May 4th, 2006
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Nighttime in the garden of fraternity
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The sun is high above disturbingly sculpted trees and I am at night? It’s nearly eight o’clock and I’m laying in grass as if it were four-thirty back home. I have no idea what a day this long must do to the human body. I grew up in a land of summer nights called in at six o’clock when it grew dark. If I had this many hours of sunlight I’d imagine myself a scholarly and athletic powerhouse, dedicating a hard eighty percent of my life to the noble pursuits of academia and sport.
It’s hard to function in a land where at first glance I should understand everyone, but instinct fails me and I stumble over words true but inappropriate, with the cadence and emphasis of Japanese. I’ve poured over French conversation books for weeks but with no real experience it’s nearly useless in actual situations. When a curly-haired youth asked me for a light several minutes ago, I was at a loss until he made an unmistakable flicking gesture. I then croaked out a “oui, oui”, instead of a more textbook, “Voila, Monsieur.” It will take far more than a few days for me to jettison all the expectation pent up in me for Caucasians to speak my mother tongue.
I’m fifteen ways confused as I lay about and find myself in a land where things are so familiar that the inconsistencies shock me to the core. The buildings may resemble parts of Manhattan and Frisco, the sun may linger through the park all day, the people are emphatic and serious, but I am beneath orthogonal trees and in a sea of expressive, body-clutching lovers, and more than a little dazed. It might be all that wine, and just a little jet lag.
