I love walking but I really need a bike.

First thing that comes to mind today: In france the rules of the road are the opposite of those in America. Back home it's the job of the pedestrian to avoid the big fire pooping monster car and god help you if you don't because it totally isn't the driver's fault because even though he has brakes and an armored shell and he could walk or bike he chooses to destroy the planet he obviously loses all humanity the moment he vanishes behind a windshield he becomes a murderbot. In france, you can basically just walk where you want and the car had better avoid you. One doesn't even have to walk on the right side of the road. There are no real rules, you just glare at people who get in your way. Or dodge them with a mumbled pardon or excusez moi.

For some reason My mind is giving the day back to me in reverse order but whatever. We went in to a fancy store today, one of those with electronic music in the backround, and it was pretty cool until i saw a pair of boots that I was interested in and checked the pricetag. 250 euro. 250. For the Americans that is about $330. For one pair of boots. Or if you want a jacket for 450 euro or $600. Needless to say I panicked a bit but Louis quickly assured me this was a pricy store and it isn't awful. Because I wanna shop dawg. I worked and worked and made oddles of $$$ for buying the fancies in France.

We also hit up a fancy fancy beach town across the bay from St Malo, our homebase for the moment. The beaches and tides here are ridiculous. the beaches in America are pretty steep once you get into the water; you can only stand for a few yards. Here, I never found a place where I couldn't stand. And the beach...it's gotta be half a mile wide at low tide, and then at high tide the water has covered up the beach and is smashing against the bulkhead. According to my pop's little guidebook, St malo has the greatest difference in tides in Europe.

We also had drinks in a bar that was basically wallpapered in retro dolls. All over the ceiling and walls and floor and shelves. The bar proper instead of stools had swings. It rocked. I fell asleep though. And then they laughed and took pictures of me. I was tired because in the morning we rented three sets of windsurf gear and a surfboard and I tried to windsurf but basically paid to fall on my face continually and ram salty water up my nose, so I srufed instead. But a good time was had by all. oooooh what else happened...

I'm slowly learning that in Europe you don't just talk to people. Being raised in the south I'm used to being able to strike up a conversation with anyone who isn't really rude...but here, if one comments on the cuteness of a dog or the temperature of a pool or something you get ignored. HARD. It's like being punched with a fist made of ignorium. BOOM pchew pchew. It's very awkward.

I got to sleep at about two last night and got up at eight. During the school year that would be normal, but I've become accustomed to 12 or 14 hours a night. Which is stupid I know.

We're going to see Mont St Michel tomorrow (bonus points for those of you in Madame Huet's french classes. NORMANDIEEEEEEEEE)> it's about an hour's drive, so I'm goint to birng mes truc for photo uploading and drop a buncha photo bass on you all. Photodump wup wup wup wup wwagga wup wup....I'm getting loopy. My writing has been awful. I need to do this when I'm not tired for once. But i'm just so busyyyyyyy. I'm sorry everyone. Mom gave me drugs and I'm tired now sooo. Yay benadryl.

Au revoir-Tom. He of the sleepy constitution. and the sore feet

Finally arrived

Bonjour!

You find me now in a very very very comfy armchair in St. Malo, a lovely lovely lovely lovely beach town where every single house would be the most beautiful house back home. Me, my mother and the family we are staying with are discussing differences in healthcare and streaming entertainment. In a mix of French and English. Franglish. Franglais. Whatever. Anyway. Now windows surface. And now they're making fun of my clickety click noises on my ipad. Anyway. Ummm...this town is incredibly beautiful full of magnificent old houses. They told me that during the war it was completely bombed out by the americans (yay? Its bad but we were supposedly saving people.), and then we rebuilt it. (at least we clean up our mess) But you couldn't tell at all.  The town looks like it was built in thea middle ages. The city center is surrounded by walls, and is basically in the middle of the sea. The streets are filled with little cafés, and are paved in the sort of cobblestone that would make it really difficult to be handicapped. It's very funny, the size of the bills goes up with their worth, so blind people can use cash, but...the cobblestone streets are so bumpy that it would be very difficult to walk around...not to mention that these tiny streets are filled with french cars that've never seen before that look tiny on the highway but somehow in entering the city grow and grow till they are giant, loud smelly monsters with the potential to run anyone over. The magic of france!

I was jetlagged, so I woke up today at noon thinking that it was wednesday or something, had four croissant au chocolat, and then walked around downtown. And remeber downtown is really a castle village thingy. It was fascinating. I had my first experieance speaking in french to someone I didn't know personally, in ordering two waters, a beer (for papa) and a salmon sandwich. Eeek. Much sign language was involved. For those of you in language classes please please don't labor under the impression that you will remember any of it when challenged with an actual conversation. I've been chatting away with Louis and his family in french all day, but a stranger suddenly makes it all vanish and you just feel like a stupid american tourist. It's an awful feeling.

I missed my bike though. I saw lots of cyclists and waas jelly. We are going to be here a week and plan to rent bikes. We tried today, but apparently to my suprise today was sunday, soooo everything was closed. Except the casino. Duh. We're also trying to rent windsurfing gear. Though I son't windsurf, I kite board. I can sail, and know about the wind but I don't think I'll be able to...so yeah.

There was a point, before the flight to france, when I had been awake for 25 hours. So I slept hardcore on the plane. Dad at one point had to hold my head up...I'm a rock. Then I slept ont the van. Then I ate, and danced with my poi. Then I slept more.mand now I need to sleep again. More on languages and culture tomorrow!


Signing off, Tom

HELLO FROM IRELAND

Hello, Dear Readers.
You find me in a McDonalds, in the Dublin(ian) airport, at about 0:30 my time, 5:45 local time. I have now been awake for 19 hours. Yes, for those mathematically astute ones out there I did get up at 05:00. My reasons seemed wonderful at the time, but are looking mighty flimsy now. I have had a stomachache off and on all day, partially I suspect due to nerves, but more likely due to the cheese binge I went on last night while watching John Oliver. I must confess that this is probably the most beautiful airport I have ever been in. This lounge I'm sittting in is less reminiscent of a McDonalds from back home and closer to a hip newfangled innercity mall. Seriously though. you know those prefab benches back home that are the color of...hearing aids? Not a one of them here. Just brightly colored lounge chairs and an abundance of power outlets. And this is the terminal for cheapo bdget flights.

The plane was just as suprising. I've never been on an international, or transatlantic flight before this and I'm used to thinking of air travel as a very slow form of teleportation that requires you to trap yourself in a sardine can with a bunch of other smelly humans in a seat that is plainly not designed for a gangly six foot two teenager who packed enough to live in europe for a year. Then you emerge, an hour or two later from your teleportation pod with stiffness beyond the years of your joints and an irritable constitutuion in a completely different city with very little sensation of movement in the duration. the first leg of our journey was just that. I was in a three-wide airline which was honestly too short for me to stand up in, next to a raucously storing accountant who had the gall to not show up till the last minute. I was left for three quarters of an hour gazing at an empty seat next to me hoping, wishing with all of my soul, crossed fingers and toes that it would stay that way and after I got my hopes up I had to watch this rotund man who held us all up lumber in without a greeting and start snoring. Now some of you may be thinking that it's my fault for getting my hopes up but those of you who know me know that anything that goes wrong couldn't possibly be my fault and is always the fault of the asinine mortals who have the bare-faced cheek to incovenience me. Gosh. The nerve.

The Aer Lingus flight across the atlantic was completely different. I was seated directly in front of a bulkhead in a row of four seats behind a row of three, so I could basically use the aisle as my footroom! The crew were all incredibly courteous and charming Irish folk with a lovely lilt, and what a plane they staffed! it was eight seats abeam at the widest, with eight? bathrooms. I walked around and visited with people, and made friends around me and shared candy and stories and well-wishes. I emerged on the other side less feeling like a human six-two sarding and more like someone who had been pampered for eight hours.

Ireland. I feel I can't really pass judgement based on an hour and a half's worth of experience in an airport, but again those who know me will know that I always pass judgement no matter how little I know or how likely I am to be wrong. What a lovely country. I have yet to meet someone who isn't kind and helpful. The line in immigration was filled with jokes about my admittedly very dorky five fingers and conversation instead of noses in phones. Perhaps this has to do with it being five in the morning and the loopiness that comes with. The Guard in charge of Immigration stapmed our passport with a smile, and wished me well in France, and Customs (it was a little lax due to us Snowdening it in an airport for six hours and technically not being in ireland, but it looked this way for everyone) consisted of walking through a door while chatting to the the officers. If I ever need to run from the draft, I'm going from Canada to Ireland. Though with my high arches, bat-blindness (the technical term) and general dislike for uniformed men shouting at me I'm not sure I would be welcome anyway...rambling.

Anyway my passport looked thoroughly used now. It has my french visa, complete with very ugly mushot, an irish immigration stamp...and several bends souvenir of the French Consulate. Despite the verbage in the back that quite clearly declares "This document contains delicate electronic equipment. Do not bend or submit to extreme temperatures." I feel a bit silly but I must admit that I feel like a proper world traveler now. I'm surrounded by people from all over the world and I'm in a new country full of new things! And I haven't been outside the airport. And I immediately went to McDonalds. I might as well wear a flashing nametag that admits "AMERICAN!" Eh. Whatever. I couldn't really care, though I am curious to what the various reactions to America are. But I'll just hold my head high and get through...my incredibly long wait. I'm half tempted to go for a jog around the airport. I wish I had my bike. I had to leave Major Jake behind. No I didn't name him that, that is actually the model name. I got better things to do than pull your leg, pal. Like figure out what those things are. And if there are enough to fill a six hour wait.

Looking back at this entry it really isn't up to the standards of the last one. Maybe its longer. I'm going to blame it on travel fatigue and shock and yaddayadda. I need to find out what the french for yaddayadda is. Suprisingly it isn't in my dictionary. Madam Poirier, if you read this some help would rock.

Alrighty, I'm going to go explore, with my camera. I'll probably sign back on later with more photos. Or Rambling. Most likely both. I'm really tired man.

Tom Out-

ps Irish water is TOTALLY better than american water.
pps. Maybe I'll come back with caffeine and edits. That'd be smart.

You can't go home again.

I'm sitting in a Brueggers on Wendesday morning with the very strange sense that not a mile down the road, my school has moved on without me. For those of you who don't know about Raleigh Charter, it's a bit different. Millbrook, or Sanderson are easy to lose yourself in. That is still possible in charter, but it takes doing, a conscious effort to dodge the debates, conversations and laughter in the hallways, to choose clothes nondescript enough every morning. Not black, as one gets noticed in all black. I never tried to lose myself, I never could. i was the one in the trench coat that was out of fashion 20 years ago, or the golden lamé cape, or the ridiculously loud rainbow button down and ripped jeans. I always felt that my school was a part of me, and I a part of it, and now it has moved on. This summer has been a steady march of inevitability, a slow yet impending, onrushing wave of change and choice and this morning at 9:06 that wave crashed right on top of my fuzzy, brown and slightly dimwitted head. I was at the intersection of Glenwood and Peace, excited about the recent removal of my braces and exploring my new shiny mouth with a clumsy tongue when i looked down at the clock on the dash which innocently told me that six minutes ago there was no more choice. I was going, leaving. I was already gone. The box of clothes was sent, the suitcase packed, the goodbye party held, the hugs given. All these things had already happened and I knew what they meant but the significance hadn't quite arrived. I'm now simply floating along, waiting with a potent dreamy cocktail of something that is in between terror and thrill. All these wet and dark things fell on my head at 9:06 this morning. I drove down, looped around the school but all I saw was an army of strange-faced volunteers and cars, blockading all the parking bays, as if to tell me "you made your choice, and you no longer belong here. you can't call this place yours anymore."

So here I sit. With a strange mouth full of bagel seeds, surrounded by a city, my city, that seems to be looking at me out of the corner of its small, gritty, scarred and yet still stunning eye as if it is uncomfortable with my presence but it, out of some lingering fondness wishes to keep me from knowing. My conversations with strangers are all blighted by the notion that soon they will be taken from me, that I will be a stranger in a strange town, full of strange people. Perhaps I already am, and it is only the ghosts of memories of erstwhile familiar places that pass in front of my eyes, I don't know.

All I do is that at 8:00 on the morning of Friday the Sixteenth of August, I won't be able to go home again. Even after I return I will have slowly transformed, subtly, without taking notice of myself, into a different Tom. Words will fall from my mouth, perhaps with more care, but with a different cadence. My friends... Perhaps I will return to a party, to cake and friends who felt the loss of a scatterbrained, loud, large and colorful boy acutely in their lives. Perhaps I will return to strangers with familiar faces but who have moved on, with little connection left to the one I will have become. Perhaps they will look at me and see a boy who was their friend, who they don't know is dead, left behind in a moment that passed without their notice. Perhaps they will still see this future Tom as me as I am now, but he will only see ghosts in their faces as they will have gone. They as he knows them will have died in a moment that he agonized over.

8:00, Friday the Sixteenth of August, 2013. It marches towards me with tiny boots that tick down with force unimagineable every second that passes. Small ticks that resonate with a solemn and curious announcement: "We shall see. You will know yourself." Tick. Tick. Tick. We. Shall. See.