Frog Blog

today i walked up to the grocery store for milk, ham, toilet paper. it was very normal for march outside- cloudy, overcast, foggy, bleak, misting. right near the store entrance, across the street actually, a small group of people had gathered around someone sitting on the curb. it was an old man. i saw a woman with latex gloves and a red canvas kit attending to him. the other people were standing in that uncomfortable way when you want to do something but don't know what you can do or maybe there's nothing to do, you don't even have to be there because someone with a red canvas bag and latex gloves is there and the paramedics don't need 5 witnesses or anything but you just saw this terrible thing happen and want to make sure everything works out ok. i looked at the man through the parked cars and couldn't see his face but could see he had a maroon sweater and blue slacks and a mass of snowy white hair. i couldn't see what was wrong and then i did. it looked like he'd broken his nose and there was red purple blood all over his right cheek and eye. someone said, he was just walking and then he fell. i only looked for half a second. i wanted to go over because i know first aid, but the red canvas bag.

a few months ago i saw two people crash their bikes in the street within a week of each other. both times their tires got caught in the grooves of the streetcar tracks. the first time it was raining and the girl was at a red light balancing and wearing rain gear. crash. i rushed over, put down my umbrella, asked her if she was all right, helped her to the curb. she was all right but freaked out. no major injuries. mostly embarrassed. i told her i'd call 911 for her if she wanted me to but she said she didn't. i caught my bus.

days later, near B's shop, a man heading north crashed, toppled over his handlebars, crumpled into a heap. another woman and i rushed over. i crouched down, asked him if he was ok and he grimaced and winced and swore and said no and i could see that he was afraid and surprised. he said, i think i broke something. the other woman called 911. i asked him, can i call anyone for you? do you have a cell phone? i think he did and i think i dialed his wife. and he said to her, hi, it's ----, i think i broke my collarbone, i'm downtown, you have to call ----- and have her come and get me, no, yes, i know you're in ------, but i think i'm, yes, ok, call her. he told me she was calling their daughter. and then the paramedics came with their latex gloves and tool boxes and felt around his left shoulder tenderly. and i told them, he got his wheel stuck in the track and the other lady confirmed and a paramedic asked, did a car hit him? and we both said no. then they asked him, which hospital are we taking you to? and loaded him up into the ambulance and off they went. that other lady walked one way, i another.

i bought my stuff and on the way out through the door i could see a fire engine and then an ambulance, their lights flashing. the old man was on a stretcher and his whole head was wrapped in white bandages and batting. like a mummy. and people milling around the entrance were still talking about him. it was so different than on tv.

i’ve decided to write about the little things i don’t want to forget about my time in france. the memories come to me at the most random times and whenever they do i’m flooded with joy and nostalgia. these tiny memories shaped my experience.

my school provided laundry service for my sheets, pillow cases and dish towels. to get to the laundry room, i had to walk way down into the school’s dark basement. i remember the darkness mostly because in many buildings in france, overhead lights work on a timer: you have to find the switch (usually an illuminated circle panel on the wall) and punch it to turn on the light. the best part is when they turn back off, inevitably when you’ve lost your keys in your purse. or worse, when you can’t find the switch in the first place. imagine feeling along a wall in pitch black trying to locate a light switch.

it took forever to get to the laundry room — i had to enter at one end of the school and walk the entire length to get to clean sheets. luckily, i could walk the whole way inside— handy on those cold and blustery days (like every day). i never experienced cold like i did in france. it was simultaneously a wet and dry cold. does that even make sense? for reals: you know how when it’s about 35 degrees and rainy out? that’s the kind of damp cold that sinks into your bones. but i’m used to that from winters back home. it’s the dry cold i hate — the kind where the ground is frozen but it’s fucking ARID out; nosebleed inducing, flaky skin causing, static hair dry. somehow but my town was a combination of the two: it would rain the tiniest amount; just to make the ground wet and add a chill to the air, then it the wind would pick up and suck out my soul through my coat sleeves. on more than one occasion my toes turned white and numb and it took forever and a warm shower to get the blood flowing again.

but i digress. out of all this cold, the laundry room was beacon of hope: a warm, moist star in a dark, deserted school hallway. there were 3 or 4 women who worked in the laundry. machines were always spinning, irons were always steaming. the school boarded about 100 students (maybe more?), which equals a lot of laundry.

i could only bring school issued linens, the names of which i’d always forget (in french). pillow case: oreillier? or is that pillow? the ladies were so friendly. i’d say bonjour and ca va and i’m sorry i can’t remember the name for dish towel and they’d smile and tell me again and again. i wish i’d written the names down. i wish i could remember the names of the women.

getting back to my tiny studio with clean sheets was a total treat. the sheets were thick, starched, heavy linen. making my bed was a bitch. the bed frame was this heavy ass wooden contraption that was the same shade of blue as the matching armoir, desk and nightstand (i chose the blue room instead of the seafoam green room across the hall). not only was the bed heavy and impossible to move, it was directly against the wall; so navigating the unfitted bottom sheet around the mattress was nothing short of a miracle. no fitted sheets in france! i practically worked up a sweat every time.

but once finished, crawling into that crisp, sweet-smelling bed was bar none. my heater would come on and off throughout the day. its last cycle was at about 9 p.m. it made a small clicking noise that brought me comfort in the quiet.

the sun. a million ants, clustered in a shimmering pile at the base of a concrete retaining wall. a colorado license plate. a georgia license plate. two women with pony tails and trenchcoats talking and sitting on a bench. a tall man wearing bright red socks and birkenstocks. 7-11 (very distinctive smell of hotdogs and cool linoleum and nachos). tea roses near the catholic school and the book store. blue bells. forget-me-nots (favorite flower ever). an old dude in black low-top converse. too many women with thick calves and stiletto boots. the owner of the fur shop that’s closing down due to controversy. a woman with bleached hair, scary blue eyes but carrying a sillage of fracas perfume. a man so drunk and disoriented it looked like he was doing tae-kwon do on the sidewalk.

i thought: what happens if i get hit by a car? i won’t be able to compile my list. which is my way of thinking, it’s great to be alive.

i’ve been thinking more seriously about exercise. i don’t get enough. i’ve been blessed with a naturally slim body but have noticed that the older i get, the more work it takes to maintain. things are starting to settle and sag and i’ve developed a serious love affair with cheese and salami.

usually i don’t actually notice until i’m in a dressing room. trying on clothes in front of a three-way mirror at nordstrom is a notoriously painful thing to for any woman. nordstrom rooms are the worst: terrible overhead lighting, mirrors that not only show you in a side view but also allow you to view yourself completely from behind. last week i got a good look at every paunch and dimple and sag and thought, ok, i’m walking to and from work from now on. (actually, i thought, fuck! when did my ass start sagging?)

i love walking, the faster the better. it’s the most efficient way i’ve found to clear out my head, work out my aggressions, blow off steam. and at this point, it’s my only form of exercise. give me an ipod and a cool, cloudy day and i’m out. i never understood the whole “runner’s high” thing until recently. i think i get it now. it takes me about 20 minutes into a heavy walk to get over feeling the fatigue and start feeling my second wind. what a great feeling! new order and gorillaz usually play a part in this, upping my pace, propelling me forward. i feel like i could walk to idaho and back. i’m this close to jogging. i’m hoping to ease into it. i’ve got the shoes and the drive (and finally, a sports bra; something i’ve dreaded because now, there are no excuses).

i walked everywhere in france. the bus was slow and didn’t run frequently enough to warrant a ride. hauling two giant bags of groceries 3/4 of a mile home from Champion was a great workout. i lost about 10 pounds. but it was good and bad: i felt like i was in shape and kicking ass but at the same time i don’t think i was fueling myself properly. B’s cooking is a lifesaver for me. getting two squares a day here (not counting breakfast) is a blessing: especially considering the shitty food eater that i am when i’m cooking for myself (unfortunately, i’m more of a ramen, french toast, eggs, frozen food type of gal). but now i need to find a balance— fuel goes in, energy has to come out.

my biggest hurdle in this endeavor is myself. i have a serious lack of motivation— and not just for exercise. if i’m being honest with myself, i have to admit i’m a B+ student of life. i usually only do what it takes to get by. doesn’t that totally suck? i mean, i can see a project through to the end, for sure, and am very organized and can prioritize. but, shit, i don’t know. i think it’s a lack of inertia. even writing— in this blog, in my journal, letters, book reviews— writing gives me such joy but finding the inertia to do so… it’s been hard. lately i’ve been wondering why? am i afraid to succeed? do i get bored too easily? have i lost all inspiration? what is my craft? what is my art? am i as cool as i think i am? how can i express myself truthfully? am i a “doer” or am i all talk? and so on and so forth.

i think i’m turning over a new leaf. a few things have helped: the weather is improving, i’ve met some new, super cool people recently, i’m trying to write in this blog more often, i wrote another review for the paper. i’m also getting bored with stagnation. i’ve taken a long, hard look at myself and realized it’s all up to me. i can whine about it or i can do something about it. i can talk or walk the walk. cue the motivational movie soundtrack.