At Home (Briefly)

The last couple of nights, it has been just a little too warm in my bedroom for me to sleep comfortably. As a result, I have been waking up periodically in the middle of the night. For those of you who aren't familiar with my sleeping habits, I enjoy sleeping above all else. Were Jules Verne to ride down from Heaven an his giant mechanical rocket-hummingbird and offer to show me the fabulous Sky City that he and Rembrandt had built out of diamonds, I would only go if I were allowed to be well rested. I never like to hop out of bed, and often my whole disposition will be determined by how I feel when I rise in the morning (or afternoon). I mention this because my lack of sleep has been making me a bit stressed, and so I decided to take a break and come home.

I quite enjoy being home for a couple of reasons. First, it is completely quiet out here. The traffic noise and general hubbub of the city is completely absent out in the woods here. Second, the lack of neighboring buildings means I have a nearly 180 degree panorama of the world above me (I always have a 180 degree panorama of the world below me; I just look down). Today, there were only a scant few clouds in the sky, and it was particularly nice. Third and lastly, the house is pretty clean and since my family has been living here for ages, all the little these and thats that I might need - say, the new New Yorker, grape juice or a comfortable couch - are here. And now that my car is fixed, I can actually go home.

Today, I went for the longest bike ride of my life. I know this unequivocally because I don't often go on bike rides, and I usually follow the same two or three routes. I have recently discovered that my stamina, either through general maturation or through frequent moving about at college, is much improved. I was on my bike for about two hours straight, up and down hills from my house to Hwy 95 which is where my friend Abby lives. She was quite surprised to see me, as she was just getting out of the shower and had to be at work not too long from when I arrived. The bike ride back was a bit more difficult because I was already a bit tired, and it was all uphill and there was a brief thunderstorm. By the time I rode into my driveway, I was practically cursing. Still, it was quite an accomplishment.

Also, I got to see my Dad's garden. When Dad first built the garden when I was like six or seven, it was a nice little thing that by the time I was eight was in disuse. For the next twelve years, it proceeded to exist as an experiment in leaving the land fallow. True to form, weeds grew in and even some trees. However, for whatever reason - perhaps he needed a hobby - Dad decided it was time to resurrect the place this past spring. The beds are more or less completely tilled and planted, and covered in lakeweed as mulch. Come Fall, my family will have vegetables up to their ears - literally!

I however, will be in France. That is, provided I get my goddamn visa. The French government, those useless half-brained frogs, requires all study abroad students to apply to a program called CampusFrance before applying to receive your visa at the Consulate. Translation - you have to apply to apply for your visa. How typically French! The whole country is run by unions who wouldn't even vote to adjourn themselves out of a burning building if they could somehow scorn someone by allowing themselves to die in the conflagration. Nicolas Sarkozy thought he'd have a swipe at these implacable dinosaurs, but no no, the batshit-crazy socialist-indoctrinated French will riot if you so much as tell them they have to turn out the lights before they leave work. In the US, the national pass-times are baseball, paying taxes and contemplating whether or not your vote will matter. In France, the national pass-times are rioting over soccer games - won or lost -, shooting the tax man because those silly bastards in Paris think they're entitled to your money, and collapsing the government when the vote goes the wrong way - even though you didn't vote in the first place. Even more to the point, I was reading the synopsis of a new book on French history one day. The author wrote that, 'France, for much of its history was hardly one cohesive nation. Until the early 20th century, some of the most accurate accounts of French culture were those of Julius Caesar, written during his invasion of Gaul some 2,000 years prior.' Any time anyone goes to France and doesn't remark that they are all insane, unhelpful or often both, it means the writer was paid off or killed and replaced by a doppelganger.

So why am I going to France? Well, when God was handing out character traits to the peoples of the world, the French opted to emphasize their sense of beauty and aesthetics - albeit at the cost of abandoning all reason and sensibility. France excels at being beautiful without effort. America, home of Wal-Mart and New Jersey, can't find beauty without the help of either a lot of money and special effects or Puerto Rico. That, and I speak French better than any other language except English. And God knowns I'd starve if I went to Great Britain. The Euro is bad enough. That's all for now, I have a polka dot party to attend!