Expectations

A question that I hear about twice a day on average is, “Are you excited?” or its slightly more confusing variation, "Are you getting excited?" (which reminds me of the old joke, “Have you stopped beating your wife?”).  To put the question to death, I am excited and have been from the first day that the idea took root.  My excitement has had its ebbs and flows, but it has never ceased to exist and has not necessarily grown.

That said, May does bring with it a mixture of emotions that I wouldn't consider particularly “exciting.”  While June will be a month of firsts, May is a month of lasts, and I tick off each event in my head as it passes, big or small – last time to take my friend Amy swimming, last time to work in the church library/nursery/bookstore, last time to attend my church, last time to visit with friends and family, last time to cuddle with my dog, last time to come into the office/work an eight-to-five job, last time attend my Life Group, last time to get a paycheck – simply put, the last time to live the routine that I've come to know so well.

“Nails in a coffin” isn't the best metaphor, but it does seem to sum up the feeling of finality, although many of these events are likely to start back up again in some form in about a year (the paycheck thing would be nice).  But the sense that this coming year is probably going to change me from the person that I am now is strong.  Just within the planning stages I've already been able to see how I have changed in my perspective, my desires, my priorities, and even my faith.

This development is not unique to me or to students attending Le Cordon Bleu – just moving to another town can create a range of emotions, and probably every person has experienced or will experience at least one life-changing moment (and likely more than one) – but for me, unlike with some of the sudden and often unexpected alterations in my past, I have had the luxury of many months of contemplation.

Even with this vast amount of time on my hands, the level of uncertainty is fairly high.  Not that I need or expect to know the future – I have no guarantee that I’ll live to see another hour here on earth – but I do have a great deal of trouble just imagining what my new life will look like.

Not knowing is okay, though.  I’m the kind of person who doesn't like to skip to the end of a book or a movie or even to hear reviews beforehand.  Preparation is good, but I prefer some element of surprise in most everything.  Too much information in advance can create biased opinions, either good or bad.  For that reason I have limited my knowledge of Le Cordon Bleu to information from the school’s brochures, bits that my mom read to me from the book The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry, and an article in the London Daily Mail (assuming that the London LCB is similar to the Paris LCB).

That’s not to say that there isn't already a small element of fear instilled in me about the school.  While comparing it to boot camp (as it does in the article) might be a bit extreme, any images of clocks and candelabras singing “Be Our Guest” while dancing around with dinnerware should be dispelled.  Fortunately I’m not prone to tears in non-tragic circumstances, but then again I don’t recall anyone ever yelling in my face and berating me, much less in a room full of my peers, and the LCB “synopsis” tells me that it will happen… possibly many times over.

Outside of the school setting, at times I can almost picture myself blending into my surroundings – becoming a part of the Paris “scene.”  Gene Kelly did it, right?  Maybe kids won’t be chasing me down the street asking for American bubble gum while I dance my toes off, but after spending six weeks one summer in southern France and six months in Cyprus, I have some background experience in not looking too much like a tourist.

But then I remember that I did not blend in that well – people can spot an American from a hundred miles away.  At least in Cyprus that usually meant that I was treated really well because they were extremely hospitable people, but in France I felt that the people mildly tolerated me at best.  The attitude wasn't so much one of unkindness as it was of annoyance, like when you’re having a great party until “that guy” shows up, the one that causes everyone to roll his or her eyes and to groan silently, wondering how he got an invitation.

Some kind souls among me try to bolster my confidence.  Ever since I broke the news, I've heard, “You look very Parisian today,” on several occasions.  I don’t actually know what that means, because the first thing that comes to mind when I think “Parisian” is a 60’s beatnik without the bongo drums – black top and pants, sunglasses, beret, and a long, skinny cigarette – or Marcel Marceau, and I’m fairly certain that I don’t look like either one... unless we count that day back in October 2009.

While I have trouble picturing my education or life in Paris, the one part of this venture that I can imagine is the extra travel.  Traveling is one of my greatest pleasures, and part of my future budget has been specifically designated for such.  Already I have a mental list of places to visit, wanting to cross off as many items as possible while I’m in the “neighborhood” – Normandy, Monet’s garden, the lavender fields in Provence, Venice, Tuscany, Geneva, the Isle of Man – whatever is possible until the travel budget well runs dry.

Despite my confused imaginings, every scenario has one common ending: I see myself returning to Greenville in the end.  For one thing, I have found living under socialist governments to be extremely annoying – getting taxed and regulated every time that I blow my nose grows old quickly as does the ridiculous cost of living.  Beyond that, though, is the hold that Greenville has always had over me.  Even during the two years that I lived in Wisconsin (the longest that I've ever resided elsewhere), I never stopped calling this place “home,” as if I were on some extended vacation.  I’m not naïve enough to declare that feeling will never change, but as of this moment I can’t imagine otherwise.

The bigger question is what will happen when I finally do get back home…