Just call me Eeyore & Listen to me whine

When you move away for the first time, it’s the little things that get you. Whenever you have a day full of terribly frustrating events and you just can’t call mommy or come crying home, you really just break down. That’s the hardest. When you realize you are truly alone, you have to fix all this shit – no matter how tiny and insignificant that shit may be – by yourself.

Today was one of those days, but now that I’ve survived it, I’m feeling a bit proud of myself. Even when the shit hit the fan in the airport back in June, or I was feeling miserable and lonely on a rainy day in July, I fixed the problems on my own but still broke down and called my parents for comfort. I just wanted to hear their voice, have them tell me it was going to be ok. Pathetic, I know. But it’s usually intimidating to just go, to leave everything behind, to exist in a place where you know no one. Not today.

I woke up to one of the most beautiful mornings I’ve seen here. It was hot, the ocean was flat, the air was light and clear. All I wanted to do was go swimming. Instead, Ludo knocked on my door with: “Uh, your scooter fell over.” Assessing the damage, I was disappointed to discover the fall broke the kickstand right off, bending both the top of it and piece on the scooter itself to the point where I required professional help. Professional help requires money. Money requires a real job. You can see where this left me.

But Ludo helped me at least use the alternate kickstand – the one that requires you to be a big strong man to operate. I am none of the above.

The second bad news came with the realization that I still have not heard from Tequila’s former master, the man who abandoned her to me, the man who opted not to give me her papers. Apparently in France getting a dog is like buying a car – all her paperwork must be signed over. As the vet yesterday so kindly informed me, Tequila is not technically my dog and unless I get these papers she can be “repossessed” at any moment. She’s my saving grace; I think I’d cry for weeks without her here. I have emailed and called desperately, impatiently awaiting a reply, and still nothing.

With this haunting me, I went to the Total Station and asked if someone could help me just unbend the top of the stand; the rest I was fairly confident I could do one my own – or at least attempt. It was so quick and easy the man didn’t even charge me. Then I felt the need to do something nice for dear Patricia, who’s like every mom – she does way too much. She’s adopted me for the past two weeks without a word of a complaint and I wanted to thank her. She’s also been talking about this raspberry tart since her arrival, and I decided I’d buy that for her – I was already halfway to St. Tropez. So off I went, on my pathetically dirty and broken scooter.

Only the “Tarte Tropezian Patisserie” sells this particular tart and I searched the city for its tiny shop. The water looked so beautiful I was tempted to jump in right at the port with all the oil and boats and mutilated fish. But I didn’t. Instead I arrived at the “Tarte Tropezian” only to discover that they were all out of tarte aux framboises. Obviously disappointed, they sent me around the corner to their sister shop where, sure enough, there was one single raspberry tart in the window. I ordered it and a Tarte Tropezian, gave the nice lady some cash, and she handed me a little brown paper bag.

Let me tell you, it’s not easy trying to transport something as fragile as pastries up a broken road on a scooter. I struggled with it, but managed my way back to the house only to discover – when assessing the damage of the goods – that they had given me some Tarte Tropezian and a chocolate cake. Figures. I guess the crique can wait.

Back down the mountain I went. Back to St. Tropez, back towards the patisserie praying that the one raspberry tart was still awaiting me in the window. Nothing’s easy. Balancing the chocolate cake in my lap, I almost died when the one remaining mirror on my scooter flew off and crashed on the pavement behind me. Shit. I need that. I desperately searched for a place to pull the scooter over, found one, placed the cake carefully on the ground with one hand while balancing the scooter with the other, struggled to make the bike stand up on its own, and finally ran back to the scene of the accident. Sure enough I was too late – somebody had already run over my mirror, flattening its pitiful arm and shattering the glass.

That’s when it hit me. That’s when I felt like shit. I know none of the above are significant dilemmas at all, but when you have no one just to give you a hug, the little things are what hurt the most. I could feel the lump in my throat grow, the tears reach my eyes.

Come on now. I’m not that pathetic. Shit happens. I’ve survived the summer here just fine and I’m not going to let one bad day ruin anything. So I swallowed my frustration and began to literally pick up the pieces. I put the broken mirror in my scooter, scooped up the cake, made my way to the patisserie. In the best French I’ve spoken all week, I explained myself and demanded the right dessert and, without a problem, they gave it to me. Once safely home, I grabbed some wrenches from a cobweb filled corner of the house and put my scooter on its side with two broken mirrors and a kickstand lying on the ground next to me. I sat on the rough gravel of the driveway and got my hands dirty. Black grease covered my arms, smeared across my face, stained my clothes. I was fixing it, slowly, but all by myself. I was so proud of myself. I just needed a hammer, and maybe someone a little stronger than me to finish the job. So Ludo came and helped me, and before I knew it I had a sissy-stand again for the girly-girl I am. Kind of.

The mirrors are another story. But the bottom line is I survived. And so did the scooter.

Yea!