, ‘cos that’s all I’m willing to offer.

03-23-12

My goodness, Mike is really starting to get on my nerves. He compliments me too much, interrupts with impressive frequency, and repeats himself like no one’s business. I pretend I don’t notice when I catch him staring dreamily into my face. He tells me I have his mother’s eyes and teeth. He says he’s already lost weight on this diet. He makes jokes about killing people that do NOT sit well with me. He’s started touching me in a more familial way, and it’s hard for me not to flinch. He snores, he smells, he makes harsh comments, and he drives the motorbike in a way that forces my breasts to press against his back. I abhor this. It’s so manipulative.

04-05-12

I’ve been with Mike for almost a month now, and his generosity has been overwhelming. His company can be trying at times, but I think we are understanding one another better every day. He still flirts with me, but it’s not as bad as it used to be. I feel like I can disregard his flirtations better, especially now that I’m pulling my own weight and teaching yoga.

God, teaching yoga makes me so happy. I had a really marvelous private practice this morning and an excellent teaching practice with Mike after. He’s making a lot of progress and it’s validating and gratifying to watch.   

My time with Jean-Cyril taught me how to play Tarot, to enjoy a heavenly cassoulet and to prepare a bananas foster sans rum (doable, but not optimal). I learned that Americans are scoundrels with no taste to speak of because we have been trying to outlaw raw cheese. 

I nearly disowned my countrymen when this atrocity was brought to my attention.

My time with Lorenzo was spent museum hopping with a friendly Mexican filmmaker, and attending choir recitals. He serenaded me with his own compositions on a gorgeous grand piano in an abandoned recital hall, and gave me a CD of his work when I left. I learned to love Paris at night whilst standing on a bridge over the moonlit Seine. I learned to embrace the idea of going home. 

Home. 

Am I ready?