Return to Neverland

The sun sets slowly, like a strutting peacock painting colors in the clouds as it passes by. Sailboats participating in the Chicago-Mackinac sailing race dot the horizon, like tiny toys carefully lined up on the side of the bathtub. The only sound is of waves crashing against the shore below and conversation emanating from the open windows, begging for the breezes provided by the vast lake. No jacket is needed, as the generous weather never turns cold, only to a cooler form of warm. I want to close my eyes, heigtening my auditory and olfactory senses to further absorb the rushing of the waves and the wafting scent of lillies, yet am unwilling to forego the artistry of the sky. I am enamored by the sky. When it chooses to be crystalline blue, or canvas to the rapidly changing sunset, I sit in awe, temporarily silenced.

This was several days ago, but is an everyday occurence in Michigan, especially over Lake Michigan. I have traveled the world, but have yet to discover a place where the sunsets can compare to what is offered here. The daytime clouds, which jestingly veil the noon sun, disrobe from their whites to show an array of reds, scarlets, violets, and mauves, edges gilded. I am no nationalist and would never claim that the beauty of Michigan is superior to any other cut of creation. But we have cornered the market on sunsets. We really have.

I needed this vacation; it has been abundantly more than the therapy I hoped for it to be. Have I only been home a week? A few days more. But I can scarcely believe all that I've done.

I started my time at my dad's house in Indiana. That feels like such a long time ago now. But it was three days of good conversation, playing with Lindsey, wine tutorials, and pure comedy. I realized my first day back how I had certainly made the right choice in coming. As I did a morning run in the remnants of the early morning's thunderstorm, then reduced to a mere sprinkling, I breathed deeply and realized that the air was clean, unpolluted with the absence of a myriad of cars. It was noiseless, the sound of water softly falling. And in the 40 minutes I was out, only four cars passed me. I liked being home.

After my dad's house, I spent time at my mom's, a cottage home along the lakeshore. This is where I drank the sunsets. I got to spend time talking with my mom. If you thought I can't stop talking around you, then you should see me with her... We got to walk the beach and swim in the water. When finished and told I would shower outside, I was skeptical, picturing a hose with icy water. "No, it's wonderful," was the promise. They recently had a shower head installed outside, then put a partial wall up. So you shower while watching the lake. It was superb.

I have spent this week at my Grandma's cottage, set on a smaller inland lake, Big Whitefish. This is the time of my childhood, with days spent tubing, kneeboarding, kayaking, swimming, Seadooing, celebrating summer birthdays, biking, and eating icecream (arguably the highlight). No, the true highlight is doing all this with my family around me. My Grandma, aunts, unlces, and cousins. I realized while racing across the lake yesterday, desperately clinging to my cousin's lifejacket as the wind stung our faces, that few could understand this Neverland, this life of eternal childhood. Who could appreciate and love this but my family? And with who else would I desire to participate in this? No one can replace family.

That is what this vacation is about. Returning to the Neverland of my childhood to see my dad, my mom, my family, but then dutifully going back to the world of adults. The child within me will never be pacified by such brief trips into the past, but is subdued by realizing that I may still return. Nonetheless, I was noting with Sara yesterday, as we limped off the tubes that had just skimmed across the water at unclockable speeds, that as we have grown older, these childhood activities have lost a measure of their appeal. No longer can we infinitely be bounced off the water. No longer can we be towed by the boat without soreness in our arms. And with all we do, we actually want to go to bed at night. We are no longer children. But, I pray, we will never lose the unadulterated excitement of our childhood.

Well, I promise to tell more later, but I've got to go to sleep now. It's way past my bed time.

Love Aub

P.S. Far too lazy to add pictures now. But here's a promise to try later. Check again to see if I'm a liar.

33 Fleeting Hours Later

This is the time that it took me to travel from my home in Busan, South Korea, to my dad's in Valparaiso, Indiana (USA). Taxi to train to bus to plane to plane to bus to car. Wow. It sounds vaguely like a Dr. Seuss plot. If only I had a multi-colored breakfast to accompany my travels. "I would not eat them on a train, I would not eat them in a plane, I would not eat them here or there, I would not eat them..." Well, you know how it ends.

It was all remarkably uneventful, even though I missed two complete nights in a bed. No worries. I caught sleep where I could, often semi-vertically. And in the Tokyo-Narita airport, I sneakily claimed an entire bench, sleeping in the coveted horizontal position while listening to my Ipod (shock, disbelief) and hugging my belongings. I must have looked like a vagrant. Last night provided 12 sweet hours of sweet sleep.

I think my great send-offs helped, because I was able to spend time with so many dear friends in Busan before I left. I hung out with Liz, Mel, and Dan on my last night in Busan, playing the quintessential Midwest card game, Euchre. Dear Michiganders! Previously that day, I was able to lunch with Edwin, then have dinner with Kate and Esther. Then on Wednesday, the very day I was to leave, I was quite productive, going for a rainy day run, then doing yoga, attempting preparation for an extended period of sitting. Jen baked me the most awesome cookies for my trip, then Ang shared her Tim Tams (thanks, girls!). And dinner with Richard, who himself just returned from traveling, right before I took off for the train.

Tuesday, 10 p.m. The clock starts. The train ride was so very long, especially because I couldn't really sleep. I was continually afraid that I would miss my stop (how do you miss Seoul, anyway?) and end up in North Korea or something. I just wasn't too excited to alter my summer plans to hanging out with good old Kim Jeong. Thankfully Mike, a true night owl, kept me company with about a two hour phone conversation (thanks, Mike... now write on your blog again!).

Let's skip a lot of the travel information. It was two days that felt like twelve. The last ten minutes of the plane were the worst. We were late anyway, then they promised "just ten more minutes." Liars! Ten Korean minutes, maybe. Actually, it was fifteen, but it couldn't have felt longer. I swear, it could have beat out watching Titanic. Sorry if you're a Kate and Leo fan (but not that sorry). We end this tale of travel and adventure on Wednesday at 5 p.m. Central U.S. time, 7 p.m. in Korea. 33 hours of non-stop fun later.

But I'm here now and so inexpressibly glad to be back in America. Home. I have been at my dad's house and I'm having so much fun. I almost forgot how easy everything is at home. Did you remember, for example, that people have real conversations with each other, using full sentences and varied grammar... in English?! Yeah, I swear. And there is real sun, no umbrellas necessary (though we did have a beautiful thunder storm last night, like an angry old man disturbed from his slumber). And when you are outside, the air doesn't smell like car exhaust. Or, get this, that there are other blond people in the world?! Here I was starting to think I was the only one. I was lying out by the pool today and noticed that seven of the nine kids playing in the water were blonds. So my presence is all that much less special.

Well, I'm tired, so I will head to bed shortly. But I wanted to say that I am here and safe. I am excited to see my U.S. friends very soon! And to everyone in Korea, I love you and I will see you very soon, laden with gifts, of course! Squirtable cheese, anyone? Thanks, America!

Bambi

Today is my last working day for six weeks. When I previously did this, I was unemployed! But it's a bit different now. I am actually getting paid to be on vacation. Oh, how I love being a teacher.

To end school, God with his infinite sense of humor apparently decided to make the parting somewhat interesting. Firstly, I should say that it is an absolutely stunning day. We have been going through the rainy season, which so far has extended for about a month, dark skies obliterating hopes of hiking or lying on the beach, the air pressing into your lungs and the darkness to your mind. Today, however, the sun broke out, shattering the clouds into hundreds of fragmented pieces all over the sky. They float aimlessly above in the lapis heavens, playfully mimicking a cast of characters. It is this kind of day that pulls me through time into the dreamy memories of childhood, the soft green grass supporting a small body, one hand pointing upward to call out the forms greeting me above. First an old man, then a pirate ship, now a strange sort of dog, but only if you turn your head like this.

I took the bus to work, not wanting to be caged in the dark tunnels of the underground subway. This made me slightly later than usual, as it is a longer walk from the bus stop to my school. But I relished the time in the sun, sipping on my Starbucks Frappuccino with my Ipod providing a rousing morning soundtrack. By the time I made it to school, I was sweating, but in a wonderful mood, absolutely ready to conquer my final three classes of the semester. Upon arriving, I found a large group of students congregated in the parking lot. "What are you doing?" I queried.

"Teacher, animal. Hurt."

As curious as the students to what it was, I awkwardly bent over, peering under the car. It was a baby deer! In my lifetime, I have seen a myriad of deer; this is an inevitable occurrence living in the Midwest. Never before have I seen one in Korea. You rarely see any sort of wildlife, apart from the scavenging gulls that congregate on the beach. Then to see a deer in my school parking lot!

The poor thing was shaking and crying, evidently afraid and somehow hurt. Unsure exactly what to do, I became one of the gawkers staring at the poor thing shaking behind the front tire. One boy, a second year student, procured a long stick, at which point I began to voice my opinion. "What are you doing? Don't hurt it! It's scared. Please don't hurt it!" But I'm sure instead it sounded to them much like the aliens from Calvin's imagination: "Mgrfh Blmpm Hgsmph!" Completely incomprehensible to them. Changing tactics, I knelt behind the student, hoping that me being there would stop any further pain or teasing. Once there, however, I realized the boy was trying to coax it out, trying to get the deer to safety. He was successful, and scooped the bleeding Bambi into his arms. A loud wail filled the air, the cry of a baby desperately afraid. Thin legs flailed as blood arced into the sky (sanguine against azure). But the boy held firm, walking it around to the back of the school.

Trailing after the throng that followed the boy and his wild deer, I found one of my students whose English I knew to be passable. "Does a teacher know? Does a teacher know?" Thus finally identifying myself as a non-teacher, the superfluous foreigner who comes in to babble at them. He assured me, "Yes. Go to hospital."

I parted from the group, walking into the front of the school (where my "inside" shoes are located). Upon entering, I encountered the full staff of teachers as they were exiting from their weekly staff meeting. Searching through the crowd, I found Mrs. Hwang, one of the other six English teachers. Flushed and concerned, I explained the situation to her as other teachers cast curious glances at this overwrought foreigner. She calmed me, saying that they knew about it and, the student was correct, they would be sending it to a veterinary clinic.

Amidst all this confusion was the normalcy of another day at Dong-a. Conversations I will never understand floating around me, my name thrown in intermittently. A school working as a slow cooker to ensure all students and teachers are well done (the principal and vice-principal's offices are air conditioned, by the way). And then for good measure, the students (and teachers) who shout out "Aubrey, I LOVE YOU!" very sincerely, but it is unnerving to me nonetheless. I am usually left in a state of surprised speechlessness, a great feat indeed. I have tried responding in a variety of ways, but none have sounded quite right. The Korean "Sarang hey-yo" ("I love you") was out of the question because, frankly, it gives the wrong impression. This impression being that same somewhat creepy, overly uncomfortable feeling I get when inappropriately told that they love me. But I didn't want to just remain silent and make them feel totally stupid. So at first I kept saying, "Uh, thank you!" I also pragmatically tested the rather philosophical approach, "Really? Love? How do we really know what 'love' is?" Then today after the deer incident, I was struck with an ingenious thought. When one of my students who daily yells, "Teacher, I love you!" again repeated this now familiar act, I, in a very Brian Regan-like manner, said, "Uh... YOU TOO!" That way it was sort of a reciprocal response to my student, but gave me the lighthearted humor I needed in it. Few of you will understand this reference, unless you are familiar with the comedian Brian Regan. If you are not, you should be.

So farewell, Dong-a Middle School. Farewell work. Farewell lack of air conditioning. And farewell Konglish. I'm going home.

Noodle Chicken and Ketchup

My kids tried to kill me! It's true.

The last several days, I've been suffering from this acute pain in my back, a tiny area emanating pain through to the front of my chest, up the back of my neck, and into my head. It's really hard to breathe or even walk because of this. Carrying anything becomes excruciating. The remedy, I figure, is to pop asprin like tic tacs.

Yesterday I got ice cream with Mel and Liz. They both kept saying really funny things, and I, of course, responded with laughter. But it hurts so much to laugh that it came out in small gasps, like, "Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp) Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp) Ha ha, OUCH! (gasp)" Being the good, supportive friends that they are, they were rolling with laughter at the ridiculous way in which I was laughing. This, of course, made me laugh more. It was quite the vicious cycle.

But this week I am down to my last couple of days of teaching before one and a half months of vacation. Basically I'm on teacher survival mode. To top off the pain in my back and the anticipation of almost leaving, today the weather decides to dial it up to sauna setting, with the temperature in the 90's (farenheit, of course) and 75% humidity. I can swim in the air. And my school is too cheap to turn on the air, though there are units in every classroom. So body heat in the classrooms ups the temp even more. It's just lovely, let me tell you. By my last class today, I was exhausted and ready to make a run for it. Not literally, though, because I think if I ran right now I would die after about 2.7 seconds from dehydration.

My kids in this class, which is incidentally and thankfully one of my favorites, decided to subtly attempt to murder me. They didn't actually know about my back pain, but kids have a sixth sense for that sort of thing, you know? This week, I've started classes with a few riddles, then move on to talking about our vacation plans and one wish we could have for summer. Instead of answering my riddle, however, I got a loud, "What?" just before the class broke into a lovely rendition of "Noodle Chicken and Ketchup." I think it's at least part of some Korean ad, though it doesn't sound overly appetizing. As I wrote that, it doesn't even sound so funny, but when you're delirious, pretty much anything works. So I started my laugh-laugh-gasp, laugh-laugh-gasp routine. Is there anything more you can do to better convince a group of 12 year olds that they are up and coming comedic geniuses? I'd bet not.

The remainder of that class was various forms of the "Noodle Chicken and Ketchup" song with me trying regain my composure. It was a wasted effort. But class is now finished and, though my back is throbbing, I am sweating out the three liters of water I consumed today, and I may be starting to see double, it's been a great day. Plus I have only three classes tomorrow before I finish. I'm ready.

Not to Brag, But...

The date: July 11. Where will I be next week? At home. The response that this simple word evokes in me is extraordinary, especially knowing somewhat of my game plan. I won't spoil your future reading pleasure by giving away all the details of my itinerary now, but I feel the need to exorcise my overwrought excitement by reviewing it quickly. Just like last time that I was away for so long, I keep bouncing up and down when the upcoming weeks are mentioned, as I loudly proclaim, "I'm goin' ho-ome, I'm goin' ho-ome!" Here's the short list of what I'm most excited for:

I get to see my dad, who is currently AWOL, as he's golfing with the pros now. Rock on, dad.

Trace is currently growing a baby Hos, so I'm incredibly excited to get home and get to hang out with the expanding Hosford family.

Jo. I need to talk with you, girl!

Gram's cottage. Enough said.

Hours and hours talking with my mom. Girl time.

Jess coming!!!

Hanging with my super cool cousins. Skiing, tubing, swimming, kneeboarding, biking, playing cards, blueberry picking, and whatever other form of creative activity we can come up with.

Calvary.

Watching the sun set over Lake Michigan while sitting on our patio enjoying a drink with mom and Jim. To quote Jane Austen, "Is there a felicity in the world superior to this?"

Hiking a part of the Appalachian trail with Daane and Chad. My chest puffs out and I hold my head higher when I get to talk about them. I was reading on their hiking blog today and, as always, I become so proud of them. They are incredible men. And how surprising to look at the pictures and realize I can't call them boys anymore. Last time I went home, Daane came to give me a big hug, but I had to hold him back for a second before I hugged back. I actually asked, "Is this a joke?" thinking that this guy with a man's face and frame was just a stand-in for my cute little brother. But Daane and Chad are real men, doing things that so many other men will never accomplish. If you click here and here, you can see my favorite pictures of them (omigosh, is that really my brother with a beard?). Or you can go to their website's journal to see more and read more about them.

So the tentative plan is that I get to be out there with them for a few days, hiking with Ashley, my sister, while Gram and Mom meet us in upcoming towns, getting goodies for the boys. I'm pretty sure it might kill me. Yoga probably isn't the best prepatory activity, even if we do often perform Mountain Pose. It will be great to be a part of it, attempting the whole time not to slow them down too much, and to spend so much time with my family. That's always a treat for me.

Oh, and you will hear about it, too. Now I'm making my kids tell me their summer vacation plans. As I get stuff like, "I will do my summer vacation homework," or "I will go to the PC Room," I perform a Nelson-like laugh, pointing, "ha-ha," and make them ask me about my summer plans just so I can think about it and brag about it more. By the way, no, I do not actually laugh at my kids. Just kidding. But we are talking about our vacation plans, and I always have them ask me first as an example. He he.

So it's about a week until I fly out. And I can't wait! I love you guys!

Aub

P.S. If you were wondering (and too lazy to follow my link), Mountain Pose is the most basic pose in yoga. It starts and ends all other poses. Succinctly, it is just standing up straight. Nice.

I am... a Place Dropper

Have I mentioned that I'm living in Korea? Yes? Oh, ok. Did I say that I've traveled South East Asia and India? Oh, I did? Hmm... How about all my communist countries, like China, Russia, and Uzbekistan? I said those, too? Well, this is possibly because I am a highly conspicuous Place Dropper. I rarely miss an opportunity to mention the name of a country in which I have traveled. Whenever someone is talking, I like to connect it back to one of my 16 visited countries. "Thailand? You'll love it! I've been there three times." "You like Italian food? That reminds me of when I went to Rome." "Lentils? Hey, that sounds like 'Lenin' and did you know I actually saw him embalmed at the Kremlin in Red Square in Moscow?"

I am especially culpable when I am complimented on what I'm wearing. I really, REALLY like shopping, but being Dutch-American, I prefer not to spend a lot of money doing so (we are generally stereotyped as being cheap; I've found this stereotype to often be true). The perfect solution arises when traveling. I find really cool, unique skirts, jewelry, and tops, all inexpensive (which prompts me to buy more, actually). Then when someone says, "Hey, Aubrey, that's a really great skirt," I can quickly say, "Thanks, it's from Thailand!" Can you comprehend the subtle brilliance of how I just did that? Accepting a compliment and establishing myself as well-traveled in one fell swoop. I know, I know; I'm amazing.

One day I was up in Jen's apartment with Ang and Liz when one of them commented on my earrings. Of course I began with my well-practiced response of their origin. Likely it was Thailand or India. "You're such a Place Dropper," Jen informed me. Yes, yes I am. Good of someone to notice. I, of course, embraced the phrase, as I do will all my strangeness. But if you travel, you do it, too. All my Place Droppers, you know who you are.

Thankfully I don't know any famous people. I have a strong feeling that if I did, I would probably purchase a megaphone to quietly tell only family and close friends about my encounters with them. They would at first confide in me details of their lives; I would nod sympathetically and pat their backs encouragingly, all the while plotting how to best share with others about this experiences. Celebreties: beware. To any friends that may become famous someday: I will probably be the person writing a book about how I knew you. As it is, I must suffice with names of countries. They have become like my celebrities. Oh, Laos? I know her! Yeah, we spent a week together and got along really well. Let me tell you about the time...

Vive la France!

Sometimes when eager Koreans approach me on the street, hopeful of practicing their English on me, I stare somewhat blankly, then answer in the most rapid French I can muster that, sorry, I don't speak English, I am only here visiting and, yes, I am from France. The eager Korean will lose a bit of their hopefulness, cock their head slightly and furrow their brow in an attempt to recall learning "je ne parle pas anglais" in their English classes. Realizing my ruse was unsuccessful in communicating the desired message, I grin sheepishly, make an "X" sign with my arms and say, "English, no." This either leads them into further confusion that a white person does not speak English and, more specifically, is not in Korea to teach English to every passerby, or, secondly, they will assume that I am Russian and am therefore a prostitute. This inevitably creates another problem, as I have no desire to sleep with Korean men. As fun as being propositioned is, I've found that it is better to discourage that assumption.

One may suspect that my French alter ego was created with the purpose of warding off talkative strangers, but that one would be wrong. The French Aubrey exists for the sole pleasure of the American Aubrey, who loves everything that is French. This adoration was not discovered until high school when I began French class with Madame Moryl, an all time favorite teacher. The first day of class included a speech on how everything sounds better when spoken in French. "Garbage can" became "le bidon de détritus." "Disease" is "la maladie." Even "to die" rolled mellifluously as "mourir." I was mesmerized. The alphabet, which has all the same letters as the English alphabet, even sounded better in French. And they had accents, like pretty decorations to dress up otherwise tame words. Yes, if France was a country that made talking sound so good, I knew it had to be a special place.

Time only deepened my admiration of everything that was French. As I began to have a rudimentary grasp of the language, conversing like an overgrown toddler with such observations as "the monkey is silly" or "there are many mice in the house," I began to become somewhat haughty . I took pleasure in turning up my nose at those in my class who butchered the language by clinging to the assumption that all languages should be yet another opportunity to reiterate that we are not of your country, we are AMERICAN, so we will talk however we please. They used pronunciation resembling a vagrant living in the hills of Arkansas and subsisting off of wild berries and gamey rabbits. "Jew mah pell David. Jeh vux uhn stile-oh." Only the truly sophisticated, I reasoned, could paint with their tongues the utter beauty of this sacred language. Thus proving my superiority over the other 14 year old Midwesterners in my class. This superiority soon spread to the entire American populace, not only those who had ever at one time taken a French class. No French phrases were exempt and I adopted a highly affected manner in pronouncing every French idiom borrowed by English speakers. "Haute couture." "Coup d'état." "Raison d'être ." "Bon appétit." I softly purred my 'r's and elevated my vowels. It is perhaps shocking that I didn't take up smoking and carrying wheels of Brie in my purse in an effort to feel more French.

My French world was nearly shattered in the move to Michigan when at my new school the French teacher seemed convinced that it was her sole responsibility to massacre the language with the American-ness she wore like a large red and white striped flag wrapped around her large frame, the stars against the blue background screaming, "We will not relent!" She opened the book in what was a laughable attempt to give instructions in French, reading loudly and shrilly. Other students sat uncomprehendingly; I soon discovered that they had little interest in learning this "irrelevant" language. Who, after all, needs to bother learning another language? Everyone else speaks English, anyway. Meanwhile, I huddled in the back corner of the room, rocking back and forth while pressing both hands firmly over my ears.

I suffered through a year of this joke of a class to discover that Rockford did not consider French important enough to be taught in the fourth year. Though I briefly considered befriending our French exchange student, he was (a) a boy and (b) popular, which were two characteristics that at that time effectively made me incapable of talking with him. I thus underwent a French fast until college. In college I resumed classes, but found that I had fallen far enough behind that the pretty words still sounded pretty, but not necessarily like words to me. That, and I decided early on that studying should not be my first priority while in school. Since a great part of learning a language is memorizing vocabulary, this proved to be a fatal combination. I lasted a year, then quit, convincing myself I needed to focus on what was relevant to my major and would just resume my French studies when I lived there someday.

My love of France was forced to become somewhat dormant, yet flared up again at such times as the wild popularity of the French film "Amelie" or the silly anti-French sentiment expressed most forcefully by Americans going to McDonalds to order "freedom fries." I continued to call them french fries with a nearly vengeful pleasure.

Then came the time when I had the opportunity to study in Russia for a month, taking a class entitled "Comparative Social Systems of Russia and the United States." Why not, I reasoned with some friends from the class, travel Europe for a bit afterward. This brought me to Paris. I floated through the city with angels serenading me on my pilgrimage to stand before all the famous landmarks of the city. La Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Champs-Élysées, la Tour Eiffel, Notre-Dame, le Louvre. I could not conceive of heaven being any more beautiful than this. Best of all, everywhere we went I got to practice my French. Though unfortunately never able to point out silly monkies or mouse infested houses, I practically skipped with glee to ticket counters and nearly sang my orders at restaurants. I was always disappointed when my "je voudrais acheter un billet" was met with a placid, "You want a ticket? To where?" from the French clerk behind the counter. My friends tried unsuccessfully to convince me that it was better just to speak English with them; their English skills far exceeded my French abilities. I was shocked and disappointed. Truly, how profane. To suggest using English in France? I nearly abandoned them.

One evening, we met an American who was in Paris preparing for the year of university she would take in a smaller provincial town beginning that fall. Hitting it off, we all went to dinner together. Only she and I decided to explore the city afterward, my friends being too tired to walk more. The girl and I shared a similar love of France and I felt a deep affinity with her. On our walk, we soon met a nice Parisian man who offered to walk us around the city. We gladly accepted. The two of them were soon engaged in a meaningful conversation in French while I interjected with inane observations about the weather or food, the areas my speaking ability had become limited to. And yet I likely never had a better conversation in my life. Because it was in French.

In all my years of loving the country, however, I never actually knew any French people. It didn't matter. I loved them all, regardless of whether they hoped my country would break apart and, piece by piece, sink into the ocean. They could throw wine into my face and cast snobbish insults about my home or family. None of this would matter. I naturally genuflected to the greater culture. When I came back this year to Korea, however, I was told that we had a new member in the small group... and he was French. They said this without knowing of my fascination with the country and culture. Otherwise, they may have kept quiet. Directly I met him to inform him that he would be required to speak French with me. But he became my friend anyway. He even tolerates my pitiful attempts at conversation, yet quickly, I notice, switches us back to English. From time to time, possibly to keep me pacified, he compliments my ability in French. "It's really good! It's the same words over and over, but it's good." The last time that he told me my pronunciation was impressive, I grabbed his hand and professed that I would love him forever for that statement. But I lied. I will not remain friends because he compliments my French; this was merely a bonus. I will love him forever because he is French.