I'll eat you up

I've spent a good part of my vacation holding WALL-E, my sister's green exotic bird. WALL-E reminds me of a small dinosaur, or the dinosaurs I've seen at least. And you never know if he's going to be very sweet or very violent. Yesterday he was sweet - he stared at me for a few minutes, then started licking a giant bloody gash on my left hand.

"He's healing you," my sister explains. "He can tell you're hurt."

It would have been even more adorable if he hadn't been the one who gave me the cut in the first place.

start spreading the news

I don't know whether I like America or France better.
I don't know if I'll be able to speak any French when I go back in a week.

I do know my dog looks great in antlers.
I do know I got a Frank Sinatra album for Christmas, and I know that's a Christmas miracle.

sixteen pounds of poodle

It's not quite enough to clear a four-foot snowbank, and a little bit too much to carry half a mile home because he's shivering and wet.



But it's just right.

elf yo-self

Did you dress up as an elf for a French Christmas party this year? Because I did. Actually in France Santa doesn't have elves, he has lutins - which translates to a cross between a pixie and brownie. Don't even get me started on the subtle differences between the thousands of French magical creatures.

A local Santa going to a holiday party needed an extra lutin, and apparently really skinny people with super pale skin and a round faces make convincing lutins? It was hyper-rad. All the kids gave me kisses and all the adults wanted their picture with me.



Afterwards a little boy said he saw my earrings and thought "Wait a second, lutins don't wear earrings..." and when he looked closer he realized my ears were fake, and then he realized Santa wasn't real. Well, guess who isn't getting any presents next year. And, since he's French, he'll be beaten by some crazy old man instead.

Lutins don't wear earrings; I can't believe the nonsense I put up with.

thank you, angel-dog.

11:05 am, I'm already five minute late to tutor someone, and I'm 10 minutes away from their apartment. I have 70 euros worth of small change in my pockets, 4 expired metro tickets and 1 valid ticket which all look identical, I'm carrying 2 extra-long rolls of glossy wrapping paper, and my shoes are untied. You can probably tell where this is going.

I fell on my face, cut my knee open, and bent the wrapping paper all out of shape. I have fallen at least 30 times in France, so as an expert on the subject let me tell you what it's like. If you fall and laugh good-naturedly, no one will laugh with you. Instead they will stare at you with disgust. Normally I laugh anyway, but this morning there were 200 people looking at me. So I started sobbing.

It was the definition of sobbing. Loud wails and snot and so many tears my vision was blurred. Because wrapping paper so slippery and French is so hard, and dang it why can't anyone in this country be nice to clumsy people. And most of all, I miss my family, and I just wanted someone to say "It's ok, everybody falls." And I just wanted a hug and I'm sick of being kissed. I promise I don't usually sob. But I couldn't go home, I had to keep walking, and once I started crying I couldn't stop. I limped toward my tutee's apartment, leaving a pathetic trail of soggy wrapping paper and tears.

Then, straight from heaven, came a tiny dog in a turtleneck sweater. He saw I was in distress and his little ears perked up. Without a moment's hesitation he sprinted toward me, tripling his speed to keep my pace. He skipped alongside me, staring up at me with such sincere concern that he was completely oblivious to the benches, trash cans, and pedestrians he was running into. And for a minute I had a friend.

Until his owner yelled "Leave her alone!" and dragged him off. I should have said something like "No, that was just what I needed today. Also I like his sweater; that color is very flattering on him."

But instead I just kept sobbing. Today really wasn't my day.

French beard-growing contest

 Hey, here are three photos of the last week.



Have you heard of Saint Beard? On December 4th in Provence, everyone puts some wheat in a bowl of cotton, and lets it germinate during the holidays. Then we gossip about wheat for three weeks - whose didn't sprout, whose is the tallest, who cheated by putting theirs on the radiator, and who tells the least-successful Saint Beard jokes.

The last one is me. While admiring our crop I asked my flatmates "Did Saint Beard invent the beard? Is that why we're celebrating?"

"No," they explained. "Beards just grow on faces on their own; no one invented them."
Sad clown noise.



And in other news, depending on your definition of news, I made this hideous tirelire for my sister. I can't remember the real word right now, but it's something you can put money in, and then throw in the trash when your sister goes back to France. I've been horrible at making things ever since I cut my finger on a tape dispenser in kindergarten, and refused to do crafts for the rest of the year because they were "too dangerous." I only cut myself three times while making this.



Our wheats are growing at a decent pace, which means next year will be full of good jokes and good beards and free of tape dispensers.

good tidings

I met a student teacher during lunch today - she's French but wants to teach English in elementary schools. After finding out that I teach English, she asked what kind of training I had. I said absolutely zero. She got super uppity, which I understood, because she's a real teacher and I'm just a well-payed babysitter that loves talking about colors.

But then she started randomly dropping English words. Like "I studied English in college and got a Master's in it." with the word studied in English. And I thought that was strange. Because yes she's better at teaching, but why was she getting catty about knowing the word studied?

"So," she said, "where did you learn English?"
"How did I learn English?"
"Yeah, where did you learn to speak English?"

I explained that I'm American; it's my first language. And she said she had thought I was French. After that entire conversation. Which can mean only one of two things:

1. I AM AWESOME AT SPEAKING FRENCH!
2. Everyone got drunk at lunch again.

I want it to be the first, but unfortunately the second happens almost every day.

not your Brooke.

Only two months after my post about the way French people butcher my name, I now completely accept it. I have started to introduce myself as, and internalize myself as, Bhruuke. It's my French personality. Bhruuke often realizes that everything she is wearing is black, and is prone to yelling "C'est pas possible!" when she's annoyed. If people have a really bad cough, Bhruuke thinks they're saying her name. It's happened several times, but does not get any less embarrassing.

Here are some of my other nicknames that are not catcalls.

Ma petite Bhruuke (my little Brooke): Some French friends call me this.
Maîtresse (teacher): Polite children call me this. Or ones that can't remember my name.
Madame (madam): About three kids call me this. I have placed them in a higher rank of politeness than even the polite kids.
Ma Bhruuke (my Brooke): A 10-year-old girl I teach calls me this. She thinks we're friends. We'll see.

my love for you burns like a broken toaster

Last year I was assigned to be the "historian" for my church group. I diligently recorded what happened at all of our activities, assuming eventually they would be put in a gilded book or scroll, but they never were. So I present one here for your historical enjoyment.

Leaf-raking activity

recorded by Brooke

That Saturday seemed like any other. Brooke, Jessica, Jessica, Katie, Allyson, Haley, and Mitchell met in the quad, completely unaware of how the leaf-raking service activity would turn out. They were as unaware as a blindfolded person walking into a room full of ants when their favorite tv show is on. The weatherman had promised snow, but his promise was as hollow as a mother's promise for a Furby for Christmas, before she arrives late to Toys R Us and all the Furbies are sold out, and she ends up buying a sit-n-spin on clearance instead. But then you get a Furby later that year for your birthday so things aren't so bad after all. So no snow, but the air was as crisp and cool as a ginger snap left in the fridge overnight. Just like two meteorites hurling through space, the two cars sped at a safe and reasonable pace toward the park. The ground was littered with leaves, like a concert venue after three bands played who threw leaves into the audience instead of confetti or guitar picks. But the girls' resolve to rake was as unshakable as a baby rattle locked in a steel vault, with no key or passcode to open it. Soon the leaves were bagged and everyone ate pizza and agreed that the day had changed their lives forever.

must be Santa

It may be warm and sunny but it's still almost Christmas, and that means I've become obsessed with European Santa. As in "Wow Brooke, it's getting pretty late and you've been pestering me about Santa for two hours already..." "Yes but how does he get DOWN the chimney? And why doesn't he wear a hat? And you said he was Saint Nicholas but Saint Nicholas already CAME."

My friend told me that in Switzerland, Santa/St Nick/Father Christmas travels around with a donkey. In case a barnyard animal wasn't weird enough, I mistook the word "donkey" for the word "dwarf." In my defense the two sound very similar and I'd spent the whole day watching Lord of the Rings. Also I've already had five very factual conversations about the difference between dwarfs and gnomes and brownies. Magic is serious business here. Anyway, I had to know more about why a dwarf was involved.

Why does he bring the dwarf along, just for company? Or does he navigate?

   Company? He rides it, obviously.

Come again?

   Yeah, dwarves used to be a really common form of transportation in Switzerland.

choose your own adventure

Talking with people, in any language, is a lot like reading a choose your own adventure book. Because if someone asks if you like cabbage you can say "It reminds me of my mother" or "It gives me a rash." And depending on which you choose will determine whether the conversation is about childhood memories or skin ailments. Maybe their mother was a professional wind-surfer. Maybe they think people who talk about rashes are disgusting. There's no way of knowing what's going to happen next. Wild!

The worst thing about choose your own adventure is that you can only choose one adventure. Which is why the best thing about conversations is when someone mishears you. You say "I'm going out of town this weekend" and they hear "Do you want to write a screenplay together this weekend?" And then you get a sneak peek at how they would have responded. Maybe they've been dying to write a screenplay and you never would have known.

It's like accidentally looking at page 156 instead of 165 and seeing what would have happened if you had investigated that scraping noise. You would have died. When people mishear you everyone gets twice as many adventures. Now let's introduce a foreign language.

Tonight during dinner the woman I live with asked how my day was, and I said it was pretty good. She responded with "Yeah, I don't like thinking about what's in hot dogs either. But at least it isn't dogs!"

And now I know what would have happened if I had randomly brought up the content of hot dogs. It would have gone over surprisingly well. No luck yet on getting her to write a screenplay with me.

they really do say that

In case I've shattered too many of your dreams about France, I thought I would reassure you that some of them are real.

When I was waiting in the doctors office the other day, there were twenty of us in a tiny room with one window and twelve chairs. Not a good thing to see when you show up at the doctor. And every disheartened patient who came in after me said the same thing: "Oh la la...."

This morning I was watching the Home Shopping Network (favorite show in any country) and someone was demonstrating how easily you could paint zig-zags with some sort of complicated spray-paint machine (I'll give you a better description of it when it arrives here next week). And every curve in the zig-zag was accompanied by "et voila, voila, voila, voila voila, voila."

shredded head

I woke up this morning with a shredded head. At least that's how one of my friends described it. It's just a cold, but since my job consists mostly of dancing and being kissed, I decided to call in sick.

I'm a little annoyed that I'm sick, because I have the lifestyle of an 80-year-old woman - I sleep nine hours a night and obsessively take vitamins. Capsule vitamins, like any normal adult. My liquid-loving French friends think my taking capsule vitamins is like licking the bottom of my shoes each morning. "It's about time you got sick," they all say "what with those capsule vitamins." The last time I took liquid medicine my mom kept me home from kindergarten and I got to spend the day watching Mister Rodgers. What I'm trying to say is, liquid medicine is for children.

After everyone had said "I told you so" and made me drink eleven glasses of herbal tea, they sent me to the doctor's. I thought it was kind of ridiculous, but my head was too shredded to argue.

The doctor ended up being in the same building as me. And his office looked the same as my apartment, with a dozen chairs crammed into what would be the kitchen. There was no sign-in or anything. But there was a poster advertising the Utah National Parks. Not a valid substitution for a sign-in, but thought it was worth mentioning. One woman was appropriately knitting a scarf. I was reading a Hunger Games in French and writing down new words on a Kleenex. Everyone else was just staring into space - including a three-year-old boy, who did not make a sound for the entire two hours I was there.

When people meet me for the first time they do some quick math to figure out where I'm from, and doctors are no exception. It goes something like this:

   she has an accent
+ she weighs less than 500 lbs and isn't wearing a cowboy hat
= she must be British

At one point during the visit the doctor said "I don't know how they do things in England!" and I wanted to add "Neither do I!!" but I decided to just roll with it. Why? Because some people know what nationality I am and some people know what color my mucus is, and above all I like to keep those two groups separate. This seems like a good time to mention that the doctor was wearing what looked like a sheep costume. I am not well today, guys.

The doctor gave me the whole week off work. And four boxes of medicine, all liquid. None of them are flavored, and one of them is "effervescent." But then I realized - I get to stay home from kindergarten tomorrow. If I can find some Mister Rodgers on youtube maybe this will be fine after all.

Every half hour someone calls to see how I'm doing. "Are you eating enough oranges, Brooke? Drinking orange juice? Taking liquid vitamins? I don't know how they do things in England, Brooke..."

We'll probably never know how things are done in England.


Mandatory x-ray I received after arriving in France. And a wooden cat that probably thinks I'm not eating enough oranges.

just hit restart

Along with tomatoes and chocolate bars, one of my favorite foods lately is coconut milk rice. My friend is from Cape Verde and it's a common dish there. You should make it, because it's really easy. All you need is rice and coconut milk.

The only bad thing about coconut milk rice is in French it's called "the rice of the milk of the nut of the coco." I try to make sure it never comes up in conversation, so people don't think I'm malfunctioning. But that's not so hard.

oh come all ye physicists

A couple weeks ago, wooden booths started showing up in downtown Marseille. The only hints as to their purpose was the word "Gelato" on one of them. When the doors finally opened and there was no ice cream in sight my disappointment only lasted until I found out what it really was - SANTON MARKET.

Santons are Southern France's version of nativity scenes, with hundreds of different characters. Maybe it's just the remains of a childhood obsession with dolls, but I think they're awesome.



Thank goodness for santons. Because no nativity is complete without a warthog, a town drunk, a bagpipe player, a gypsy, a monk, a cheese-maker, an armadillo, a kid playing hopscotch,



a math teacher,



and a mad scientist.

If you're happy and you know it

Yesterday, armed with smiling and frowning flashcards, I attempted to teach a group of 5-year-olds to say "I'm happy." I secretly had a second goal that no one would bite anyone, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself.



"I'm happy." I said, holding up a flashcard. "Now you say it."

Yellow! Blue! I like gorillas! Your hair is beautiful! Is it Thanksgiving again? Can we dance? How do you say pink? Can I keep those flashcards? He said a swear word! I had a hamster and it died!

"Those are all great comments guys. Let's try this again. Repeat: I'm happy."

And finally something clicked with the boy on the edge of the bench. He grinned at me, threw his hands in the air, and shouted "I'M HAPPY!" with a perfect accent. His classmates stared at him in stunned silence.

So he proudly translated for them: "It means 'I love you.'"

now she's hit the big time

Whenever I tell the kids that class is over their response is a cumulative "Deja!?" (Already?) followed by tears and desperate last-minute hugs as I pack up my things and leave the room.

Once I'm out I stand in the hallway for a few seconds. I listen to the muffled applause and screams of "I love Brooke!" I check to make sure I have my jacket. I wipe the chalk dust off my hands. And I fight the temptation to run back in yelling ENCORE! to the delight of my screaming fans.



I haven't done it. Yet. But I realized maybe comparing myself to the Beatles isn't that far-fetched - our fans have a lot in common. Like the bizarre fan art - the little pictures of me and British flags drawn on scraps of paper.



And the fact that while at school I'm constantly being chased after by packs of screaming fans clinging to my legs and trying to kiss me.



And when I cross the courtyard and the preschoolers I teach are playing in the preschool cage, they try to claw their way over the fence like wild animals, screaming "ELLO GOODBYE!"



"Don't let it go to your head." you say. "Why are they drawing British flags when you're American?" you ask. But I only get one year as a rock star, and I'm going to enjoy it. So if you have any more questions to ask me, I'll be on hopscotch square 7 during recess, signing autographs.