French Resolutions

This year my resolutions are strong and I have a thirst for change.  Honestly, I haven't written many posts for this blog for a few months for one simple reason.  I'm supposed to tell you wonderful stories about my life here, and since I really can't it's better for me not to write.  To be honest, I do not like Metz anymore.  I do not enjoy teaching English to people who do not wish to learn it.  Moreover, I have no desire to go out in this town anymore.  I know all the streets, shops, restaurants, cafés.  Even meeting new people here brings me no new pleasure.  It's drab routine in a climate where it rains everyday and gets dark at 4pm.  Believe me,  I wish I were not announcing this awful fact, but it's true.

My Christmas break has served me to realize I absolutely must have change, perhaps even drastic change.  For the last couple weeks, I have been working hard to get rid of as many possessions as I can.  So far I've managed to throw out about half.  The destruction actually reinvigorates me.  Have any of you ever felt the pleasure of smashing a table because it's the only way to get it out of an apartment?  My goal is to get down to 5 or 6 boxes but I'm still too far away from that.  Few belongings brings freedom, and face it, you are only mobile when you're light.  I have handed in my notice to escape my apartment and soon plan to quit every single one of my jobs.  Sometimes it takes a leap of fate, a hail mary pass for a better life.  It's possible I'll have regrets.  I really hope not.  I never thought I would identify so much with Tracy Chapman when she sang "I want a ticket to anywhere!"

My life here will always be the same.  I can have the same jobs forever, live in the same flat, buy my groceries in the same supermarket, go to the same cinema.  I do have that security in this town. I acknowledge many people would love to have it.  I have a beautiful view of the cathedral from my window.  Yet, I cannot deal with tedium anymore.  Perhaps this is what is meant by provincial life.

It won't be easy nor swift.  I'm starting as of now.  So, my lesson for you today is, remember, nothing is quick in France.  Rental contracts are not easily broken.  You must give 90 days notice before you can leave an apartment.  Getting electricity, water, phone or internet service disconnected is a headache too.  In France you have contracts with them as well.  Banking is a huge mess. It's difficult to change banks since you are assigned to one particular local agency, the one in which you opened your account.  A Banque Populaire client may not deal with another branch of the same institution.  In some cases, contracts cannot be suspended.  Monthly deposits, bills and tax payments are almost always automatic transactions in France. In addition, as you may know, work is measured out from an end date backward here, not a starting date forward.  For example, when you teach a course they give you a contract with a set number of hours already planned out. After every class you cross out one day.  I suppose it does give job security to see clearly you have guaranteed work in May, but nowadays I tend to see it more like a prison sentence.  For each class I take on, I do time until I'm free from it.  This gives a very different feeling from creating something new and original step-by-step.

All in all, I'll be around Metz for many many more months, but I shall leave.  That day will be ever so sweet!  The big question is where to next?  That, my friends, I have not figured out.  Perhaps you can give me some tips. :)

Internal logic

One of the toughest aspects of life in a foreign country is "Internal Logic". It won't be addressed in any guide book, language, culture or history class. It's intangible but definitely present. Even after years of living in France I ask myself seemingly rhetorical questions... why? why? why?... all in vain. I am left to fret.

Last week in Paris I helped out a desperate American tourist running around the metro looking frantically for a way back to the airport. He asked one Parisian after another and got blank stares. A few shrugged their shoulders and suggested he take the subway line towards the Champs-Élysées. He sighed. Fortunately his instincts knew that was wrong. Then he met an attendant who urged him to get out of the underground and walk. Say what? That, of course, was certainly impossible! So what was wrong?... Frenchmen do not refer to the airport in Paris as Charles de Gaule. That was a former president, maybe stretching it a traffic circle around Arc de Triomphe, but definitely not Roissy airport. Yes, of course, it's named for the city it's in, just like any other airport in the world, right? Who doesn't know the name of that Parisian suburb where it is located? By the way, you take a train there. Subways are for Paris only!

Another classic example. Americans are often amazed when they get a cereal bowl full of milk with a small expresso on the side when they so innocently asked for a café au lait. It's so exasperating when everyone around them seems to have that big mug of French coffee they so desired. Why so? Because they asked for coffee with their milk and that's definitely what they got. They should have gone for café-crème (creamy coffee) or café noisette (strong coffee with a touch of milk). How to know that if you haven't lived in France?

Mores are even tougher. It takes time, energy, and interest to learn that in France salad is eaten after the main course never before. Coffee follows the desert and they are not drunk together. Forget that and eyebrows will be raised. You must kiss your friend's girlfriend 2 or 3 times cheek after cheek otherwise he will be offended. What else? You should take a present, chocolate or flowers, but definitely never wine when invited to someone's house for dinner. By the way, don't even think of helping them clear the table or do the dishes. Faux pas! More importantly it also means now they consider you a true friend so you need to reciprocate in some way in the near future. Finally, let's not forget those businessmen who suggest a business lunch to French colleagues. Working and relaxing do not go together, and you need to enjoy your food too!

Sometimes you just have to accept the logic without question. It is repeated over and over ad nauseum: No swimming for an hour after eating. No using a knife to cut salads. Parking on the sidewalk is preferable to going into a garage when you won't be staying overnight. Driving a stick shift is inherently better than driving an automatic. You can have three glasses of wine and still drive, but not four. You can mix champagne with black currant juice and it's sublime, but mix it with orange juice and it's the worst sin ever. Ketchup is supposed to be sweet. Mayonnaise should contain mustard. You take elevators up, not down.

If I have written this post with ease until now, it's largely due to my experience. I have learned it all-- sometimes the easy way, sometimes the hard way. Yet, it is only the tip of the iceberg. I still make blunders without knowing it and often have the terrible feeling of not knowing what is really happening around me. Why again? No one ever tells you any of this stuff, you have to stumble every day like that man looking for Charles de Gaule.

From the minute you are born you start picking up the invisible truths of a culture. I heard recently it begins when French moms pull their kids over to them, tell them to sit still and Americans tell them to go off and have fun in the playground. It all means something. Yes, there are faux pas! for children too. When they fall down and scrape their knee, Gallic mom says "See. I told you not to do that. You didn't obey me, did you?" and her yankee counterpart utters "Ah. That's okay, sweety. Now you know what happens when you run too fast" it moulds them. Likewise, every year spent in school adds layer upon layer to the labyrinth of French savoir-faire . There are the cultural icons, the games, the socialization, the formal and informal learning, the values, the take on life, and the morality lessons. Moving to a country as an adult puts you at a clear disadvantage. There is an ocean of invisible evidence to assimilate.

America is probably more lenient and open due to the universal immigrant experience but -- perhaps an immigrant might see things differently. I've heard Frenchmen complain about American waiters who are so bothersome and won't leave them alone to eat in peace. The French obviously have to be explained what a tip is-- not just when to leave it or how much to put down. Further, they ask -- who is your friend in America? Why doesn't friendly mean friend? Everyone's got their work cut out for them, I guess.

France, on the other hand, is not nearly so indulgent. Recently I've been confronted with trying to understand how the education system really works here. How do teachers give class in France? What is a good course supposed to be like? How does one write an essay? How does one make a presentation? Should students work alone, in pairs, in groups? What is the role of the teacher and the student? How do they interact? What are the expectations? Why do those so-called bad things like imagination seem inherently good to me and the good things like analyzing image after image seem like a waste of energy? How will I know what is right and what is wrong? Those questions race through my head. An expat has no Gallic instinct. When you don't know... the sanction is unexpected and harsh. You have to fit in and react according to role.

In many senses, I still feel like that teenager who was hit with a broom by a pastry chef in Tours many years ago for sitting down at the wrong table. How was I supposed to know that was soooo bad? What to do? Why...... My ruminations continue.

Copyright 2012 Merquiades

Verbal Rape of Expats

There is an event that occurs once in a while in one's expat life in France, with more or less regularity, that no one is ever sufficiently prepared for and almost never expecting. Nevertheless, it has happened before and will assuredly happen again and again as long as I remain in France. I'm no longer a "virgin" to it obviously, the first time does feel a bit like verbal rape, now I'm so familiar with it I know everything that will be said and how the scene will be played out.

Idiot dixit:

Wow, you are so lucky to be in France. I don't blame you for being here. Congratulations! This is a far greater country than yours. God, like where do you come from Ohio or something? Ups, that's where? hi hi hi. Well... I was in upstate New York for two weeks when I was 16. The family didn't even have a dining room. We ate that orange cheesy sauce thing with our fingers in front of the tv whenever we got hungry. No one had even heard of "salad". Salad? What is that? Really! In school they didn't learn anything at all except to say how much they loooove America and that guns and death penalty were so good. How can a people be so stupid, so impolite, so dirty, so.... Everybody there I met was extremely jealous of us French, cause, you know, we did invent civilization, good food and have been defending culture ever since the beginning of time. Can you believe no one knows the capital of France is Paris? They don't even know how great we are!!!! Or are appreciative!!!! At least, you know that don't you? don't you? That's why you're here! Oh my God! In America life revolves around the McDonald's in every town. That's why everyone is so overweight...... like you. Ha ha ha. Was it that orange cheese of yours? Too many beers? Is it true in your state your dad can marry your sister, and that most people are related in several ways and belong to religious cults......................... and this and that..........

However, the worst I ever heard was a few years ago when GWB was president and v.r. was rather more common. I'll certainly always remember it. A young lady, a talented artist, told me at an exhibition that the people of Louisiana deserved Hurricane Katrina, but she would have preferred it be even more destructive and be called "Hurricane Karima". Few things shock me, but that vr did.

My last verbal rape occurred on Tuesday night at a gathering of people at an event known as " The International Café of Friends", such a charming name of course. I must say it had been a long time. So here's some practical advice.... what does one do during a v.r.? My first reaction is to say,"yeah, actually we ARE a violent tribe of barbarians-", and then proceed to break every bone in his wretched body. "What did you expect....?" I never have given into this impulse because I'm sure the verbal rapist realizes I am far too much of a gentleman to do that. Another possibility is to retaliate by slamming France. Not a good idea as everyone else is implicitly on his side anyway or at the very least are not taking your side. In the past I tried correcting the perpetrator by promptly supplying names, places, statistics, sources to prove him wrong. I even studied up for it. Unfortunately, I always lost because obnoxious Frenchmen do not wish to broaden their minds nor change their opinions. Au contraire! Besides, in my experience, bystanders will never come to your rescue in any case scenario. The other choice is to grin and bear it, give slight resistence whenever possible and hope the attack will soon come to an end. Add no fuel and it will burn out quick. This is the easiest option available, of course; the one everyone is expecting of you but it's quite hard to swallow. On this occasion, however, I took the righteous indignation approach: "No. No. I will not discuss this with you not now, not ever. Next subject." Afterwards, I made a strong complaint to the club's organizer, called it "discrimination"- what it really is-- and said I would boycott the Tuesday event.

Needless to say, I do not object to objective criticism about the United States. Being myself one of the greatest critics of America, I welcome interesting discussion about the different social, cultural, economic or political aspects of American life. No American would mistake me for a patriot. However, I simply cannot tolerate blind hatred against an entire nation by impolite individuals claiming superiorty and yet demonstating they have little or no knowledge of what they are talking about.

What is the best reation to such a moron? Perhaps I haven't found it yet. Be warned, Americans moving to Europe! A verbal rape is as frequent as an earthquake in California. It is imminent. There will be one some day, but thankfully not every day or even every month. Hopefully it will be a light one.

RT

Addendum: My rant is over. Writing blogs has proven to be a way of releasing hard feelings. For the Americans who may read this, come to France. There are far more reasons to join us over here. Most French people are open and welcoming. You may love it so much you'll end up staying for years like me.

Jetlag

Here I am back in beautiful Metz but I cannot seem to shake my jetlag. I have only been back three days but it as if time has stopped: Minutes are hours, hours seem like days, evening is morning, night is afternoon. This brings a full new dimension to my floating in France. Each time I travel it's a bit worse. I do not travel well.

I thought I had a handle on it this time. Knowing myself, the suitcase was impressively packed well in advance, and I actually slept well the night before the trip. Perhaps that was the problem, now that I think of it. Flights from America to Europe are eight hours long, leave in mid to late afternoon, and arrive around 6 am the next morning (well, that's really midnight American time). The fact I was well rested meant I could not sleep at all on the plane and watched all three featured movies back to back. Maybe I should have preformed my normal nuit blanche ritual of crazily throwing everything together at the last minute, going online to check in and register beforehand, thinking what to remember and forgetting how to think. Instead, the inevitable trip anxiety, nervousness, thoughts of the trip and the after-trip and the after-after-trip, compounded with the subtly imposed family guilt of leaving home once again for yet another untimely French adventure (most people believe I am on permanent holiday in Europe. If it were true!) came late. Adrenaline is not necessary for a transatlantic trip! I should have boarded that airplane so worn out that I could have slept anywhere. Mea culpa.

The weekend I have spent sleeping ,a few hours in a row, followed by great spurts of energy and then a gradual letdown lasting but a few hours, and then more sleep. I eat whatever I find, whenever I can and however I want. I wonder if experts have carried out research on the psychological effects of jetlag. I feel both elated and depressed my trip home is over. I'm optimistic for 2011 yet I feel aloof from the world. I'm also starving but don't wish to eat anything. Besides that, I sleep without being tired. C'est grave! Hopefully by tomorrow the feeling will subside and I will have frenchiflown back to normal. Unfortunately, I'll have a long day of work ahead... Ugh

Now it is 11pm and I'm feeling fit after my long 4-hour afternoon nap and my recent dinner. No way for me to consider winding down and 8am comes ever so early. Maybe I'll attack that suitcase I still haven't unpacked.

At the mercy of snow

In the USA, or in Ohio, when it snows a small army of people are sent out to plow, shovel, salt, spray, remove snow in any and every way possible. Besides that, the layman too has obligations like getting rid of the snow on the sidewalk or street in front of his/her building, also the stairs, driveways, and whatever else is there and could be dangerous. I recently watched in amazement as secondary roads were completely snow free by rush hour.

In contrast, in France when there is sleet, freezing rain, or snow (be it half an inch or ten feet), the government's solution is to cancel everything. Décision de préfecture. No one leave home! Bus service cancelled, train service cancelled, streets cordoned off! No school! No this! and no that! No, no salting, absolutely no chemical products onto our roads, thoroughfares or sidewalks, that's way too bad for the environment, you know! and by the way, le déneigement also requires a lot physical labour! So why not just sit back and wait for nature to thaw itself out! It will eventually happen! And once in a while they do indeed plow certain streets at irregular intervals, just in case there's some emergency, but that's about it! Snow brings on paralysis. Now, before you think that I protesteth too much, I do readily admit that sometimes this is advantageous to me. Once in a while I do even find myself praying for snow. Twice this year already, I've got to lie in on official snow days and even be paid for it. Yippy! However, the inverse could happen too, being stuck at work, on a highway, at a train station, on a train, anywhere else waiting, begging, pleading for nature to help out and spare me.


Unfortunately for me the third snowstorm occurred on December 16-17, the exact moment when I was to leave for the states. Even worse it snowed in northeastern France (where I live) but not in Paris (where my plane was set to take off at 10:30 AM). So I fretted all day the 16th as I watched the snow fall and heard slowly but surely the decrees of the local government to shut down local buses, trains and shuttles. So how the hell was I to get to the TGV train station 40 minutes away to get my ride to Paris. Every option I thought about, no can do! I couldn't miss my flight because I just could not afford buying another ticket, and yes, finding my way to Paris was my responsibility, not theirs. Paris weather was clear and sunny. I panicked so much I didn't know what to do? Why didn't I get my French driver's license? Why didn't I have a car? a truck? Or a snowmobile?

So I decided the only way was to walk to the busiest area in Metz, by the station and try anyway possible to flag down a cab. Oh Gosh! The only place I could wald was go right down the middle of the street where cars or maybe ploughs had taken away just a wee bit of those 20 centimeters, and no, suitcase wheels do not work in the snow. Walking through the streets of Metz at 4AM with two suitcases and trying to hail cabs that didn't want to be hailed was an adventure I don't want to relive. Fortunately, I found a daring guy, Antoine, who told me he'd take me to the TGV Gare Lorraine (most cab drivers obeyed the order to stay in) on the condition that we not stop and fly straight down the highway as fast as possible. So there we went running red lights and swerving on to all lanes. His noble theory: you don't stop in snow or you'll never start again, and the faster you go the more control you have. I was scared and relieved at the same time to have Antoine behind the wheel. I did the right thing by thinking of going so early. My driver's theory, if right, could not have panned out, with all those slow drivers coming and going, and those accidents that were sure to occur in an hour or two. I would never have made it. Boy, did I have to pay for Antoine though. All in all, it was worth every penny though, even though I am still cursing the government for shutting down the world.

The TGV was on time, but it ran on slow (government decree) until it approached the Paris metropolitain area, where there was no snow. So my flight was definitely on time but I was still arriving late.

Next story, I had registered on line and printed my boarding pass beforehand, good reflex in the event of being late when they tell you to check in 3 hours in advance. So luckily, they were waiting for me! When I got to the airport at 10 (plane left at 10:30), the first guy everyone meets, out of about 10 all together, got on his walkie-talkie and said, "oui, il est là, le Cincinnati", so believe it or not, I got to cut in front of everybody else to check my bag. Next, at the security area where they were making people take everything off, open up all their bags, plus asking them tons of questions, the same thing happened. "Oh, le Cincinnati, pas le temps de faire tout ça, quoi!", passport control was the same story. I went through and walked straight to the plane, got on and then they closed the gate. Scary looking back on it all, but kind of cool too. In the end, my friend, Madame K, is right, they won't leave you behind. Feels nice to know that. I really thought they'd be off in a heartbeat. And the trip to Cincinnati was completely normal, now here I am with 6 inches of snow and bare roads.

Vive la belle France! Every day is an adventure. R.T.

Rat in a cage...

Rat in a cage


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E96PQuIl_cQ
Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins



Here I am in my hometown: Harrison, Ohio population 8,917. Can't miss it. Drive southwest on I-74 about half an hour from Cincinnati and you'll get there... not far from where Ohio, Indiana and Kentucky meet. In fact, it's suburb, "West Harrison" is actually in Indiana. So, it's "great" to be home. It brings stability and continuity. Nothing has changed here in at least 20 years: well, almost nothing. The Kroger supermarket has expanded and is now a superstore... but Otherwise, the same old bowling alley, putt putt golf, Dairy Queen, McDonald's, Downtown historical area, view of the treacherous Great Miami river, the daily record newspaper and last but not least, our award winning high school.. Go wildcats! The green and the white will win over all! Oh, this is the place where the past meets the present; the place where you can raise your kids knowing they'll pick up the right All-American values.


Harrison was named for its most illustrious son, William Henry Harrison, our president of the United States of America. One of the area's tourist attractions is still visiting his tomb. You can climb all the way to the top of his grave, now in superb disrepair, and see clearly the beautiful northbend of the Ohio River where Kentucky juts up into Ohio. Poor William Henry suffered a terrible fate. Just 32 days after taking office he died of a real bad chest cold. Rumor has it he didn't dress warm enough for his Inauguration and didn't carry an umbrella despite the pouring rain. That sealed his fate, and Harrison's 32 days of fame. Yes, take that Andy Warhol, in our neck of the woods it's 32 days, not 15 minutes. Alas, Harrison has never been the same.

W.H. Harrison 1773-1841

Harrison is also unique in its great mixture of people. You've got English, Irish, German, a few Poles and a couple of Italians and maybe even a Greek too. That's about it. It's also hard to find anyone who isn't Catholic. We got a nice church, St. John the Baptist, that has a chicken dinner/gambling festival every August. The Irish brought in lots of little whiskey joints like the Mecca Cafe and the Dew Drop Inn. You can really have a good time there on Saturdy night. FYI: In our town, cafes don't serve coffee, and Inns have no beds. The Germans brought that hankering for brats, wieners, hotdogs and hamburgers all over town. The Poles, the pickles and pumpkins, and Beppo, our Italian, has an absolutely wonderful little pizzeria outside town, making a wicked extra pepperoni, extra cheese pizza. Dio christi!

As I go about town I see the same faces from those legendary dynasties of families that have always lived in town: the Stengals, the Rogers, the Dennisons, the Pruits, their offspring and their offspring's offspring. Now I understand the concept of reproduction. Literally, you reproduce yourself in all of your glory. The captain of the football team and homecoming queen's children, well you know what they are? Now they have become park ranger and PTA mom like their parents were. The bad boys who smoked dope under the bleachers beget other bad boys who knock up the daughters of the girls who were teen parents twenty years ago. I guess we could loosely divide the people into two groups: 1) the white trash, those that rhyme well with whale, pack with park, are more fans of Johnny Walker than Jesus, and do real bad things sometimes; 2) the good folks who send their children to Sunday school, have day jobs with titles, make meatloaf casserole, say Oh my gawd and who'd have thunk it all the time, and turn up their noses at the people they consider white trash... but in reality, we've all got the white so we all got the trash. A visit to that super Kroger's reveals wonders, "honey, say thank you to that nice lady". "I'm a gonna whop you but yin li'l bastard" "mommy I'm hungry" "Debra, did you hear about what happened down by the river last night" "Hey, Paul, how's it goin' bud?" My head starts spinning right round right round and I feel the urge to upchuck. Is it the discomfort of being different, of not being different, of certain uncertainty, of uncertain certainty, of returning back to point 0, the bittersweet passage of time. "Mr. T, well, I do declare, they say you went far away, they's right when they said you was most likely to get the hell out of here, you back?, gotta wife, some kids? How your parents doin'?"

Well, that's the only change. My mother shakes and spins, sleeps without wanting to wake up, cries, and spits... I guess that happens after 80 years of monotony, running around silly like a rat in a cage, having too much meatloaf, fitting in that diverse mixture of people. She comes to. Tell me what's going on in town? Well, mom. They opened the new Kroger's. Who's _____ the manager? _______ I think. Well, that boy will make something out of himself yet. I remember when he was just pushing around buggies. Yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry too, mom.

Dad comes in. You. I wanna go home. I know you do. I want my car. I know you do. I wanna drive with your mom down to the river. I know you do. I want my money. I know you do. I wanna get out of here. I know you do. I don't deserve to end up like this. I know you don't. I'm sorry, dad. I'm angry, going from one room to the other and looking at those four walls.

Rontay

Ode for another puff

I stopped smoking on December 15, 2009. That'll be 5 months soon. The longest time ever! And yes, I have the intention of never smoking again in my life. In the past I have stopped quite often for one or two months at a time. But I always give in. Always the same reason. Well, only one. Why should I deprive myself of this pleasure? It's usually at a party, with a friend, seeing someone light up, and I say... well, why not!

Actually, I have developed really quite a few misconceived notions about smoking... all enabling me to go on in my habit. Number one: no matter what they say "Cool" people smoke. All the most interesting people smoke... artists, writers, musicians, travelers, intellectuals... people who do cool things like going out on Saturday night, those who have the best wild ideas, the most beautiful looks, the witty conversation.... all opposed to the boring, conservative, conformists... who live like chattle, drivin' them pickup trucks, sitting in their swings behind those white picket fences. I guess I still believe that somewhat, even though I know that doesn't keep my chosen people from dying young, having a lung removed, carrying an air tank around with them. Leading to Number two: nothing bad really ever happens to people who smoke. Never known anyone to die, never know anyone to get cancer, they all living the good life! And number three: it really is a pleasure. Take one puff and you're in nirvana. That puff on the balcony at sunset: Wow! With coffee, yum! With rosé wine, ambrosia! With whiskey and coke on the rocks, heaven! So, these ideas are still in my head, they are so hard to fight, cause I still believe them.

Now about my habit. I started this (on and off) smoking some 20 years ago, which actually means that the years with some smoking involved now outnumber those that were cigarette-free. What kind of smoker was I? Well, not the kind I guess most people are. Not what until a few years ago I would have called the real smoker: those who start puffing at dawn, take their pack with them everywhere, take smoke breaks at work, and by evening have smoked a whole pack maybe at a rate of one or two per hour. That's not me. I was the binge smoker. None all day followed by 6 in an hour, on weekend party nights more than a pack in one night... I'm kind of like what Sue Ellen Ewing was to drinking. One taste and you can't stop.. Curious I've never heard of studies on this kind of smoker. I can't be unique. It took me a while to realize I was hooked. Some situations like the evening balcony scene are irreplaceable. Stopping all together unheard of.

So how did I manage to stop this time? Cold turkey like always... it's never been a problem. Stop buying cigarettes, destroy ash trays, get rid of reminders, block balcony door permanently. I must say the new smoking laws in France banning cigarettes in public places, bars, restaurants, the workplace have really helped. Smoking in the street was never my habit, as was smoking without some kind of drink in my hand, and to a certain extent, smoking standing up anywhere. No way I'm going to go out in the cold and rain of northern France for a smoke. Ixnay! Also, I know what triggers the cigarette and I have (until now) mastered it. I know the just one, how logical as it may be, cannot work in my case. Not taking that is always the answer. Other positive ideas have also entered my mind. 1) my slight asthma has cured up. I can climb a flight of stairs without panting; 2) I ABHORE the smell of tobacco, and I never find it on my clothes, hands, body, or by way of clothes in my apartment. I also get nausious when I smell it on others too; 3) instead of the negative role models, I've recently sought out or paid more attention to the victims... old, decrepid, coughing, weezing, dying victims of a lifetime of smoking who curiously enough are still puffing away. That's not cool. No it isn't; 4) I realize the pleasure only lasts for a minute, afterwards it fades, sometimes after a cig, I even felt slightly sick and had to lie down, and of course, I wanted another; 5) I am secretly a vain person... nobody would guess it, but really I am, and I've read evidence that smoking causes bad skin, quicker ageing, and above all it causes hair to fall out. Since I have been fighting an unsuccessful losing battle with baldness, well it can't hurt to stop. Many of those old decrepid poor smokers are also bald. Gosh!; 6) packs of cigarettes are really expensive now.. I have saved so much money, it's astonishing. Even the cheap foreign packs are 2,50, French ones 5,00 euros. If I did 3 or 4 packs a week, that's 50 a month. I'm actually going to fund my Summer trip to Spain on money saved. If I can keep myself from smoking in cig loving Barcelona, that's another story.

Writing this is helping me. Because to be honest, Springtime has brought back to me a desire for a cigarette despite of it all. The cold weather is no longer a deterrent, social life is picking up again, and I see lots of cool people enjoying their puff of tobacco wherever I go. Temperatures are rising and i've always like hot-weather smoking. Same old arguments still there... Deny myself a pleasure for life? Anyway, my goal for now is a smoke-free 2010, the first one since about 1990. We'll see how it goes!

P.S. Big pat on the back to me! This is the first time I have successfully put in a picture! Ok, granted it's not the way I wanted them to appear, but one thing at a time.

Rontay