Injected

I had originally intended to make a second entry much sooner, but I found myself perennially occupied with other things. Too self involved to write a blog, can you believe it? To be fair, I have been quite busy during the past few weeks. Not just with work, but socializing and traveling as well. Also I'm particularly frustrated with this damnable blogging software, its so absolutely impossible to effectively incorporate images and text. I'm gonna keep working on it/see if i can find something better. If my photos aren't incorporated with the text, please look at them anyway, they are an essential part of my presentation.

So I flew across the Atlantic. The not-so-little Zoom Airlines (R.I.P) craft was decent, but far from luxurious. The flight was a red eye, so most people slept, and I attempted to do so. Most of my time was spent in a dozy state, mostly on the wakeful side. I remember clearly being haunted by the grinning face of Ashton Kutcher on some god-awful in-flight movie. I deplaned early in the morning and had to wait around for about three hours in the train station. I was ever so slightly culture shocked from the graduation to all French, mostly because of the new language imperative. That is to say, it was suddenly not an option for me to go back to my first language. Getting used to it has definitely given me insight into the experience of the millions who live as immigrants/etc. in areas where they are constantly forced to speak a second language. I can really appreciate the pleasure of being able to return to a little enclave of one's native language at home or in a ghetto. The interesting thing is being able to take this with you, especially into public places. It first occurred to me while walking and talking in a grocery store. The bubble of privacy is strangely exciting, being able to speak as frankly and naturally as if you were completely alone. That look I saw on peoples faces as I passed by was exactly exactly the same one I've seen and probably given at home. Not necessarily a look of disdain, but a subtle mix of confusion, jealousy and surprise, most visible through their attempted suppression. But I digress.

My wait in Paris was fairly dull, but I managed to get a coveted seat at this internet bench where I chatted with a nice American man. I got to Arras (where we live) on the super-fast TGV train in no time at all and got picked up at the station with several other guides who turned out to have been waiting for the same train. The "Program Officer" who picked us up, is more or less the staff supervisor/administrators' bitch for both sites, and he's damn good at what he does. We did a quick tour of Vimy and set us up at the Diocèse where we were to be put up for the next two weeks. The Diocèse was far from ideal as a living arrangement, but it was perfectly adequate for the time we were there. The only real downside was the lack of of internet, otherwise it would have been sweet. Although we didn't have a fridge either, or a stove. Okay maybe it wasn't so great. The building itself was lovely though, and they had a fantastic lounge, filled with a fascinating selection of books and magazines on Catholicism. The time we spent in there was a little awkward, but I was actually quite impressed by how easily everyone got along. On the first day even we had a very casual supper, although people were suffering from varying degrees of homesickness and jet lag. The level of awkwardness was probably greater than I remember, my memories coloured by the fact that I'm friends with them all now.

Unfortunately, discussion of my arrival cannot pass by without some mention of our first night. It was our Program Officer's birthday, and one in the long series of parties hosted by the summer session. This one was Olympic themed, and hosted at one of the two guide residences- St. Aubert (I ended up in Vauban). Three of the four new arrivals decided to attend, perhaps against our best judgment or at least mine. That was my first and most striking experience with the social inner workings of the old guides. Right off the bat it was absolutely unmistakable how close they were, as close as friends can be. One thing that struck me was the language, something I would see a great deal more of at work and beyond. Being a mixed group of natural Anglophones, Francophones and people who grew up in both the language of choice for socializing is a mix. Of course, everyone speaks both, so it's not just each person speaking to others in their native language but an incredible fluid blend of both. It was so damn Canadian. I imagine that for the majority of people that come to work here, with experience in the central Canadian tourism and heritage industries, its natural. Initially, I was kind of offended at first at how over-represented Ottawa was in their staffing here, but I suppose I've gotten over it. Anyway I found it very impressive at the time. I continued to drink and chat a bit with the new and old guides, but after the rest of the crowd arrived things took a turn for the worse. Ken (my old friend from St. John's) showed up and I started mixing liquors. My thoughts soon became clouded. One sight that burned into my memory, perhaps more than any other that evening, was an almost disturbing display of sexuality between a group of the guides. Really, it was just a bit of "dirty dancing" between certain members of the cast. Those who know me are surely aware that I'm far from a sexually conservative person, but for some reason I was affected. Peering from the darkened outdoor terrace into the yellow light of sitting room directly in from made the salacious groping and gyrating seem all the more pornographic. I'm certain that this impacted my expectations and anxieties towards my new social situaton. Some combination of repulsion and desire, loneliness and overstimiulation, drink and fatigue led me down a dark path that night. I overconsumed in the extreme, drowing my memory in liquor and destroying my stomach. I have vague recollections of being cute and being ill, but it's mostly a blur until I woke up face down on the floor the next morning and stumbled back to the diocese in the light of dawn.

As a postscript, I haven't treated myself nearly so badly since, although I am generally drinking more than I probably should. If I become an alcoholic maybe I'll become a better writer. Fortunatley I still had time to recuperate before training began the next week.