Americana

Few things are better in life than a road trip.  I’m not talking about simply traveling from point A to point B via car, but making the trip more about the journey than the destination (thank you, Ralph Waldo Emerson).  When people tell me that they hate driving long distances, I have to believe the reason is that they have never done it correctly.

Whenever I have a long drive ahead of me, I immediately pull up a map to see through what cities I will be passing or could be passing and what points of interest are there.  Although they were never a part of my original destination, in the past I've been able to visit the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, Graceland, the Corn Palace, Wall Drug, and whatever else makes for a good bumper sticker as I make my way across this big, diverse, fascinating land of ours.  Even the ten-hour drive across Kansas can be enjoyable if you are able appreciate the vast expanse of sky with its low-hanging clouds that appear to be resting on a glass ceiling, or make a game of spotting the stone fence posts that stand as a memorial to some of the earliest settlers.  A collection of good audio books doesn't hurt, either.

Hank knows how to appreciate the open roads!

Take for example, the task of delivering my dog to Indiana.  If I had viewed it only as a seven-hour drive to hand over Hank before turning around and coming home, it would have been incredibly depressing and tedious.  Instead I decided to turn it into a 2500-mile journey to see all things of interest from Greenville around the top of the Upper Peninsula and back home again, dropping off Hank on the way.  Adding in the company of my dear friend Becky made it all the better – a trip that I could actually look forward to with great excitement.

We managed to hit the road close to noon on Thursday and, aside from a detour due to an overturned log truck and a few traffic jams, we made fairly good time.  By around 8:30 PM we had dropped off Hank in Evansville where he received a welcome befitting a soldier returning home.  Our goodbye was short and sweet because we still had to get to Hannibal, Missouri that night.

If you REALLY want to have the full road trip experience, stay only in sketchy hotels along the way – swanky ones have too little potential for adventure.  At our first sketchy hotel an extremely nice and partially-toothed desk clerk informed us that, due to limited space, we would need to park in a field near an underpass... at 2:00 AM.  Econo Lodge has a penchant for thin walls and tubs that don’t drain, so after surviving the walk from the car and a quick shower in which my feet were submerged in water past my ankles the entire time, I drifted off to rhythmic snoring coming from the neighboring room and awoke four hours later to approximately fifty Harley’s revving up outside of our door.  A “continental breakfast,” the highlight of any hotel stay, awaited us.  I’m a bacon-and-eggs kind of girl, so a bowl of raisin bran is a special treat.

After our carb-loaded breakfast we headed over to Mark Twain’s Boyhood Home and Museum with great excitement.  I had stopped by twice before on previous road trips but it was the first time for Becky, an English professor and Twain aficionado.  I do not use the term “aficionado” lightly even though it’s fun to say – she began to weep as we stepped out of the car and she quite nearly hugged the man selling us tickets.  The clerk at Walgreens was treading dangerous waters when she informed Becky that she had been to the home and museum only by force on school field trips, but otherwise she found it quite dull.

For most non-juvenile delinquents, though, the town is rather fascinating, allowing one to stand in the middle of the inspiration for The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.  The broad Mississippi River separating Missouri from Illinois and speckled with riverboats and barges can be almost hypnotizing to watch.  The museum contains life-sized depictions of some of Twain’s most popular stories as well as a gallery of original Norman Rockwell drawings depicting scenes from Twain’s work.  Hannibal is, however, a town that can be fully explored in under four hours, so by 1:00 PM we were back on the road.

Hannibal, MO

Our next mission was to meet Becky’s nephew Ellis in Schaumburg, Illinois for dinner (he had just moved there two weeks earlier to begin his internship).  Garmin had our arrival estimate at a few minutes before 5:00 PM, which was in keeping with my itinerary for the most part; however, passing through Springfield we made the fateful decision to stop off for some lunch.  Anyone who knows history knows that Springfield was the home of Abraham Lincoln at one time, and anyone who knows my friend Becky knows that if she has a greater love than Twain, it is Lincoln.  Naturally, when a sign just before the exit informed us that Lincoln’s tomb was located nearby, we knew that we had to make a detour.

At the risk of offending anybody north of the Mason-Dixon Line, Lincoln is not one of my favorite historical figures; however, I love visiting historical sites because they make past events feel more real than the disconnect that often occurs from simply reading a textbook.  His tomb was admittedly impressive – I expected something more notable than a simple headstone in the cemetery, but the 117-foot structure covered in bronze sculptures that appeared before us left little doubt as to which tomb was his. The inside of the vault was lined with marble along a round corridor dotted with more bronze statues that chronicled Lincoln's life and led to his burial spot.

Lincoln's Tomb

Our detour mission now accomplished and Becky once again regaining her composure, we continued the journey towards Schaumburg only about an hour off schedule.  But we were in Illinois, the Land of Perpetual Road Construction and $4-per-Gallon Gas, where traffic jams abound and most driving is done between orange barrels and on the shoulder of the road.  The 70 mph signs are a tease, because anything over 55 mph will get you ticketed for speeding in a work zone.

Using the “Detour” button on my Garmin is always a gamble.  A few years ago it landed my friend Leslie and me in The Ghetto of a St. Louis ghetto where our conversation was limited to the constant repetition of, “We’re going to die,” but occasionally it does pay off.  I’m also the type of person who would rather be moving than sitting in traffic, and with a line of cars extending as far as the eye could see and Google Maps showing us only about a quarter of the way through the jam after several minutes, I decided to take a chance.  Whether it saved time or not will forever be a mystery because apparently all side roads in Illinois are also perpetually under construction, but at least we were moving.

The TripAdvisor app is a necessity for any road trip, especially when traveling through areas that are unfamiliar.  We picked up Ellis at 6:30 and chose Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria because it had the fourth highest rating out of 269 restaurants based on 162 reviews, and the hour-long wait to be seated in one of the most jam-packed, loudest restaurants on the planet seemed to support the reviews.  Dinner was excellent (I recommend the Trio of Dips and Pizza Chips appetizer), but by the time that we finished and dropped off Ellis it was almost 10:00 PM, about 4 hours later than my incredibly optimistic and inaccurate itinerary estimate.

Our plan had been to reach Niagara, Wisconsin by 11:00 PM and spend the night at our friends the Kimbroughs’ house; however, the Garmin estimate now showed 3:00 AM and it kept going up with each traffic light and work zone.  We were also flat-out exhausted from the previous late night and the day’s adventures, and just reaching the Illinois state line was going to be a challenge, so we made a spur-of-the-moment decision to drive only halfway.  Sheboygan, Wisconsin sounded like a good stopping point, and I really liked saying “Sheboygan.”  Actually, I like saying most city names in Wisconsin, especially in a strong Wisconsin accent.

Saturday morning after another invigorating four hours of sleep, we continued our journey towards Niagara with a stop-off at Northland International University.  Becky and I first met and formed our friendship at Northland – we were both teachers at the school between 1999 and 2001 (although Becky was there a total of eight years) – and we had been roommates my second year.  We found our old apartment and took some obligatory shots by the door, hoping that the current residents weren't watching us through the peep-hole and remembering those days of yore when we ourselves peeked out of that same peep-hole, spying on our neighbors or hiding from students who decided to drop in for a visit.

Becky showing off our old apartment

The campus was quiet and almost empty, and our attempts at breaking into any of the old office and classroom buildings were futile.  Having exhausted all efforts and snapping more photos in front of several buildings, we hopped back in the car and finally reached Niagara.

The Kimbroughs were just like family to me during my time at Northland.  Wynne and Vickie taught at the school and Wynne eventually became the pastor of the church that I attended.  Some of my fondest memories from my time there revolve around being in their home.  Despite having five children and her mother already living at the house, Vickie always seemed to have a flow of guests for everything from birthdays to holidays, and she made every occasion special.

Vickie and Wynne with the "baby" of the family, Jared

After a sweet time of reminiscing and a wonderful dinner, we crawled back into the car and made our way east.  The ever-reliable itinerary had us leaving Niagara at 5:00 PM and arriving in Bay City, Michigan at 11:30 PM, but we were already two hours behind schedule.  Then I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror.

I've already whined enough times about the injustice of my speeding ticket to anyone who will listen, so I’ll just cut the story short by saying that I didn't think that the highway patrol would clock your speed while you're passing a vehicle on a two-lane, two-way road.  If I had passed the van at 55 mph I would have soon run into oncoming traffic, especially when the van’s driver would speed up and slow down spontaneously, but I digress…  We continued the drive $125 and two driver’s license points shorter, crossing over Mackinac Bridge in the dark (not quite as exciting as during the day) and rolling into Bay City after 2:00 AM.

The Econo Lodge in Hannibal may have been sketchy, but compared to this one it was the Ritz.  A sign, which I am fairly certain had been up for decades, said that it was “under construction” to explain the bare bulbs dangling from the hall walls, the peeling wallpaper, and the sagging ceiling plaster.  Becky reported that the tub was close to overflowing while she showered, and when I pulled back the covers on my bed I discovered that no fitted sheet separated the mattress cover from the top sheet (Becky’s bed had both sheets so it was apparently not a hotel standard).  After waiting through about twenty rings for the front desk to answer the phone, I finally gave up and slept on just the top sheet with no protection from the blanket.  When you’re exhausted, though, it hardly matters.

Sunday morning, or should I say, Sunday later morning was the time that I was anticipating the most.  Detroit might not have the reputation of a great place to visit, but it does have one very special gem (technically it’s in Dearborn, but close enough).  My family visited The Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village twice – once while I was in middle school and again in 2012 while we were up north for a reunion – and absolutely loved it.  The museum has an astonishing collection of historical artifacts from almost every period and aspect of America – the chair in which Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, the writing desk of Edgar Allen Poe, the bus on which Rosa Parks was arrested, the limousine in which Kennedy was shot, George Washington's army cot – and the village contains such buildings as the houses of Robert Frost and Noah Webster, Thomas Edison’s Menlo Park, the McGuffey schoolhouse, George Washington Carver’s cabin, and the Wright Brothers’ Bicycle Shop.

Of course, The Henry Ford Museum does have cars as well

By 4:00 PM we were finished, worn down and overheated from hours of walking and a little too much time in the sun.  For once we were ahead of schedule because the museum closed at 5:00 PM and for the first time on our trip it appeared that we would reach our hotel before midnight.  We spent our last night of the trip in Georgetown, Kentucky, only about 20 minutes north of Lexington.

Monday was Memorial Day.  Our plan had been to visit Keeneland early that morning in hopes of seeing the running of the horses before taking our breakfast among jockeys in the Track Kitchen, but the racetrack was bare and the cafeteria was closed.  TripAdvisor found us a suitable alternative at Wallace Station Deli and Bakery (sans jockeys), and with our bellies sufficiently full we began our final leg of the journey home with a few minor stops in between.

The closest that Becky would get to a jockey at Keeneland

Around 8:30 PM I dropped off Becky at her home.  As I drove to my parents’ house, a combination of feelings suddenly overcame me – being alone for the first time in four days, missing Hank, realizing that I was leaving in one week – and I started crying uncontrollably.  I cried the entire way home and for another minute as I sat in the driveway.  I thought it was at least partially attributable to extreme exhaustion, but two days later I still find myself perpetually on the verge of a meltdown – as if one wrong word or question will set me off.

Prior to this week all the way back to June 2013 when I decided to go to Le Cordon Bleu, I never shed a tear, perhaps because my focus was constantly on planning for my life in Paris.  I've avoided thinking too much about the time when I would have to leave my friends and family, but with this week concentrated on scheduling last lunches, dinners, get-togethers, and going-away parties, it’s impossible to dwell on anything else.  As a matter of fact, at this point in time when I most need to be wrapping up my travel plans, I am at my lowest level of motivation in months, almost bordering depression.

I was semi-joking with a friend that it might be easier if I just left right now without seeing anyone before I go, like ripping off a band-aid.  At the same time, the outpouring of love, support, and prayers have opened my eyes to how blessed I am to have so many wonderful people in my life.  If leaving were easy then I would probably have been a pretty sad person to begin with.

I should probably start packing.

The Hankster

[Note: If you’re not a dog-lover, you may want to skip this post to prevent catastrophic amounts of eye rolling.]

As I mentioned earlier, not all elements of my adventure are going to be particularly exciting.  The good-byes will naturally be the most difficult part although I expect to see everyone in about six months, Lord-willing, when I come home for the holidays.  No doubt the time will fly by, too.

The anticipation of one good-bye has weighed on me more than the rest, though.  It’s not worse than separating from family and friends, but feels a little harder because I can't explain to him what I'm about to do or why I'm about to do it.  He's not excited for me at all.

From Hank’s perspective, my sole purpose in life is to love him – to play with him when I get home, to hug him close when he gets scared or hurt, to give him rides in the car, to feed and water him, to provide him with warmth and security, to give him a bully stick while I shower, and to scratch his belly when I wake up.  He has no understanding that tomorrow I will be dropping him off at a house in Indiana and that I won’t see him again for almost a year no matter how many times I try to explain it to him.  He can’t comprehend that his “mom” is following her dream.

Hank loves car rides!

Lest anyone think that Hank was not a factor in my plans, he was actually one of the reasons that I took so long to decide about going to culinary school, even when it was just the thought of taking night classes.  Not a day has passed since last June that I haven’t thought about the arrival of this day.  This concern was surprisingly widespread – probably three-fourths of the people whom I told about my plans asked about Hank almost right away, and I found it to be a rather touching gesture on his behalf.

Hank's first autumn

For a time I even considered taking Hank with me to Paris (they are quite pet-friendly), but some research revealed that the cost could be in the thousands.  Even if I had a few extra dollars to spare, pets have to go through some sort of quarantine period before and/or after entering and leaving the country, and I have plans to come home for about six weeks in November.  Then there are the horror stories that you read about dogs flying in the cargo sections of airplanes because he's a little too big to carry on, and many airlines no longer take dogs.  Add to that the fact that we'd be living in a shoe box and I'd be stuck at school for seven hours a day... and you can understand the dilemma. 

Believe it or not, there was a time when I would have gladly given up Hank.  Although I had grown up with dogs in our home, I had never had a pet while living on my own.  As an introvert who craves regular "alone time," the arrangement worked quite well, but after going through the emotional upheaval of my sister and brother-in-law hauling away all five of my nieces and nephews to Colorado in 2008, the thought struck me that a dog might bring me some comfort, or at least distraction.  My life felt pretty settled at that point and I figured that I could dedicate many years to a canine companion.

I sealed my fate when I visited the adult dog section of the Humane Society – those cages and cages of sad dogs who had also been separated from their families.  One little girl terrier caught my eye, but I wanted to sleep on the idea before making a decision.  By morning I already decided that her name would be Daphne (after Daphne du Maurier, one of my favorite authors).  When I returned to the Humane Society the next day she was gone.  That was when I met Hank.

Actually, his name was Wally (what a terrible name!) and his rap sheet said that he was seven months old and dropped off by his owners who couldn’t afford to keep him.  He had also made an appearance on the local news the night before when they were doing a segment on the increase in animals dropped off at the shelter for that very reason, so he was a bit of a celebrity.  He had been neutered recently and was a bit groggy and in pain, but he still made an effort to wag his tail and greet me.  His almost human-like soulful brown eyes and adorable little underbite stole my heart.  I signed the papers for him that night and the next day a friend and I picked him up.

That face...

That evening we labored over the perfect name once I got him back to the house (considering that “Daphne” was out). “Wally” had a little red collar with white flowers that reminded me of a bandana and he was immediately drawn to a stuffed cow toy, making me think of a cowboy, which in turn reminded me of Hank the Cowdog, a fictitious dog created by John R. Erickson not far from my mom’s childhood home in New Mexico.  “Hank” (a.k.a., "The Hankster," "Hanky," "Hanky-Pank," "Pest") seemed to fit just right.

My friend left and I suddenly felt in a pickle over what to do with this new little stranger in my house.  The post-op medication and pain having worn off, Hank turned out to be much more hyperactive and willful than I realized.  He was also extremely opposed to his crate.  I followed the training DVD instructions, researched online, threw in toys and treats, and even attended obedience school with him, but he would not sleep in his crate.

For eight months he would cry, bark, and gnaw on the crate door endlessly through the night and for eight months I got very little sleep.  On rare occasions I would wake up in the morning and realize that I had been able to sleep for several hours undisturbed.  I would sneak in to check on him, wondering if he had died in the night and worried only because I wasn’t sure about how I would dispose of his body.  Yes, people with babies deal with sleep deprivation all of the time, but uninterrupted sleep was supposed to be one of the perks of being single and childless.

Hank was also an escape artist, and if left unattended in the back yard for any period of time he would find the smallest fence opening and wriggle his way out.  During my searches I would secretly hope that he had been kidnapped.  We spent a lot of time just staring each other down.  Shame and pride were the only things that kept me from returning him to the Humane Society.

Our breakthrough finally came when I moved his crate into my bedroom one evening because I had visitors in the guest room.  I fully expected it to be more of the same hysteria, only louder, but he was completely silent all night long until early morning.  A few days later I left him out of his crate all night.  He jumped on my bed, curled up by my legs, and didn’t get up until I did the next morning.  The thought of a dog sleeping in a person’s bed had always disgusted me, but when you have gone eight months with little sleep, you’re willing to accept any solution.  It became our new pattern, and we finally bonded.

That bond is now the problem.  Hank has been a welcome constant companion for almost six years.  I dread the thought of going to bed without feeling his warm 19 pounds pressed against my legs or feet, or of waking up without him enthusiastically attacking my face because he refuses to leave the bed until I do.  I hate to think of walking in the front door and Hank’s face, holding and squeaking his stuffed ladybug, not being the first thing to greet me.  And as many times as I have told him how annoying he is, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to enjoy watching television or being on my laptop without Hank and his stupid tennis ball constantly vying for my attention.  I might even miss remaking my bed two or three times a day because of his burrowing tendencies.

One of Hank's masterpieces

Hank will be ecstatic when he realizes that he gets to go for a ride in the car all the way to Indiana.  Just seeing me packing sends him into hysteria.  He’ll run from window to window for about an hour into the drive until he finally settles down for a nap, never sensing my overwhelming guilt.  He will love his new home.  He will have enormous amounts of space in which to run and explore and an amazingly sweet and generous family who loves animals.  Hank adores people and will probably choose his one special human rather quickly.

The newness of his life will soon wear off and he’ll wonder for a time where I am and when I’m coming to get him, but that feeling will eventually fade as well, maybe faster than my vanity imagines, and he will be his usual, happy, hyper self.  He may, in fact, become so much a part of his new family that he stays with them forever because I don’t have the heart to uproot him again.

So rest assured, friends, that Hank will be just fine.  I'm not looking for sympathy either, because I'm not exactly being thrown into some terrible situation against my will.  Actually, I have turned this little 500-mile journey to Indiana into an epic 2600-mile road trip adventure with an awesome friend because I'm determined to enjoy myself. Of course, I have my spreadsheet itinerary along with a pile of snacks and more audio books than we can possibly finish.  This plan has created an emotional roller-coaster of excited anticipation and sad anxiety, but I believe that the "ups" will win out in the end.

This coming week, the last week of my “normal” life back home, will be the hardest one without my dog because he will be the most noticeably missing element.  After that, I will plunge into my new life and a time of missing my friends and family in addition to being occupied with simply surviving before achieving my "new normal."  At least that is my hope.

Until then, I leave you with one of my favorite Hank memories:

History Lesson

When I tell people of my plan to attend Le Cordon Bleu, the question that naturally follows is, “What are you going to do when you get back?”  “Get a job… in the food industry,” may sound like a sarcastic reply, but it’s about the most complete answer that I can give (maybe I could change “the food industry” into “haute cuisine,” but I wouldn't want to sound stuffy).  Not receiving a more specific response bothers some people, and I can understand their concern to an extent – why would I invest so much money and time into something with no clear goal in mind?

Following my answer with, “I just know that this is what the Lord wants me to do, and I’ll let Him handle the details,” also raises a few eyebrows because “walking by faith” and “acting carelessly” can look eerily similar.  This way of living has worked fairly well for me in the past, though, and the more that I remind myself of how God has never failed me before, the easier each step of faith becomes.  Sadly, that’s not to say that every decision that I ever made came about through a lot of prayer and faith, but that’s what makes the Christian walk so amazing – God remains faithful in spite of my frequently foolish or thoughtless actions.

My major during my freshman and sophomore years at Bob Jones University was Print Journalism.  Like most teenagers, I chose my major because it sounded like fun and it seemed like something that I could do.  At some point before the start of my junior year, I decided that Print Journalism wasn't very practical so I switched to something even less practical: French.  As part of my first degree requirements I already had two years of French, plus it’s a cool language – flawless reasoning.

[True story: One sunny day my sophomore year as I sat outside the library studying, one of my French professors, Monsieur Loach, hid in the bushes behind me and said in a ghostly voice, “Kerry Kendall!  Go to Bob Jones and major in French!” That was not the deciding factor… I think.]

As graduation approached it became clear that I had no idea of what I was going to do with a French degree.  The summer following graduation I worked at Camp Ironwood and returned home to work retail until the day after Thanksgiving when I visited Worldwide Tentmakers to inquire about a job overseas – any job overseas (aside from a love of French I had a serious travel bug).

Logos School of English Education in Cyprus had just contacted the office asking if they had anyone who could come teach high school science for the rest of the school year after one of their teachers took a sudden leave.   My response was, “Where is Cyprus?  Isn't that Greek or something*?” followed by, “Sure, why not?”  Less than two months later I was on my way.

[*Greek is a primary language in Cyprus, but it is an actual country and not a part of Greece.  Don't pretend like you already knew that.]

Cyprus was probably one of the best experiences in my life.  I was homesick most days and wrote a lot of distressing letters to friends and family bemoaning this fact, but those six months grew me in more ways than I can measure.  Coming out of my protective shell, learning to live with and among people who weren't exactly like me, building amazing friendships, dealing with new and unexpected obstacles – I felt as if I had matured about ten years by the time that I returned home.

Teaching science, however, was definitely not my “thing."  Because my last science course was tenth-grade Biology, with the help of a sort of Science for Dummies book I was barely keeping up with my students except for a few annoyingly smart ones who were way beyond me.  Thinking that maybe teaching something that I understood, such as math, might work with a little more training, I went back to Bob Jones after the school year ended and started working on a master’s degree in secondary mathematics education.

Graduation was once again upon me and I was once again at a loss for what to do.  Harvest Christian Academy in Guam was offering me a three-year contract but I didn't have any peace about signing it (any commitment beyond a year makes my tongue go numb), yet I had no other prospects.

Running on the track the evening before Harvest was going to call me for my decision, I fell into a conversation with a fellow student who also happened to be the brother of the president of Northland Baptist Bible College (now Northland International University).  He asked about my graduation plans and mentioned that he knew of a position available at the school for a math teacher, and I expressed an interest in the job.

The next evening when Harvest called to ask for my decision, I turned them down.  Not five seconds after I had hung up the phone, it rang again and Sam Horn was on the other end inviting me to come up to Northland for an interview.  I went, they made me an offer, and that summer I moved to Wisconsin to begin my new career as a math and, as a bonus, French professor.

While my time at Northland lasted only two years, it was instrumental in my development as well.  I made several wonderful relationships (including one of my now best friends), I was able to spend a summer in language school in Nice, France, I learned how to drive on ice, and I realized that I was not cut out to be a teacher.  That last revelation scared me nearly to death because in my mind, on top of a bachelor’s degree that I no longer needed I had an equally useless master’s degree and not a clue about what to do next.

Apparently my go-to solution during these crises is “more school.”  I figured that something concentrated in statistics could get my foot into the business world, and on a whim I filled out an application to graduate school at Clemson University although I was sure that I didn't have the proper math credits to get accepted.  As it turned out, I had just enough to make a two-year degree possible, and I was soon on my way back to Greenville to work on a master’s degree in mathematical sciences.

Not surprisingly, another graduation suddenly loomed ahead with absolutely no job prospects – I was beyond broke with several credit cards maxed out by this time and had not had a single interview except with a temp agency.  Admittedly, applying for jobs probably would have increased my odds of landing an interview, but at 29 years of age I had no experience in creating a business resume and no ideas about what sort of work I should be seeking.  Until now jobs had just sort of fallen into my lap.

While working on my final thesis with my advisor, I had mentioned to him that I hoped to stay in Greenville after graduation.  A few weeks later he summoned me to his office to tell me that a recruiter had called him and asked if he had any graduating students interested in living in the Greenville area for a data analyst position.  My advisor thought to check with me first before opening up the offer to the rest of the students.  I jumped on the opportunity, had one interview, graduated on a Saturday, and started my job the following Monday.  I was so green that about six months passed before I even knew what Resurgent Capital Services did, but eleven years later I can honestly say that I think I finally got the hang of it.

This little history lesson is not meant to suggest that looking for work or having a plan is unwise, but occasionally we don't even know how to plan or what to expect, or reality takes a totally different turn from our expectations.  When we filled out surveys our senior year of high school asking where we saw ourselves in ten years, I wrote some typical response like, “Married with 8 kids and working on an llama farm in New Zealand,” but not one single aforementioned event was included in my answer.  Had I answered that same question again ten years later, it still would have been completely wrong (I would have left out the husband and kids part, though).  Ask me where I see myself in just one year from now and, “Who knows?” will be the closest that I can get to a correct answer.

[Okay, sometimes I reply, “Working at Epcot’s Chefs de France,” but that’s mostly because I want the discount Disney family passes and an opportunity to regain my Aunt of the Year title… and it’s the happiest place on earth.]

If you could peek ahead about nine months into the future, you would likely find me once again facing the end of my schooling (assuming that I had passed the basic and intermediate levels) with very little money and no idea of what my next step will be, but my hope is that you would also see me completely at peace with the knowledge that God already knows.  The best part of this journey is that whatever He has planned for me, it will be far better than whatever my limited little mind could imagine.

I have nine months to study both cuisine and pastry under some of the finest chefs in the most famous culinary school in the world – why would I waste time worrying about what March 2015 will bring?  Rather than trying to skip to the end of the story, I want to work my way through it, enjoying each moment of discovery along the way until the final chapter draws everything to a conclusion.

 “Therefore I say unto you, ‘Take no thought for your life, what you shall eat, or what you shall drink; nor yet for your body, what you shall put on.’  Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?   Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much better than they?  Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?  And why take you thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?  Therefore take no thought, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or, ‘What shall we drink?’ or, ‘Wherewithal shall we be clothed?’ (for after all these things do the Gentiles seek) for your heavenly Father knows that you have need of all these things.  But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matthew 6:25-33)

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…

Ducks in a Row

Having been a bridesmaid at least five times (I eventually stopped counting), I am well-acquainted with the “behind the scenes” planning that goes into a wedding.  The similarities to the process of getting to Le Cordon Bleu are uncanny.  In the beginning it felt like my departure date would never arrive and that I had all of the time in the world while the last month is sending me into a panicked frenzy of activity.

Add to that the move, the crazy expenses, the change of lifestyle, the legal mumbo-jumbo, and the ominous, ever-present possibility of the “engagement” being called off, and all that I’m missing is a white gown.  I will have a white chef’s uniform, but that was included in my tuition—maybe the better parallel would be the hideous steel-toed, slip-proof clogs that I still need to purchase.

Almost no step in this process has been independent of the other steps.  Before securing an apartment I wanted to be sure that I had my student visa.  Receiving a visa can take up to three weeks after the appointment at the French consulate.  Scheduling a visa appointment required first that I register with Campus France and receive their confirmation e-mail, another three-week process.  Registering with Campus France required an acceptance letter from Le Cordon Bleu.  Receiving the acceptance letter required paying off the tuition balance in full.  Paying off the tuition balance in full required the sale of my house (and a 99.9% certainty that I wasn't going to change my plans).

Throughout the preparation and confusion, my one battle cry has been, “Surely people dumber than I am have done this before and succeeded!”  It’s only recently that I have begun to have my doubts.

On Tuesday morning at 11:00, I finally made it to the visa appointment.  My goal was to arrive at the French Consulate in Atlanta as early as was reasonably possible – a missed appointment can take up to three weeks to reschedule – so mom and I drove to my sister’s house in Grayson on Monday night just to put me a little closer.

Google maps told me that the time between the house and the consulate was 45 minutes, so naturally I left 2 hours and 45 minutes early.  I had brought a book and scouted out a Chick-fil-A in Lenox Square, the same mall housing Buckhead Tower where the consulate is located.  The extra time gave me a chance to check over the required documents for the one-millionth time and just to relax with my spicy chicken biscuit and coffee while I read.  I was momentarily distracted by a table of employees-in-training for a new Chipotle that was opening in the mall.  For a fleeting moment I pictured myself sitting among them a year from now, but I shook off the feeling and went back to my book.

This pre-appointment relaxation was necessary because I have a tendency to fall apart under scrutiny.  My friend Leslie can verify – on a trip to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs several summers ago I completely lost my ability to communicate with the entrance guard, giving off the vibe of someone who had an AK-47 hidden in her trunk.  Even explaining to the parking attendant at the Biltmore House that I want to drive straight to the Conservatory causes my palms to get clammy.

Obviously I don’t have a perfect past, but I've stayed away from any “permanent record” kind of activities.  There was that one time that I overstayed my passport stamp expiration date in Cyprus by about three months, but it was prior to September 11, 2001 and the magistrate just gave me a mild scolding and made me promise not to do it again (he may have instructed me to do something else, but I was only a few weeks away from leaving the country and "forgot").  Nothing else in my history stands out as a possible red flag, but my demeanor under scrutiny is one of, “I have explosives strapped to my chest.”

Upon entering the French consulate I read a sign telling me to deposit my belongings into a plastic bucket to the left of the metal detector.  Wanting to be as compliant as possible and to overcome the automatic and unwarranted feeling of guilt, I started to place my purse and documents into the bucket, but a man sitting behind a plexiglass window began beckoning to me saying, “Just come through.”  Confused, I continued trying to stuff my possessions into the bucket while he waved his hand harder, repeating, “Come through!”

“You don’t want me to put my stuff in the bucket?”

“No, just come through.”

“With my stuff?”

“Yes!”

The metal detector beeped loudly as I passed through, so I paused, once again unable to formulate normal speech as I held my purse and the envelope in the air with an apologetic look on my face and mumbling something that sounded like, “My bag.”  I’m fairly certain that he rolled his eyes as he simply replied, “Why are you here?” ignoring my efforts to offer him my purse.

I did apparently manage to get across the message that I was applying for a student visa, staring nervously at his appointment sheet as he found my name and crossed it off.  He directed me into an adjacent room where two more people sat behind plexiglass windows.  The woman on the right summoned me to her station, and the next several minutes consisted of me trying to look nonchalant and innocent as she leafed through my documents, typing and stamping and picking up the phone to babble off something in French that I probably would not have understood even if I could have heard her better through the glass.

[I also have a problem with forced facial expressions, so “nonchalant” and “innocent” probably came across as “jerk” or “mental patient.”]

The appointment ended abruptly with little more than an, “Okay, you’re done.”  I started toward the door, but just to be safe, turned around and said, “I can leave?”  She offered a condescending smile and nodded, waving me out the door with no final words of how good my documents looked or when I may expect to receive my visa or what actions might follow.

But I had survived, and the whole process took maybe fifteen minutes.  The optimist in me is assuming that everything was fine and that the UPS man will be delivering the envelope to me in the next week or two, while the pessimist in me jumps whenever the phone rings, imagining that it’s someone calling to inform me that I've been added to a terrorist watch list.

The only major task remaining at present is to find a place to live in Paris.  Thanks to an upbringing on musicals, memories from An American in Paris already gave me a pretty good idea of what to expect.

My requirements for an apartment are fairly basic by American standards: 1) it must have a toilet; 2) the toilet must be inside the apartment; 3) it must have a shower with a shower head that attaches to the wall above my head; 4) the apartment must have an elevator if it is located more than four stories up; 5) it must have a washing machine; 6) it should not be located in whatever is the French equivalent of a ghetto.  I am willing to give up such frivolous amenities as air conditioning and toilets located outside of the shower; nonetheless, the options within my budget are limited.

[Number five might sound like a luxury, but admittance to class each day requires a clean, pressed uniform.  Anyone who knows me or who has ever seen me work in a kitchen will understand that without a washer, I will be spending every evening after classes in a laundromat.]

While my apartment specifications are mostly solidified, the decision to secure an apartment before I leave for Paris or to wait until after I get there is up in the air.  Obviously the security of having a place waiting for me is desirable, but I'm not sure if it's a couple of thousand dollars desirable - the approximate cost of using an agent.  On top of that is the concern over putting down money on a place without seeing it in person.  By "money" I mean "five to ten months' rent up front," the general requirement of landlords when a renter cannot provide a guarantor.

Relatively minor remaining tasks include figuring out what to do about my cell phone, deciding what to pack and what to ship, buying the aforementioned ugly shoes and a locker padlock, determining how much cash to take with  me and how much to transfer, securing my plane ticket, and moving my dog to his foster home (sniff, sniff).  There’s plenty of time…

Wait, where did April go??