Robots and Mail Merges

I have returned to the workforce. It's not necessarily a triumphant return. I'm on another temp assignment. I've been away from an office setting for a while, so I've been finding it a little difficult to readjust. I'd forgotten, for example, what disgusting habits people have. Our warren of cubicle walls, while effective at blocking sight, don't do nearly enough to muffle sound. I share a carpeted cube partition with a woman who likes to eat while she's talking on the phone. The fact that I'm not the one on the other end of the line makes no difference. I can still hear her talking with her mouth full, and it's still gross.

But that pales in comparison to the sound of fingernail clippers that sometimes comes from the cube cater corner to mine. Admittedly, I am quite squeamish about fingernails and am probably extra sensitive the noise that cutting them makes. But I would imagine most people might have a problem with their coworkers sending nail particles flying about the office. Having to listen while the owner of the clippers trimmed her nails one day was fairly painful. But an even higher threshold of disgusting office practices was crossed last week. The woman who sits in the cube behind me went over to her neighbor's unoccupied desk, borrowed the clippers from her drawer and started cutting her own nails with them while she was on the phone. I sat in my decidedly non-soundproofed cube, flinching with every snip of the clippers.

Yet on rare occasions, I'm glad to be able to overhear what goes on in the office. One recent verbal exchange proved to be very amusing. One woman, who usually prefers to complain very audibly about her divorce, was instead seething about a very condescending email she'd apparently received from a co-worker.
"I just can't stand the condensation any more!" she cried. "You know what? I'm smart!" Somehow, confusing the main word in her sentence seemed to belie her statement.

But worse than any ambient office sound I could hear is the crushing boredom of temp work. The setting may have changed from Class Action Place to Insurance Place, but the menial, vacuous tasks are the same. When the position was originally described to me, I was told that I'd be writing letters to inform people what they needed to submit before they could claim insurance money. That in itself sounded boring enough. But when I turned up on the first day, I learned that by writing letters, they meant filling in the blank fields in a form letter with the same pieces of information over and over.

The additional tasks I've been assigned over the last three weeks have continued to decrease in difficulty. First, my supervisor told me I'd be spending several hours a day helping to open the mail. This involves date stamping every single thing that arrives in every single envelope, so it's a very time-consuming process. And it seems to require an immense wealth of knowledge and skill compared to what occupied my time for most of the day today. I was tasked with removing the paper clips from large stacks of paper and then packing the paper into boxes. The elevator lobby on each floor is hung with a poster that encourages employees to submit their ideas on how the company could save costs. I was tempted to write an email that said something along the lines of "Stop paying a temp to do what robots and mail merges could do." But then I'd be out of a job.

Rejected?

My assignment at Tax Place ended about a month ago. Since then, I've spent some quality time each day searching for employment. It's a very disheartening process. I haven't been finding many jobs for which I'm qualified, since even the administrative positions out there seem to require 5+ years of experience. Often, it is a bit muddling to simply read through the job descriptions. One position to which I recently submitted had 30 bulleted items under the "Preferred Qualifications" heading. How does one even begin to address each of those within a single-page cover letter?

When I do meet the listed requirements of a job and decide to apply, the process is often more involved than I expected. I thought I'd finished an online application for a local coffee chain after submitting my employment and education history and three references. But advancing to the next page uncovered a very extensive character evaluation. There were about six pages of statements with which I was supposed to strongly agree, agree, disagree or strongly disagree. You'd have to be completely daft to answer most of them incorrectly. I found it fairly easy to discern that agreeing with the statement, "I don't work too hard because it doesn't pay off anyway" would make you appear to be lazy and apathetic.

But a few statements were completely baffling. The one that bemused me most was, "It's maddening when the court lets guilty criminals go free." If I strongly disagree, it indicates that I'm lenient towards crime and, presumably, theft of company property. But if I strongly agree, the word "maddening" might make it look as if I have anger issues. So which is better? Anger issues or a tolerant view towards the imperfect court system?

A different company's online assessment gave me a math exam along with their personality test. I realised then just how long it's been since I had to apply any of the concepts I used in my high school math classes. I remember doing really well in calculus. So how can I not recall how to find the percent difference between two numbers? I eventually re-taught myself over the course of the 10 questions they asked that involved that formula, but it was yet another blow to my self-confidence. Then they threw in a word problem. "Raul has more seniority than Colbert, but less invested than Renoir. Colbert has least seniority, but more invested than Raul." It introduced several more parameters, then asked who should be interviewed first for something. It didn't matter, really, because the company never interviewed me.

But interpreting the exhaustive job descriptions and completing ridiculously intensive applications isn't the hardest part of the employment search. It's the waiting. Sometimes there isn't much and there's a swift and merciful rejection. But usually there's a prolonged period of wondering what the status of my application might be. I read the "How to Apply" information for one company where I sent my resume, looking for an estimation of when I might hear back. The material contained the question, "What do I do if I haven’t heard from anyone within a month after submitting my resume?" The very evasive answer was, "If you are interested in any other opportunities, please apply online." A month?! That's an awfully long time to wait for potentially no result.

Some companies try to be merciful by allowing applicants to monitor their status online. This is informative, and helps to eliminate the possibility of uncertain rejection. But it's also addictive. And it can still be frustrating when your status doesn't change. One of my applications has carried the same "Under review" status for a few weeks. Granted, I enjoy the glimmer of hope that remains every time I hit the refresh button and don't see a phrase of rejection. But now I'm just growing annoyed at how long the process is taking. I tried to advance my cause by retrieving the contact information for the position from the HR department. I called the contact to follow up, but it didn't do much good. She said that they were still reviewing applications and that I might receive notice in another two weeks.

So it'll be another two weeks of searching, applying, waiting and (up til the time of publication) being rejected. That's the process. It's frustrating. It's demoralising. And I'm trying again tomorrow.

The Naysayers

Maybe my plan to become a curator isn't such a good idea. Maybe it's impractical. Maybe it's borderline impossible. What if I spend all the time, effort and money to go to grad school only to end up exactly where I am now? What if I still can't find a job when I'm through? I've obviously been experiencing a lot of self-doubt and uncertainty lately. It's entirely warranted, I think, since this new plan of mine involves a commitment of several years and several (hundreds of) thousands of dollars. But knowing that doesn't make me feel any more sure about what I'm doing.

The lot of accountants at work have managed to make me even less sure. I ran into one of them in the elevator bank when I was headed to class one night.
"Leaving already?" she asked.
"I have a midterm that I need to get to," I explained, even though no explanation was necessary because it was already after 5:00. This statement inevitably turned into a conversation about what class I was taking and why. I briefly summarised my plan to go to grad school and eventually become a curator.
"How many jobs are there in that?" she sneered.
I fumbled some answer about how there were more than she might think, since there were so many museums all around the world.

"Well, do you know what Y has a degree in? A Master's degree in?"
"No," I confessed.
"Library science. She has a Master's in library science, but she couldn't find a job. Now she's been working for us so long that she doesn't think anyone will hire her."
I couldn't argue this statement with any known numerical facts about the infallibility of my own plan, but I did manage to counter somewhat nicely.
"Oh, I've seen a few job postings for people with library science degrees. I should tell her."
My naysayer shot me a withering glance. Luckily the 30-story elevator ride was finally over.

She wasn't the only one who thought that mocking my future career plans made a wonderful topic of conversation. B picked up on it as a replacement for his daily comments on my hairstyle. We had been talking quite normally about the University of Minnesota, and I mentioned that my sister was going to med school there.
"Med school, huh?" he asked, with a clear note of admiration. This quickly settled back into his normal, slightly taunting tone. "She's going to medical school and you're going to settle for art curation?"
I couldn't think of any response to this besides a firm "Yes."
"Okay," he said in a sing-song, that's-a-stupid-idea tone and walked away. He has since brought up the subject several more times, always in a teasing manner.

While these comments mainly served to make me angry, they also elevated my pesky feeling of uncertainty. But I've recently received some reassurance from my current art history professor. She is a curator at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and I met with her to talk about her own professional path. The biggest and most painful surprise to me was that I will need to have a PhD instead of a Master's. The idea of so much more school is definitely daunting. But it's not insurmountable. She also recommended that I start learning how to read French and German and gave me some helpful suggestions on what I should include in a cover letter.

Most importantly, she told me I was doing all the right things. That is quite comforting when coming from someone who has already taken this path. And it makes me really excited to keep following my own. Soon I'll get to pick somewhere I'd like to live and choose a school there (or maybe the other way around). I'll get to learn all about art and museums. I'll be able to read French and German. And hopefully I'll find a job I really love in the end. Luckily the people who have mocked or questioned me lately are offset by an equal, if not greater, number of supporters. Paying more attention to what they have to say, and to my own determination and interest in the profession I'm pursuing, will help me to put the naysayers in their proper place--behind me.

Soap Sud

Having lived in Minnesota for most of my life, I thought I knew what it felt like to have completely cold-numbed feet. I didn't. I found out yesterday during my two-hour orientation at the Soap Factory gallery in Northeast Minneapolis. The gallery has no heat, and it was colder inside than the sun-warmed 45-degree conditions outside. My Converse trainers were not designed, nor well-chosen, for the frigidity I encountered.

Dressed, as we'd been advised, in fairly warm clothing and coats, we learned about the Soap Factory's history, went over the duties and opportunities for volunteers and took an extensive tour of the space. Near the end of the tour, I finally stopped feeling the tingling, biting pain in my toes. I stopped feeling anything. When I re-emerged into the sunshine at the end of the session, I decided to take a walk to help reawaken my comatose nerves. Walking on numb feet proved to be a very odd sensation. I was moving forward, but had no sensory record of how I had done so.

But frozen feet were, I think, a very small price to pay. The reason why the gallery has no heat is also the reason that it's such an amazing space. The building once housed the National Purity Soap Factory (hence the name), which always was or came to be owned by Pillsbury. In the late 90s, before real estate near the Mississippi became trendy and expensive, some people from the company were discussing their plans to demolish the building. Apparently this conversation took place in a bar and was overheard by someone who convinced them to donate it to an artists' collective instead.

No Name Exhibitions eventually acquired the old factory for one dollar. But since it had been scheduled for the wrecking ball, many essential elements had already been removed (like the heating system). The $4 million cost of installing a new one is obviously prohibitive for a non-profit organization. But these small imperfections somehow make the space ideal for housing art--especially the sort of emerging, risk-taking art that the Soap Factory seeks.

We were shown several of the building's quirks during our tour. The locomotive boiler still lies dormant in the basement, an absolutely massive, hulking, awe-inspiring and antiquated piece of machinery. The basement itself is one of the eeriest places I have ever seen. It's very well-suited to the Halloween Haunted Basement that is held there each year. I was spooked whilst travelling the maze of dark spaces without costumed characters and other scary effects. I can't imagine what my reaction will be when it's done up properly. Probably sheer, silent terror.

The organic, constantly improving nature of the gallery means that I will have a very interesting volunteer experience there. Unlike the Walker, where I man a kiosk and occasionally direct a visitor to a café or gallery, I'll have the opportunity to be involved with a little bit of everything at the Soap Factory. According to the orientation slides, I'll be able to work one-on-one with artists, help with installations, contribute to rebuilding the floor that was torn out along with the lard-boiling vats, bar tend at openings--and, of course, gallery sit. I feel like I'll have a chance to make a true impact and learn a lot in the process. That is very exciting.

The Soap Factory is already doing interesting things, and I think it has great potential to achieve a lot more. The organisation is fueled by enthusiastic people with great ideas for fundraising and gallery improvements. Hopefully I can contribute a few of my own thoughts in addition to helping to carry out visions already in place. Despite having frozen feet, the orientation left the rest of me warm with eager anticipation. And I now know why the Soap Factory presents the Art Shanty Projects on Lake Minnetonka every winter. No-one expects those to be heated.

Wheels

Following a string of 40-plus-degree days that melted most of the lingering ice, I embarked on my first bike ride of the season. I was fully prepared for it to hurt. I recalled last year's first ride, which left me gasping for air and feeling a strong desire to throw up. This year, it was my hands and face that were burning rather than my lungs and legs. It was still probably a bit too cold, and the wind rushing across my exposed flesh left my fingers and ears numb. But aside from that, it was a very pleasant ride. I even pedaled against the wind up a long hill and found myself only reasonably winded at its summit.

Apparently the frequent unemployment walks I took this winter gave me some physical stamina. That and making endless rounds amongst the copy machine, printer, binding machine, and errant accountants' offices at Tax Place. While I expected to have some humourous-in-hindsight stories about my pedaling plight, the lack of physical pain I experienced means that a more interesting scenario involves wheels powered by an engine. Before I went to Australia, I had been borrowing my parents' third car when I needed to go somewhere. They and I both thought that I would be gone much longer than I actually was, and they sold the car about a month before I came home. This made it more difficult to go to class, go to my shifts at the Walker--go anywhere.

Luckily Raf and Laura went to Canada a few weeks ago. Luckily, Raf and Laura were generous enough to let me borrow their car whilst they were gone. I had just dropped them off at the airport and driven to work, exalting all the way about my new four-wheel freedom, when I received an email from Andy's parents offering to let me borrow their car when they went to Colorado the following week. I was thrilled at the prospect of having a car for three weeks, and scheduled every conceivable thing to which I would need to drive within that period of time.

But it got even better. Andy's parents decided to let me use Andy's car until he comes home in May. I must admit I teared up a little when he told me. To the people who lend me their vehicles, it may not seem like a huge deal (maybe it does and I just don't realise it). But, for someone who lives in a part of Maple Grove where the nearest coffee shop is a two-hour walk away with no transportation besides the Monday-through-Friday morning and evening rush-hour bus service, having a car is a significant luxury. I met Russdad and Dianemom for dinner and picked up the beautiful green Subaru about a week ago. It has made everything much easier and more accessible.

It has also opened up some new opportunities. I was interested in volunteering at the Soap Factory in addition to the Walker, but I didn't think I'd have reliable access to a car. After discovering that I'd have my own means of transport, I immediately signed up for one of the orientation sessions. It's coming up this Saturday. Working there will be an interesting contrast to the Walker, since it's a much smaller gallery with no permanent collection (as far as I know). That means there will be a lot more exhibitions coming through, which subsequently means more opportunities for me to witness or talk to people about how they curate the shows.

From a much easier first-ride-of-the-season to borrowing a car of my own, the wheel situation is greatly improved this year. Now I can focus on other aspects of life I'd like to improve over last year, like my job. I consider myself very lucky to have basically had the vehicle situation straightened out for me, and I'm hoping that luck holds out.

Toner Lung Relapse

After an unexpected five-month holiday, I finally returned to being gainfully employed in February. I returned to Tax Place. Not surprisingly, it is much the same as it was last year. Everyone, with the exception of two temps, is still there. I'm sitting in the same cubicle. I'm assembling the same e-file returns for a lot of the same clients. And I think I'm once again suffering from Toner Lung. I remember my fellow temp, M, complaining of mysteriously swollen glands last year. I've noticed that my own glands have become perceptibly larger over the past week, but I thought it was due to a recent cold. I didn't associate this telltale symptom with Toner Lung until today when, in the course of trying to clear a jam in the copier, I found my face in very close proximity to the acrid fumes it produces.

Suddenly everything fell into place. The excessive thirst. Dry, chapped hands. Fatigue. Grogginess. All symptoms that I also experienced last year and that led me to postulate about the existence of the disease in the first place. And this strain of Toner Lung seems to be more severe than ever before. Last year, one of the accountants provided evidence of the respiratory difficulties associated with Toner Lung by clearing his throat almost incessantly. This year, the "Ahm" and "Hrrrrm" to which I had grown accustomed have escalated to a full range of horribly phlegmatic noises. Rather than giving a simple cough, he now sounds as if he's blatantly trying to dislodge a fairly sizable loogie.

I've also noticed strange behaviour from another accountant. Now that M is no longer here to captivate the wheezy preparer, I've seen a lot less of him back by our cubicles. Instead, I've been hearing far more from B. Last year he confined himself to asking me what I was listening to on my iPod. Now it's become much more personal. I'd grown out my hair a bit last year, and it was too long to spike it up as I usually do. I'd forgotten about this change in coiffure until B started constantly teasing me about it.

"What'd'you call that?" he asked, gesturing to my hair. "The Rooster?" Another day he greeted me by calling out, "Hey, Spike!"
Once he ran out of clever jokes about my hairstyle, he moved on to my nose stud. "Do you stick that on there or is it real?" he inquired.
"It's real," I answered. "I've had that for a while. I'm surprised you didn't notice it last year."
"Oh I noticed it," he sneered. "I just didn't say anything about it."
I'm beginning to suspect that the only explanation for this verbal diarrhea is that it's yet another symptom of Toner Lung.

But I don't have quite as much time to study the disease and its strange manifestations as I did last year. Since I already knew how to assemble completed returns, my supervisors decided to teach me how to scan tax documents into the computer. This new task is now the bane of my Tax Place existence. It involves sorting through the big mess of W2s, 1099s, 1098s and whatever else people send back with their tax organisers. Many people seem to have an annoying fondness for staples, paper clips and Post-It notes, all of which I must remove. I have to watch for marks in any highlighter colour other than yellow, since they will turn into black censor bars if scanned in black and white. And, unlike assembling, I can't fix a mistake without completely starting over. I don't have the ability to delete a page that might turn out wonky. Cultivating the eagle-eyed forethought necessary for this task has kept me far busier than I was last year.

Despite the scanning, I generally like being back at Tax Place. I'm getting paid, the passage of time has picked up considerable speed, and I'm treated quite well. But returning here has highlighted the main difference between my life now and my life then. I really miss Andy. We had just begun dating before I started this assignment last year, and my nearly constant love-stupid giddiness must have been apparent to others, too. Immediately upon walking in the door on my first day back, the receptionist called, "I saw you kissing a boy!" Seeing my confusion, she went on to explain that it had been around the time I'd been working there last year.
"I was going to say it must not have been any time recently," I replied, and explained the separate travel paths that we're currently navigating.
"Well, you looked really in love, and it was cute," she concluded.

And that is a big part of the reason why I'm also ready to be done with Tax Place. Unlike last year, where the end of my assignment meant only uncertainty and, eventually, a far worse temp assignment, this year I have a great deal to look forward to. By 15 April, there will only be two weeks left until Andy comes home. Soon after that I'll move out of my parents' house. I have fall classes to plan. And I've been working really hard to find a job I might actually enjoy by the time tax season is done. I'm feeling pretty optimistic and eager to move on to new things. And, of course, I need to recover from this new strain of Toner Lung.

Line, Shape and Form

After diligently addressing, stamping and mailing an application for a volunteer position at the Walker Art Center this week, I expected at least a few days to pass before receiving a response. But the very next day my inbox contained a message from the representative to whom I'd sent my form and introductory letter. I opened it eagerly and scanned to the part where it said I'd be a good fit for the program. I couldn't help but grin rather hugely. I was, and am, absolutely thrilled.

Based on the amazingly fast response time, I doubt the selection process was very competitive. Perhaps just sending in the application was all that had been required. But it feels so great to finally be chosen for something. After all the negative responses (or lack of responses) I'd received in Australia during my job search, this is truly gratifying. And it's an opportunity I'm tremendously excited about. I can't remember ever being so eager to do work for which I'm not going to be paid.

But, even though they're not monetary, there are still many benefits to be gained from the experience. I'll learn more about art. Make connections at the gallery. Find someone I can talk to about grad school programs. Interact with lots of people. And, hopefully, enjoy myself as well. Though the position only requires me to volunteer four hours a month, this seems like a big step for me. Things are finally taking shape.

Part of that shape is formed by the art history class I'm taking at the University of Minnesota. I was told by the graduate program's director of admissions that I'd never be accepted with the single art history course currently on my transcript. So I'm slowly building a more substantial background in art history, one class at a time. I've started with a course dealing with the history of prints (woodcuts, engravings, etchings, lithography, etc). I'm finding it really interesting, despite focusing on very early religious prints thus far.

Though I graduated only about two years ago, it's quite strange to be an undergrad again. I'm a bit removed from the student lifestyle, so I'm able to look at it from a different perspective than I could when school was my main career. I'm basically surprised at how uptight and anxious some people seem to be feeling about the class. The midterm exam, for example, has proven to be a huge source of worry. It's still at least a month away, but our professor feels the need to reassure us every week because someone has come to her with concerns about it.

At least four people have also asked during class if our professor could put the slides and lecture notes up online before class rather than after. She refused, telling us quite honestly that she generally worked on the lecture up until class started.
"It's always a race to the finish," she confessed. I personally like her style. She told us on the first day that, "8.50 [the end time for our class] seems really late, especially in the winter. I'm all for letting you guys out early." This she has done consistently, which completely makes up for any tardiness in posting the lecture materials.

Then there was her tact in fielding a fairly delicate question last week. We had been looking at a print by Goya that featured a scary woman threatening a small group of people with an even scarier gigantic needle. Our professor told us that this would have been used to deliver an enema. This statement was seemingly going to pass without comment. But one student posed a question after we'd moved on to the next slide (which she seems to have a habit of doing).
"Wait...what was that big needle in the last slide?"
"I think it's called a clyster," the professor responded.
"But what's it for?"
"It's to give an enema."
"But what's an enema? That's what I'm asking."

The professor hesitated for a moment, certainly trying to figure out how to respond without delving into graphic descriptions. Trying to save us all from having to hear what her answer might be, one student announced to the girl, "I'll tell you after class." But Professor M discovered a way to disclose the information somewhat discreetly.
"Well, what's the opposite of Imodium AD?" she asked, having forgotten the name of the drug.
"Ex-Lax," another student chimed helpfully.
"Yes," our professor announced, sounding understandably relieved. "It's like Ex-Lax."

And yet some people in the class look bored!

Despite some awkward moments, I'm enjoying the class and the other steps I'm taking to reach my ultimate goal of being a curator. I'm excited for Walker orientation this week. I'm excited to pick my class for summer term. I'm excited to pick a grad school. I'm excited for all of it. I've felt a little lost career-wise for the past year or more, so it's exhilarating to pursue this line. I'm not quite sure exactly where it leads yet, but I know it's going somewhere I like. And the fact that it's still flexible is the most exciting part of all.

An Object at Rest...

Repatriating this time around has not proven to be as traumatic as it was last year. I think in a way that's because I never truly felt like an expat in Australia. I felt far more transient than I had on any of my previous excursions abroad. There are several reasons for that. Part of it was that I didn't discover a source of steady income and couldn't dismiss my concerns about running out of money before my visa expired. Part of it was that I didn't latch onto anything about Sydney that made me absolutely need to stay there. Part of it was that I took a lot more guided tours. Part of it was that Andy wasn't there.

And part of it was that I genuinely missed the Twin Cities. I missed the Current, the local music scene and the free local publications. I missed Punch, Chipotle, Quang, and the rest of Eat Street. I missed the bridges over the Mississippi. I missed the Mississippi in general. I missed having more clothes than I could carry in a suitcase. And after seven months of hot weather, I even missed the winter (though the solid week of -30°F temperatures that heralded my return was a little excessive). More than all the tangible things, I was actually happy to have a sense of stability. I've been moving about so much over the past two years that the idea of settling into one geographical place for a while is very appealing. I was glad to come home.

But my enthusiasm about being back doesn't help to eliminate the intense boredom I've felt since returning. I'm going back to Tax Place for another temporary assignment, but not for over two weeks. I have no car and very little money. I've largely been confined to the house, and am struggling to combat the inertia that such entrapment seems to encourage. For me, being bored is a vicious cycle. The logical way to fight boredom would be to engage myself in something interesting or productive. Something I always wished I had time to do when I was working. It's simple in theory, but in practice it's close to impossible. Instead of reading my textbook, I compulsively read facebook updates. The longest thing I've managed to write lately is a text message. And I won't even talk about how many games of Snood (a ridiculously simple and ridiculously addictive computer game) I play in a day.

Last week was much better. I think finding ways to leave my house has been the key to setting myself in motion. I'm taking a night art history course at the U. My friends have been supplying pretty frequent invitations for dinners, ice skating or watching football matches at the pub. I've been taking the bus downtown when I feel like I'm about to lose it in suburbia. I brave the cold and take long walks. All that getting out of the house helps me to be more productive when I'm in the house, too. I've been applying for weekend jobs, reading, inquiring about volunteer opportunities at art galleries...and writing. These latest posts on my blog represent my return to being an object motion. And if I adhere to Newton's first law, I'll hopefully stay in motion, too.

Gallic Expectations

My expectations of France were not at all disappointed. At least in terms of reuniting with Andy. I finally arrived in Charles de Gaulle airport after about 34 hours of travel. I was in a very focused daze while I waited in the line at passport control, which seemed to be continuously growing and barely progressing. I mustered a smile and "bonjour" that hopefully sounded more energetic than I felt when I finally reached the sullen man brandishing the stamp. Despite the line, inking my passport was expedient enough. And my backpack was one of the first things to arrive on the conveyor belt of luggage. I felt fortunate, since every additional minute of waiting was extremely irritating. I slung my massive pack onto my back, hopped once to help it fall into place, and made tracks for the arrivals gate.

I scanned left for Andy and didn't see him amongst the line of waiting people. So I turned right, searching. I heard my name and turned to see him trotting towards me from the left. I hadn't spotted him. Or maybe I just hadn't recognised him. Actually seeing him was quite startling. So was hearing his real voice, unaltered by phone and Internet signals travelling over great distances. I was taken aback at how weirdly like a stranger he seemed. That uncomfortable feeling lingered through our first hug. But it slowly dissipated after we moved off to one side and stood hugging for what was probably a solid 10 minutes. And it was replaced with an inundation of pure giddiness.

That lasted for the first few days. When I finally started to re-devote some sensory perception to my surroundings, I noticed that France was full of things I didn't expect. Like food that exceeded my idea of delicious by such a wide margin. Buttery, flaky croissants. Moist, soft, eggy baguette de campagne with crispy crust. Hot chocolate with thin sheets of actual chocolate melted into it. Warm, chewy, butter and sugar crêpes. Some sort of dessert that far surpassed the sum of its pecans, massive amounts of chocolate and sprigs of decorative aloe. Breakfast cereal that consisted of crunchy hazelnut pillows filled with smooth chocolate and hazelnut. Pitchers of house wine that were fantastic without exception. Even the oysters started to grow on me. I visibly gained weight within a week.

Given the overall deliciousness of the food, my first surprise was at just how bad some of it looked or tasted. On our second night in Paris, we were blissfully eating curried mussels at a restaurant in Montmartre. The pair of women at the table next to ours were appraising our food as they waited for their own to arrive. We returned the interested glances when the waiter finally delivered their dishes. Hopefully our appreciative looks remained in place, masking the philistine shock we felt when we saw what they'd ordered. A plate of raw hamburger, a raw egg, a chopped onion and various spices. They mixed everything together into a pile of pure uncookedness, ate every last bit, and gave their compliments to the chef. For what? we wondered. He didn't actually do anything.

I wish that another of our food mishaps had been merely observed rather than experienced. While Andy's French vocabulary has expanded immensely over the months he'd been there, he still is not able to translate every single word. I came across something called moelle d'os on a menu and asked him what it was.
"I don't know," he said. "Let's try it." That plan had worked well for us during the rest of the trip, so I agreed.

"What is it?" I asked when the waiter who brought the dish was safely out of hearing range.
"It's bone marrow," Andy said quietly and disbelievingly. We both picked up one of the tiny spoons and scooped some of the gelatinous substance from the centre of the large bones. We gingerly tasted it. We set the spoons back down and desperately reached for slices of the toast meant to be a vehicle for the marrow.
"That's AWFUL!" Andy choked, pushing the plate towards the edge of the table.

One waiter passed, glanced down at our plate and walked by without picking it up.
"He didn't take it," Andy said with dismay.
"Of course not. We have plenty of delicious bone marrow left," I explained. A second waiter rescued us from our culinary plight, but not our embarrassment.
"Is something wrong with it?" he asked, stopped in his tracks by the sight of perfectly good bone marrow not being adequately appreciated.
"No," Andy said, "We just thought we should try it."
"Yes, it's something you need to try," the waiter agreed, and took the offensive plate away.

Beyond the good and the bad of food, other aspects of the country did not fit into my perception of France as a stylish, romantic place of culture and refinement. The toilets were the most obvious departure. Most establishments offered a tiny, freezing, semi-clean single stall. Many didn't have seats, and I quickly learnt that toilet paper was a luxury. One had a particularly memorable DIY element to it. Instead of being affixed to the wall as it should have been, the soap dispenser was sitting on the counter next to the sink. You had to hold it suspended with one hand whilst pushing the soap-releasing lever with the other.

Sometimes we were lucky if there was a toilet at all. There were two armoured port-a-potty-like public bathrooms near a beach we were visiting in Sète one afternoon, but neither was working. One gave the impression of functionality by flushing its toilet every few minutes. But the red "occupé" button remained frustratingly illuminated. No-one came out or responded to knocks and inquiring shouts from the few desperate bystanders. It was a bit of an urgent situation, so we curtailed our beach walk and drove until we found a different, paid public toilet.

"My treat," Andy offered. But the coin slot built into the side of the structure only accepted 10 and 20 cent pieces. He wound up having to barter with a passerby to obtain enough correct change. Despite the printed claim that it was automatically washed and sanitised after each use, the facility's condition made me resentful that we'd had to pay to enter. But compared to a rest stop we used on the way back from Marseilles, that toilet was amazing. The women's stalls there consisted of two texturised porcelain foot grips, a handle and a hole. At least going to the bathroom was never boring.

Large packs of stray dogs, larvae in the holy water at a church we visited, a lack of some things we take for granted here (drop boxes at movie rental stores, for example), and completely erratic shop hours were some other things that surprised me about France. But even if some of these differences struck me as slightly unpleasant, they couldn't detract from the overall brilliance of the place. The food, as I said, was beyond delicious, people were warm and welcoming and the scenery was generally gorgeous and frequently breathtaking. And I was able to share all of it with Andy.

There were some surprises there, too. Andy and I had never been together continuously for such an extended period before. We did spend most of our free time together in the States, but we'd never had such an excess of free time. I think I would have begun to harbour some quite unpleasant thoughts about anyone else after so much quality time together. It was definitely an adjustment, but I learned a lot about Andy that I hadn't known before. That was really cool. And affirming.

I'm glad my time in France didn't match my expectations exactly. I enjoy staying somewhere long enough to discover some not-so-good elements along with the enviable aspects. At that point, I really feel like I've gained a sense of what life in a place is like. It fascinates me and often makes me appreciate certain things in the US that I'd always taken for granted. And some aspects of my visit were better than I could ever have anticipated. I'm happy for that, too. I feel some sort of need to like every place that I go, and it's wonderful when that comes easily. Not all of my expectations were met. But I wasn't disappointed. The reality was better.