The After

Living in a second language and a foreign culture is an endless approximation.  A mathematical formula I can’t quite get right, despite years of trying.  I have navigated, negotiated, and narrated my life through the structured flow chart of French, la forme, for the past 11 years.  Le fond, the depth – the guts – all of that remains American.

The good news is, on a daily basis, I fit in.  I am not identified on the street as American and my accent is rarely heard. The bad (or is it?) news is, I am still foreign here, other.  There are moments, both for them and for me, when it is clear, on the surface at least, that we simply cannot understand each other, despite accurate syntax and appropriate vocabulary.

Believe me, I realize how privileged I am – mind meanderings of this variety are a luxury.  I do not struggle for material survival and I have the time to wonder when I will achieve that état d’âme – that soul state where friction does not exist. A place, underneath it all where the shadows are, where we all speak the same language and where cultural differences are just dust on the mirror we use to see ourselves.

When I first arrived in France, I thought I had come home.  Or at least that I had found the place where I would make my home.  And I suppose I have, to a certain extent.  But the longer I live here the less at home I feel, and the same is true when I return to the United States.  When you live out of a database of duality for too long, this is what happens, no “where” is home for you.  The freedom you feel when you live in a place where the rules do not apply to you, where you observe them and nearly always follow them but are never really touched by them, is replaced by the restriction you feel when you realize you will not leave an imprint there, only a mark where you’ve brushed up against its surface.

I like to believe, choose to believe, that there is an “after” to all of this.  An after where everywhere is home instead of nowhere.  An after where we will see that in the traces we will have left on each other, this country I call home for now and I, there lies a truth. An after where the shadow lines are smudged with the hot ash of dedication, mine and hers, because our relationship requires nothing if not dedication, a soulful dedication to the truth, no matter what.  A truth only to be found in that place where yielding meets resistance and wins, hands down, every time.  Where giving up actually means getting and the cold hard truth is actually a soft whisper.  I look forward to an after where those sharp shadow lines that have defined us and divided us will be cut clean through by grace.  A grace purer than language and more powerful than culture.  A grace, painful at first, that cuts through the lines I thought I would follow, the road map I have drawn in my soul, the me that I think I am, outlined by linguistics and homeland.  An after where I am left wounded and mapless, for a time.  But I believe that when I look closely to assess the damage, to see how badly I am bleeding, I will only see a clean cut through lines I don’t need and honeyed traces of that painful, beautiful grace where I was  certain blood would be.  And in that trace, I’ll find my freedom.  Freedom from and freedom to.

Thanks for sharing, Nicole. Any other ex-Americans care to compare and contrast their experience with hers?

So far, I’ve come across the “Mouse Surplus Review,” which is apparently a big warehose holding everything from excess mickey mouses to name tags from old Disney Characters. Reveiwers say it’s worth a look. It’s located at  1000 Detour Rd, Haines City, FL 33844-9350 (863) 422-0000. Their website is here.

Also, if you’re interested in fainting goats (and who isn’t, they’re surely one of the most interesting creatures god created!) the link to the “International Fainting Goat Association” is here.  Looks like there are a few breeders of these lovely animals in FL.Another interesting-sounding restaurant is  ”The Bubble Room,” located at  1351 S. Orlando Avenue, Maitland. (407) 628-3331. One of the area’s most unusual restaurants, the Bubble Room is decorated with 1930s and 1940s paraphernalia, with music from the same era. Check out the huge classic red velvet cake before you load up on appetizers and bread. Open every day for lunch and dinner, weekday evenings 5:30 10:00 p.m., and extended to 11 p.m. on weekends. Reservations are required for parties of ten or more. Sounds like it’s worth a visit!

One of the most popular things to do in Orlando (apart from the extremely obvious) seems to be going to Discovery Cove, which is adjacent to Sea World. This water wildlife park offers visitors the chance to swim with dolphins, relax on sandy beaches or view beautiful coral. The address: Sea World Drive, Orlando, Florida, United States, Phone Number: 877-4DISCOVERY.

Finally, I heard about the Cricketers Arms Pub Orlando. It’s a restarurant/bar that has good food, good music, and good entertainment including comedy, I am told. They say the clientele is a good mix of British ex=pats and Americans.

Do YOU have some suggestions for my friends, some “must not miss” ideas for the Orlando area? If so, please let me know in the comments here ASAP.  I want to be sure this is the trip of a lifetime for them. (And don’t say “Well, don’t go to Orlando then.” Their tickets are already bought. I’d love to hear any other suggestions, though!) Thanks!

But really I’m feeling  a bit interested in anyone’s life who wants to share! (So I’m a bit voyeuristic. Sue me.)

And I wonder if any of my imaginings about people in other countries have any truth to them… For example, I have always the idea that people in places like France and the UK go to the grocery (or greengrocer, or supermarket–I don’t even know what people in other countries call it!) nearly every day or every other day. That their food is much fresher than what you get here–which has usually been harvested several weeks before hitting the stores. Is there truth to this?

• I have the idea that most people in England go to a pub at least once a month. (I’m told that pubs are not at all entirely- or even mostly- “just” about drinking alcohol, contrary to the American “pub” styling which is really only a pretentious bar here in the USA.)
• I imagine that people in Germany have in general very clean and organized homes and cars and office spaces. And based on an article I read years ago, I imagine that most employed Germans get at least four weeks of paid vacation a year (vs. the two weeks that Americans get – if they’re lucky.)
• I figure that most people in Mexico and South America and Italy are very close to their extended families and see them often. (Weekly?)
• I wonder if nearly all Italians are into “football” (for the Americans, that’s what we call soccer) and at least have a passing interest. (For instance, can you name the top three teams right now?)
• I’ve been told (frankly, to my surprise) that there is a large number of people in Switzerland who for whatever reason have a gun in their household. Any truth to this?
• My youngest sister told me that some of the friendliest people she ever met anywhere when she was overseas were from Croatia. Would anyone agree?
• I have the idea that most Canadians watch what happens in America fairly closely but aren’t terribly interested in visiting here–much less moving here. Further I’d venture to say that most Canadians (90% or better?)  have never come here for medical treatment  – and have no interest in doing so.
• I am reasonably sure that the number of people born elsewhere who really wish they could be (permanently) Americans (contrary to our occasionally self-important and prideful ideas here in the US) are actually pretty much in the minority, on this planet of seven billion people. Would you snap your fingers and become an American if you could?
• My guess is that a fairly large number of people, who aren’t from the USA, if asked to choose the nationality of a person they would be trapped in an elevator with for a few hours–would NOT choose an American–or Americans would be fairly low on the list. True?

I could go on but really I’m just showing my embarrassing lack of knowledge, I guess, but I really would like to know.

And I know that people are individuals, and that it’s beyond stupid to paint a whole country with a stereotype, which was really not my goal. I guess I’m just trying to incite some discussion/commentary.

Anyway, I’d be interested in what anyone has to say….

I was going for different reasons than on my usual travels. I was going to listen to God, to feel His Love, His guidance. I was quite simply going to be restored. I didn’t grow up a Moravian and I didn’t spend summers at Laurel Ridge. This was all unfamiliar territory to me. That is until I arrived, saw those mountains and trees and felt the familiar touching me. I walked into that tiny cabin and instantly felt safe. I built a fire in the fireplace and settled in to read the notes other people had written about their stays. Their words touched my heart. We all had common needs: silence, soothing, healing, guidance, acceptance, and on and on their words echoed my yearnings.

I stayed three nights. I was never afraid. It rained and rained and I kept that fire going the whole time. I opened windows so I could hear the patter of the rain more clearly and oh, the smells of the wet forest mingled with the wood smoke. I put on a hooded jacket and I walked and walked in the rain feeling like a teenager without a care in the world.

The cost is only fifteen dollars per night. Did you know that, $15.00?? Donations above that are welcome but that is the charged cost. A slice of heaven, no housework surrounding me calling my name, no meals to cook, no meetings to attend, no phone to ring and on and on the list goes.

Don’t you want to go? I am heading out again this spring. I found what I went there expecting. I will again. Life is like that for the most part, isn’t it? We just have to keep seeking and finding answers all the way home.

Rancho de Chimayo

Many years ago (1973 to be exact) I was temporarily living in the US with my parents while my father was working over here. I was 18 and we had the opportunity that summer to travel around a little. We were living in Oklahoma City at the time so our trip basically included exploring Texas and New Mexico. Although I enjoyed Texas it was New Mexico that really stuck in my mind as I think it did with all of us.

On one of those days around lunchtime we happened to chance upon a restaurant in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. We’d been taking back roads as they’re always more interesting than highways. We decided to stop for lunch. The name of the restaurant was the Rancho de Chimayo. The food was excellent and after lunch we went on our way.

I didn’t realize st the time that this would be the last family trip I would ever take with my father as I left home and married not much later and he died at the age of 50 not long after my first son was born.

I am now married to an American girl and living in the US. The year before last we decided on a trip to Chimayo after I explained how strong my memories were of the place. The restaurant has expanded and is now much better known than it was when I first went and deservedly so. The food is awesome. For all of you who think you know what Mexican cuisine is like having visited any of the many big franchises spread across the US think again. There really is no comparison. It’s like comparing MickeyD with a 5 star restaurant.

The Rancho now has limited accomodation across the road from the reastaurant and so we stayed there as the center of the trip. We explored many of the places that I had originally been to in 1973 and the feeling was really weird. The last time I had stood in that spot my father had stood alongside me. Happy and sad memories all at the same time.

It’s a fact of life, I guess, that when our parents are alive and we’re still growing into adulthood that we never think of them “not being there.” But of course sometimes they do pass on and unexpectedly so. Standing in those same places from the past made me think of all the things I should have said to him and didn’t. My father knew I loved him as I knew he loved me. But did I ever tell him that as much as I should have? No. Almost certainly not.

As the words of the song say… “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

Never pass by the opportunity to tell someone you love them.