Le Chaudron

Vendredi, le 20 Mars. Mon Balcon. 4:06pm

I have chosen a very exciting time to study abroad in France, it seems. At least, in La Reunion. Not that it wouldn’t ordinarily be exciting, but as you may or may not have heard, general strikes have found their way to French Overseas Departments. At first they were only in Guadaloupe (lasting for 44 days beginning around January 20th, blockading the island and killing one person), but on March 5th, the strike came to Reunion. The protests were different from the University strikes that I had been experiencing. “Oh great,” I thought. “As if it weren’t difficult enough to get to class during a University strike, what’s it going to be like when the whole island shuts down?” Well, little white suburban Chelsea soon experienced what it was like to be in a civil uprising.

Before I get to the exciting part (for my friends, the scary part for my adult friends), let me tell you why French Overseas Departments are rioting. Guadaloupe, Martinique (in the Caribbean), French Guiana (South America), and La Reunion are DOMs (Departements Outre-Mer, or French Overseas Departments). I don’t remember if I’ve explained this, but they are like Hawaii is to the USA- all the rights of a mainland state, just farther away. Well, they may have the same political rights, but in fact, life here is structured quite differently. For Reunion, the unemployment rate is something like 50+%, compared with about 18% in métropole (mainland France). Also, there’s a built-in 57% sales tax on all products, which makes life here, as you can imagine, quite expensive. I also need to explain about being a civil servant in France. Any state job- bus driver, teachers, professors, magistrates, etc- have a pretty sweet deal. They get paid pretty well and they get good benefits. That’s all fine and well, but for the rest of the island that’s employed, many are on minimum wage and trying to live on what I imagine to be, less than a living wage. Hence, the protests. After throwing an enormous hissy fit, blockading the island, rioting, and using all their gas, food, water, and energy, Sarcozy finally caved and decided to give those living on minimum wage a 200 Euro a month increase. Sweet. Except, that’s only Guadeloupe. So, what kind of example does that set? Naturally, Reunion said, “Oh, well they protested and got a raise? Well we will, too.” So here I am, sitting on my balcony on the second day (albeit not consecutive) of the General Strike. Fliers are all over campus trying to attract the youth population, and yet somehow classes are still going on (save for my surf class.. grr… I can’t exactly pick up where I left off in Maryville..).

So far, things aren’t as bad as they were on the first day, but who knows. It could get bad by tonight. Let me recant to you how it went down last week. After Steph and I got out of class last Tuesday around 3:30, we kept hearing muffled booms coming from somewhere nearby. As we went for our weekly visit to the International Student Office, Sylvie and Sophie (the tiniest, nicest women ever) informed us to STAY INSIDE tonight- “Don’t leave campus,” they warned. Those booms we were hearing were tear gas bombs being launched in the neighborhood just down the hill. Apparently the protest from the town center had marched all the way to our part of St- Denis and was now agitating the police and army enough to warrant tear gas bombs. Cool.

By dinnertime, it had not abated. In fact, there was a pretty good view of it from our cafeteria by nightfall. So, what do sociology students do? They go check out the riot. Minutes later, Steph, Richard, Ivan, Chaz, and I were walking out of campus and down the hill toward the market and grocery store I frequent about once every two days. Le Chaudron, as the neighborhood is called, is also home to a big bus depot. It’s a busy place. We were immediately greeting with enormous garbage cans overturned and burning in the streets. Gradually we crept closer and closer. At first, it was (and I’m quoting Steph here), a lot like the 4th of July. People were out with their families and children looking at cars maneuvering around the burning poubelle and listening to the shouts of rioters and booms of bombs. Ten police cars passed, and a few army cars passed too. They all had huge shields and the two soldiers on the end of each truck had their rifles out. We moseyed down the street, crossing a soccer field and heading to a side street. More burning garbage, and the sounds got louder. Eventually we could hear the shouts and yells of the rebel men, battling the police. Rocks, bricks, and Molotov cocktails against tear gas and trucks. We were joined by a few of our Creole friends and another Brit, Becky, so the huge group of white Anglophones didn’t look as conspicuous. We still stuck out, though. Steph, Becky, and I were the only women around at this point. Men were stalking by, marching with long, deliberate stomps. They were baring their chests with tshirts swaddled around their faces to protect their lungs from the piercing tear gas. At this point, the bus depot (a small building where you can buy tickets) had burned to bare boards, and stood steaming. Stranded cars fell prey to the masses and were overturned and burned without a second thought. Ivan, Chaz, and I dared to go closer; Stephanie and Richard and Becky hung back, displaying far more sense than I allowed myself to have. I kept thinking how I wanted to document this all, send it to the media, and all the while memorize every detail- I can’t help my sociology leanings sometimes. “Les yeux, les yeux” cried Steve, our native Reunionais friend. Apparently you don’t have to run everytime you see something launched- it may just be a warning shot. Watch it. It may be a bomb of tear gas, the force of which you can feel on your back when the explosion moves the air around you. At this point, a slight drizzle was leaving an itchy film on my skin and making my toes slide in my Chacos. They reminded me once again of how I must stick out. The American white girl in a French uprising. Amazing, amazing experience, but still so bizarre. Not only have I never been exposed to anything like this- Hollywood doesn’t count, but looked scarily similar - but this is my quiet little neighborhood where I buy mangos and potatoes on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. When we saw men sprinting forth from the fog of smoke and tear gas, we ran in the same direction. That’s a rule of a riot; you don’t want to have people behind you. That means you’re on the front line. If you see people run towards you, do a 180 and get moving. Ask questions later. When the bombs launched, we ran. The rain, a silent and almost unnoticed actor in the fiery evening made the whole ordeal ironically more dangerous. We were slipping around while running and looking back. Enough was enough, and the crowds certainly weren’t going to defeat the police force. We returned, blood pumping, chattering because of the adrenaline and marveling at the sites we saw.

Later, a helicopter swooped and hummed low over the city, illuminating the clouds of tear gas and the stronghold of rioters in its beam. Things were quiet just a kilometer up the hill on my pretty campus. By morning, the tear gas bombs were few and far between. 16 arrests, a few injuries, an evening to remember.

Studying abroad- wow. Please know that my parents and brother scolded me well enough for getting so close. I never felt as though me or my life was threatened, and I’m no worse for wear. Just another exciting experience to add to my study abroad adventures.

Le Jardin

Last night at about 1 AM, I was gazing at the ocean- not unusual for me. However, it was such a dreamy night. The moon was so bright that it was casting shadows, even though where I live is pretty well-lit. It was also shining on the ocean, which was something I’ve never seen before. I was mesmerized. If you think back to my post about the sunset, you’ll remember that I try to find exact colors for things- I think it’s so I’ll be sure to remember it when I’m old and far from the memory. So, as I was taking the visual snapshot of the moon on the ocean, I decided it was an ethereal kind of color- definitely not a one-word Crayola color, either. It was gray and green-blue and silver all at the same time, but it moved. The closest tangible thing I could relate it to would be, perhaps, the color of the ripples in a White-out patch after it’s been photocopied. Except slightly greener. Anyway, it was a living color, and it was beautiful.

Then, my eyes wandered to the scene below me. I live on the sixième étage (6th floor), just right of the center of the building, as you look out (ie: looking at the building, my room is slightly to the left). I have a spectacular view of both the mountains and the ocean and the city growing inbetween. I can also see all of the foot traffic that goes in and out of the building. The entrance is actually on the third floor, which holds the front desk, vending machines (where you can get passion fruit flavored soda and hazelnut chocolates), the computer room, and several multi-purpose classrooms. On the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 6th floors are where the students live. But, I digress. On the same level of the first floor is “le jardin” or the courtyard (literally, the garden). I really love to look at it. As I said, I have a good view of the right side of it, as it is divided by the walkway that comes from campus level (the third floor). So, it’s like a sunken courtyard. I hope you can visualize this.

The walkway/parking/hangout area out front connected to the walkway makes a giant “T” with the stem of the T leading to the front doors, and the top of the T making one face of the enormous patio out front. Making sense? Good. So, I want to tell you about what I think about my little view of le jardin.

I find it simply charming. I have no idea who tends to it, who planted it, or really what to think of its existence. On the right side in the corner, next to the door, there are two banana trees (a big bunch of them will be ready in a few more weeks!) and several bushes. They all are shiny and very chlorophyll-y. I imagine that the rich volcanic soil and the endless sunshine make for very happy plants. At least, I’d be happy and well-fed if I were a plant here. A few weeks ago, the banana tree nearest me made a new leaf. At first, it was a long, booger-colored baton, extending from the center of all the other fronds. Then, slowly, it grew longer, and greener, until one morning, after a night of fairly turbulent storming, I saw that it had unfurled and begun to fan itself in the early breeze.

To the right, growing in a crack in le trottoir (sidewalk), is a tangly mess of an impatient plant. Impatients are the little colorful, 5-leaved flowers that my dad used to let me pick up at the Agway when I was 6 or 7 or 8, to plant in my own garden. Imagine seeing the actual plant growing wild in its natural climate, and not in a 6-pack of black plastic. Pleasantly surprising. Its arms are long and have several white blooms at each juncture of stem and leaf. It sort of looks like the land squeezed a pore and out squiggled a flowering plant!

In the middle of the grass, there’s a stump. The tree was cut down a long time ago; the weathered leather-brown color of the middle matches the color of the remaining bark and roots. I wonder what kind of tree it was. Probably coconut- they’re as ubiquitous here as maples and pears are back home. The stump is hatched like the top of an apple pie, or like the back of a piece of clay when you score it to attach to a bigger piece of pottery. The lines are surprisingly exact, and they make me want to trace my fingers through them. Or, stand on it and declare something, like the Lorax would do.

When I first arrived, I used to lean over my railing and watch a Mother Cat and her one Baby live like tigers dans le jardin. The mother is a pale orange, and the baby is gray like a rain cloud. Mother Cat would nap under a shrub, and Baby would creep up in front of her and practice her pouncing skills. Later, Baby would feed, and the two would stalk around like the plants needed patrolling. Naps, playing, feeding, repeat. Now, I hardly see them together, and Baby is nearly the size of Mother Cat. I still want to know how they get in and out. It seems like such an isolated little hide out, but cats are crafty like that.

To finish what I can see from my balcony: just under me there’s a line of bushes with smalls blooms the color of coral. Also, there’s a plant with shiny green and red and yellow stripes. Those abut the sidewalk. Across from them climbing up the wall of the “T” (where the stem of the T and the top of the T meet) are various kinds of vines. Some are alive and some are dead. If I were a snake I’d wind myself up and down in them all day. One can hardly see the faded white fall behind them, and I’m reminded of The Secret Garden or Harry Potter. In front of the wall is the grass patch (with the Apple Pie Stump).

My favorite part of the courtyard is actually what inspired this post. Down in my right corner, there is a rose bush. It’s probably three feet tall and has one main stalk and two smaller ones. It’s interesting, because one of my professors was saying how roses can’t grow here because it’s too hot. Well, the thing about courtyards and roses is that the roses usually don’t just appear there, nor are they abundant enough to make me believe that a seed landed there. So, someone knew that that section of the garden would get just enough light and just enough shade to grow but not scorch the delicate flower. Just four days ago, I spent a good amount of time just staring, partly in disbelief, at the fact that there was a beautiful, perfect bloom on my rosebush. The plant is positioned perfectly so that at night, the light from the stairwell between the ground and first floors is illuminates it. She puts on a show for anyone who has the view and happens to notice. The bloom was a beige-peach color, and I imagined what it smelled like. Like a rose in the US? Probably not, but who will ever know?

On Saturday morning, the flower had dropped all of its petals, and the plant blended back into the green background of le jardin. Who planted that bush, I wonder. The thing about roses is that they are so stereotypically French-romantic (to me, at least), and I stereotypically love them. I am always reminded of the rose character in Le Petit Prince. So, it seemed trite to write about a rose I saw this one time in France, but I couldn’t help myself. If you had seen it bloom, you would have to write too.

I’m not posting a picture, because by now, you all have an image of what it looks like in your mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin your imagined jardin. We all need to use our imaginations from time to time. Have fun exploring the courtyard with yours.

Strikes and Iguanas and Anti-Climactic Vanilla Cooperatives

Sorry for my absence. Things have been sort of busy around here, what, with me actually going to class on a regular basis. Also, as you know, internet connections aren't the best, so I'm happy to be able to post. And now, time for a brief-ish rundown of my past 10 days or so.

I know I promised a blog on the stike that was happening/is happening/will continue to happen on campus. Well, as you know, the French love to strike. To them, the government is always to blame. So, naturally, when the Minister of Education proposed sweeping changes to the national university system, everyone freaked. It is actually kind of a big deal, because this is the first time that the schools have held wide strikes. I think at its height 70 universities were shut down (it's around 50 now). You see, professors are civil servants (and get fairly good benefits), so if they strike the government doesn't care because they don't have to pay them. Unfortunately, now that everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, they can't really ignore it. Way to go strikers!

So, I must confess that I'm not actually sure what they're protesting. I am fairly certain it involves the following: cutting professors' benefits, cutting/altering research funding, changing the way the poor get scholarships. Again, I can't be too sure, but that is what I gather from my professors. Regardless, the strike has come to Reunion. Here's what's happened so far: in the second week of school, class kept being interrupted by polite students that quietly knocked on the door and asked the professor for a few minutes. They explained that there was strike and here's why they were striking. They professor promptly stopped lecturing and sat back, giving these complete strangers the floor. As I said the French love and respect their strikers. The same week, the students started to protest and march around campus one morning. There were a few hundred, so it looked cool. Of course, the sociology major in me was immediately attracted to the French Culture happening, so I followed like a bug to a lightbulb, and resisted the urge to take along a notebook for my records. Our large group ended up in front of the administration building, locking themselves between the builiding and the street. Meanwhile, the crowd blew horns, beat drums, smoked weed, threw some fruit and blocked traffic. It was pretty cool. Then, the leader said they were breaking for lunch and would resume later. So French. They love their tuna and corn sandwiches on baguettes, too.

After that, the campus would be sproadically closed. One day, I woke up to find that students had torn down lampposts and put them in front of the gates so profs couldn't get it. That week the President completely shut down campus for a day. Since then, it's been completely closed one more time and half closed (lampposts blocking cars and students only allowing foot traffic) about three times. It may sound cool, but it's actually sort of annoying. I'm here to get a formal French education. While I am learning a lot about the culture, not being able to go to my French translation, culture, and grammar courses is frustrating. I only have four more months, after all! Still, I'm sure those of you out there who know me are saying, "geez, Chels, quit being such a nerd and enjoy not having class." Don't worry- I do. It just highlights the difference that the French and Americans place on education. Everyday I learn something new, and for the most part, class has resumed as normal.

At first I thought I wasn't going to be able to get credit (if I don't have class I can't have homework and I can't get a grade! Ahh calm down, Chelsea). But now, it's pretty evident that there's only a small group of students that are totally gung-ho about it. This past week they made a paper-mache Sarcozy to BURN (yes, burn-- if students did that with Bush [or Obama], they'd be shot or lynched or dragged behind a truck or something) but I'm not actually sure what became of it. Campus is scheduled to be closed to cars tomorrow (read: the students striking voted to put the lampposts in the road), so who knows if class is actually on. It's impossible to tell which professors are striking, too. Even if they aren't, enough students to hold class might not show up, so class still may not happen. Sigh. Campus may be totally closed on Thursday, though.

On a completely unrelated note, the ENTIRE ISLAND may be on strike this Thursday because of all of the economic changes Sarcozy wants to make to French Overseas Departments (Guadaloupe, Martinique, French Guiana, and Reunion). You may have heard that there were some pretty serious protests in Guadaloupe in the past two weeks. Basically, Sarcozy appeased the crowds (sort of) by promising them 240 more Euros a month (to civil servants), but he failed to promise the same for the other three overseas departments.. cough cough.. Reunion. Now the mindset is, "well, Guadaloupe got the money, so if we strike, we will too!" So, now, if the University isn't striking, the island will be. My translation professor told us to expect the worse, stock up on food, and if possible, go downtown to watch the protests at the prefecture. Oh so cheerily she offered: "Yes, wear your tennis shoes, and if they start throwing rocks, the riot police will respond with tear gas, and you can just walk down a side street and be out of it!"

France. Love it.

I'll let you know how that goes. In other news, this blog post is getting entirely too long, but I'm perservering because I owe you stories on seeing my first iguana and lame vanilla museums. Last weekend I went to Salazie, which is one of the cirques of the island. It's beyond gorgeous. The cirques are ancient collapsed volcanoes, so once you're in, you're just surrounded by an impenitrible wall of verdant tropical life. Team Anglophone (the Americans and the British) searched for a cascade (waterfall), but failed. Instead, we had a great time trekking around on a trail, stumbling upon adorable Creole homes and gorgeous vistas. I swore that I was going to see a terradactyl fly over the canyon. The plants were so big and we were so far from people that I swore I was in the Mesozoic Period or something. Amazing. So worth it. Anndddd on the way out, we were stopped for a water break and we saw an iguana! He was so cool and orange and striped. I would have liked to have had a conversation with him, perhaps about his opinion on paperback books versus hardcovers. I think he'd have been into it. I refrained from asking, and we hastened to get back to St. Denis and get ready to go to a rave (techno music all night long, yes!!!) and sleep on the beach. Success. Team America (Me, Katie, and Stephanie) dominated that weekend.

This weekend was just a good one. Saturday, Stephanie and I spent the day with our German friends and spoke French the whole time (yes!!!). We were searching for a Vanilla plantation/museum, but it was in the next town over, so this really nice woman took us in her tiny French car. The museum ended up being kind of lame, but I did learn some good things about the plant. For example, did you know that the vanilla plant originated in Mexico? Also, that it doesn't self-pollinate and that it must be done by hand in Reunion? I sure didn't. Yesterday we went to the beach and got supremely sunburned. Good thing I just got an enormous shipment of aloe from my parents (thanks Mom and Dad!). I was so worried I wouldn't have a use for it! Haha. At the beach, I snorkeled for about 45 minutes and saw the most INCREDIBLE sea life, including my favorite fish for the first time ever!! (http://blog.nesthostelsvalencia.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/long-fin-angel-fish.jpg). I don't know why I like it so much, but I think they're gorgeous. I saw about ten, and one was about the size of my head! So cool. I obviously didn't take the picture, but y'all get the idea. Thanks, Google Image.

Well, I hope your eyes aren't stinging from reading my short novel. As always, please keep in touch and tell me about what you're doing! If you send me your address, I will send you a postcard or letter. Stay warm in the crazy storm. I'll eat a fresh pineapple and think nostalgically about what winter feels like...

Bisous!

Bagatelle, Edema, Cilaos et Perrier

18 Février 2009. 6 pm. Ma cuisinette.

Today was one of the hottest days I can remember. After waking up after a fitful night of sleep (my fan stopped working, so it was pretty uncomfortable), I did some laundry with Stephanie. We remarked on how heavy wet laundry is. We thought back to the sum of our remembered pre-industrial art: those women had guns. We attributed it to doing all the laundry by hand, carrying toddlers around for years, and generally hauling things back and forth without the aid of cars, busses, and ..ahem.. men. We also decided that by the time we leave, our arms and backs will be just as strong- there’s a lot of manual labor to be done here.

A short trip to Jumbo (the grocery store) enlightened me to even more Réunionais culture. We were searching for “something American” for an international dinner tonight. I settled on macaroni and cheese. I was surprised that after so much seemingly Western influence that there was such a “lack” of American food to be bought. How presumptuous of me. We’ll see how the mac and cheese turns out, seeing as even the crappiest cheese in France is about five times better than cheese in the US.

Other quirky, cultural things I’ve noticed: women here really like shoes, and really like to dress up. I feel like an absolute scrub when I wear my favorite outfit of Nike shorts and a t-shirt. Most everyone here looks great- brightly colored scarves, shirts, pants, cute tops, and really nice sandals or heels that look like they give some serious blisters. Additionally, I’ve noticed that women really like having their bra straps show. That’d be really weird in the US, in my opinion. Regardless, the women are all gorgeous all the time.

I had my first solo outing to downtown St. Denis today to exchange mon ventilateur (fan). That’s when I really started paying attention to the people and places around me. Everything I can see is a picture: the colors are so lively- the walls, the clothes, their skin, the sky, the tropical trees… I never want to close my eyes. On this trip I also continued thinking about how I live here; I am learning to pick my way through crowds like a Créole, carry myself like one, and take care of myself like one. Yea, I live here. It feels good to finally be getting a hold of it. Honestly, I don’t ever want to stop.

My French is improving daily. I was remarking just the other day how I don’t notice as much how I struggle to converse with people; I can wake up and speak relatively well and not feel (as) tired from a day of speaking when I go to bed. I pick things up from people when I’m in public, too. I’m learning so much vocabulary, so many verbs, thanks to my very patient neighbors and friends. They ask me how to say something in English and I ask them how to say everything from hiccup (houque) to bloomed (éblouissant) in French, and rarely, Créole. I love listening to people speak French, and I love learning it. Five months is not enough.

For now, that’s all. You may (or may not) have heard, but nearly all of the universities in France are striking. Mine is too, but I’m not that adversely affected. More on that in the next post. For now, I’ll wait on my macaroni and then head to my Réunionais Folk Dance class. Yes, I’m learning how to dance. Hold your laughter until after you see my sweet skills. À plus!

I Live Here.

Wednesday, February 11th. 3:47 am. My room.

Today was just one of those beautiful, simple days. It could have easily happened at any time of the year, or any day of the week, but I suddenly realized that I was living here. And that what I was doing wasn't an event that I planned (or didn't). Today, I lived a day in my life, and yesterday, I did too. And tomorrow will be my life. Whether I liked it, or whether I wanted it to turn out this way is not important, because this life is the one I've got and is the one that makes me what I am. Not vice versa. My life's doings don't create me. My life just happens, and I am a principal character in whatever is around me. Which is, to say, the intersection of everyone else's lives with mine. Theirs are worthy and charmed too.

I live here now, and it's a wonderful thing. My life would have happened in Maryville or Brentwood, or at any other French university for that matter. What's even more remarkable is that I have realized this. I think it's good, anyways. I mean, I can only change the future. That's something we've been telling ourselves often- it's a freeing statement. Try saying it outloud sometime. But -- being in this production and living -- is that the same as "changing" your future? Food for thought, definitely.

For now, I will continue to fall deeper in love with being a novelty and everything else being a novelty to me. After nearly three miniscule weeks, I don't think I can ever tire of learning about the new cracks and crevices to being a Reunionnaise. At the same time, I maintain my frienships back home. It's odd how some of them are slightly prodding and poking me all the way over here. It gives a nice dichotemy to my two, seemingly parallel worlds, that, to anyone else, would seem to be 180 degrees apart (yes, try to figure that out in your mind's eye-- that's what I get for writing at 3:52 am). I love it a lot- both the writing and the thinking. Cathartic.

The cyclone is over (the heat is back), the ocean is 34 shades of blue again, and I am living. More to come. There always is.

Cyclones, Letchis, And More Cultural Lessons

6 February 2009. 3:25 pm. IN the library, for once.

Lots to tell! First things first: Yes, there's a cyclone in Reunion, but I AM FINE, and I anticipate that nothing that exciting will actually happen. Mostly it just makes being outside a THRILL-- at any moment once could be consumed in a 20 second wall of la pluie (rain). For the most part, nothing too exciting has happened. The grocery stores are now offering "Cyclone Specials" where you get an extra two liters of water for free. (Generally, after cyclones, the water isn't safe to drink for a few days). Stephanie and I stocked up in case it becomes unsafe and also bought food we could prepare without electricity. Sadly, it's pretty much useless to stock up on baguettes because they go stale. I can't imagine a day here without a baguette. It could be intense. I'll let you know. Anyways, I think the storm's kind of far off the island, and is only making very strong winds, and crazy sporadic rain spells. It may get worse, but probably not. I'm sort of bitter because I wanted to go hiking and mountain biking this weekend, but I'd rather be alive than caught in the cyclone on a mountain. All of the internationals are somewhat bummed because we wanted to get caught indoors for a few days, have some time off class, and generally have an enormous slumber party. Alas, who knows-- there is more time yet in the cyclone season. You can track it at: http://www.meteo.fr/temps/domtom/La_Reunion/Cmr/SaisonCourante/satellite/animation.html

Next: Letchis. A small, candy-tasting fruit that is like the mascot of La Reunion. They have a hard, red, bumpy outer shell but a soft pink inside. Unfortunately, their season ended in January, so I won't taste a fresh one. So, you may ask, how do I know what it tastes like? Sound question, blog-followers. Two opportunities. Danone (Dannon, for all you yogurt afectionados out there) produces "Creole" flavored yogurts that are all over the place. The french consume a crazy amount of yogurt, by the way. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, swimming pools (what??).. etc. Anyways, the letchi-flavored yogurt is delicious. My other opportunity came just the other night at a party, when a dear friend of mine who hails from this wonderful island, offered me a rum-soaked letchi. For my Tennesseans: think moonshine-flavored fruit. For all others: think of the taste of ethanol alcohol that has the consistency of calamari. It was quite potent, but suprisingly sweet. Needless to say, I'll do my best to adhere to the addage: "try everything at least (and for rum-soaked letchi fruits, only--) once."

More cultural lessons: The most prominent is that I think people take friendship more seriously here. Last week, one our my friends invited me to her birthday celebration. For me, it happened to be a day I had to get a lot of errands done. So, by the time I was back to campus, I couldn't make it for hunger, tiredness, etc. After a day or so of the Cold Shoulder and Awkward Eye Contact Doesn't Mean I Recognize You As A Friend, she patiently explained to a very confused and culturally inept me that when someone invites you to something- a party, to eat at the cafeteria, to get cafe (coffee), and you accept, that basically binds you to going. It's as good as a contract. I had actually hurt her feelings because I didn't go out with the group and didn't tell anyone I wasn't going to make it, and why not, etc. I tried my best to explain that it's SO different in the U.S.-- that everyone gets invited to everything, and you sort of feel it out if 1) you're really actually expected to be there, 2) who's going, and will it be worth it? and 3) if it's something you want to do. It didn't seem to translate, but she isn't mad. I have to say it's so relieving to have the wonderfully patient friends I've been fortunate enough to meet. Lesson learned, and no worse for wear.

Now a paragraph of little things in list form: I am officially enrolled in surfing class, the campus doctor has a picture he DREW of President Obama framed on his office wall, I do my laundry in my shower because it's so expensive for one load (about $3.30 American buckeroos per wash, per dry), discotheques play OLD American pop music that make the club go CRAZY (think: a techno YMCA, techno Chris Brown, a techno Grease montage [as in, John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John Grease], and techno Eurythmics--- do you TECHNO notice a TECHNO pattern??). Perhaps more on the epic discotheque experience to come. This post is too long as it is.

Finally, I'm trying to outsmart the ants that I share my room with by hiding my baguette so they won't find it. Secret Baguette Hide Out Place (SBHOP) #1: My closet, with my t-shirts. Mediocre response; it took them about 3 times as long to find it. Dissatisfied. SBHOP #2: on my chalkboard. Results to be published.

I miss you all immensely. Be well.

Bisoux,
Chelsea

The Colors of Reunion

1 Fevrier 2009. 1:12pm. Steps of the bibliothèque (library).

You may be wondering why I’m on the steps of the library, and not inside. Well, it’s Sunday. The entire island shuts down on Sundays. No markets, school services (including the library), stores, restaurants, even the kitchens on the dorm floors are locked. It definitely takes getting used to. I’m slightly peeved that I can’t do much of anything on Sundays. Moreover, the internet never works consistently, so this is being written in a word document to be uploaded later. Lesson #87523 of Réunion: patience, patience, patience.

Yesterday we went to the beach. I invested in a snorkeling set and explored the coral reefs all afternoon. It was the best 9€ I’ve ever spent. It was so amazing! I saw fish that were straight out of Finding Nemo! The brightest colored beings God ever created, I’m convinced, live in coral reefs. I saw lots of fish, sea cucumbers (I think), an eel, and sea urchins. I can’t wait to go back. The European students go all the time and know the good places to go and what to look for. I’ll try to take some pictures with an underwater camera. I wish you guys could go snorkeling with me.

On the way home, the sun began to set. Our university is on the north side of the island, and mountains block the west side from our view. So, since we were on the beaches on the west side, we had a spectacular view of le couche de soleil (sunset). First, the sun began to sink very slowly in front of us. Its light projected the slightest tinge of melon onto the clouds. Then, it was more intense. Les nuages (the clouds) absorbed it until they were positively tangerine. Their complexion was slightly pink as well. Rose on the edges, and then smoked salmon and a simultaneous hot pink and lobster at the sunset’s zenith. The sky itself reflected that wonderful time of day when it’s both orange and blue- a visual anomaly my brain will just never comprehend. Then, slowly, after its peak, the colors reverse, and the sun finally fades beyond the mountains. All we can see is its echo on the omnipresent, always-perfect clouds. Orange sherbert, then bubblegum pink. Later, the sea and the sky exchange colors, and the sky is painted a soft, cornflower blue. The clouds are a steely gray edged with lavender and infused with ribbons the color of a robin’s egg. The space above grew deeper and deeper blue, as though all the mystery and life of the ocean projected into the endless vista. And then, rather quickly, it was done. The painting was wiped clean, and the colors were packed up for another day. All that remained were the clouds. It is true: they are always present and they are always perfect. Last night, as I watched this evolution of season and color, it seemed as though God had inhaled a giant breath of the island of Réunion-its sounds, people, smells, tropicality- and exhaled them into his hands, molding and prodding and feathering at them until He was satisfied. They stand guard over the island, opposite the great rock cliffs and the yuccas’ tall flower shoots, like sentries facing off. The clouds are perfect. Their whiteness accepts and graciously reflects every color and mood of the island, from the raucous Créole music jams and cookouts in the Cirques to the shouting mango and vanilla bean vendors at the downtown markets to the sinking sun that casts its personality over the enormous and intricate white canvases. This is discovery.