Happy One Week Anniversary to Moi.
The rooster has been very good about alerting me when it is 7.00 a.m. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that he is approximately 90 minutes off schedule. Sunrise isn’t until 8.32 tomorrow, Monsieur. Don’t push me.
The church bell’s last ring is at 22.00. I use military time as I like precision, and chimes and things put order in a sometimes chaotic, or even worse, loosely structured day. After seven full days, I am slowly falling into a pattern. I marvel at how quickly one can acclimate to new surroundings. For example, today I ate almost an entire baguette. It’s all about assimilating to my new environment, right?
Things take so much more time and effort in a new, especially foreign, place. I need to map out my route to the grocery store, read all of the words on every package to make sure I am not eating ground up frogs, and account for the extra time it takes me to make the correct change. I walk faster because I am never texting and there are fewer obstructions (certainly no pedestrians), but I stop a lot more often to take pictures (this may not be true, I stop a lot everywhere to take pictures).
This afternoon I was starting to question my being here, and if I can handle another 7 weeks. It’s cold, the kitchen lacks a good cutting knife, and I can’t seem to eliminate the terrible odor from he fridge. I started to poke around for other options. It’s too late to get into another residency. I looked at Airbnb. I asked friends for contacts. I was in the middle of an intense WhatsApp convo regarding a new location, when my neighbor stopped by to introduce himself. Two hours later I had greater knowledge of the Falklands War, a few café recommendations, we were laughing about Flaubert and swapping contact info. My fears of this not being the right place were assuaged. I am sure I will fall into despair again at some point, but I am certain that, too, will follow a pattern.