Rediger = to write, as in to compose

THAT, my friends, right out the window here, right where the artificial lights stop and the vastness of night begins, THAT is the Indian Ocean.
This is what we American students at the Universite de la Reunion tell ourselves when we're feeling a little overwhelmed or a little underprivileged or a little downright confused. That's the Indian Ocean; we live here.

The problem, though, is that after a week and a half it really has sunk in that I'm here to stay. Don't get me wrong - I'm having a blast. In fact, here's a little summary of yesterday, easily the most adventuresome day yet....

So as a group of five Americans (four of which arrived 9 days prior, one 5 months prior) we set out at 10 am to take a bus downtown to the Car Jaune station (the buses that take you between cities.) There we immediately get on a bus going westward to St. Paul literally as the bus is pulling out. A pleasant enough 30-40 minute ride put us in this anticlimactic coastal town that had little more to boast than a great view of the mountains and a giant car dealership that was blasting "Get Low" to attract attention from anyone within a three-mile radius. A fifty-minute wait and a euro fifty got us onto a smaller bus that kind of resembled a Fisk Limosine to take us up into the hills to La Petite France. We arrived around 1pm, virtually being kicked off the bus at the end of the line, which was luckily about 300 yards from the restaurant we were headed to.

We settled in to a perfect two-hour meal of vanilla chicken roti, fish in a creme fraise, and shop suey, plus noodles, rice, vanilla coffee, and a tiny taste of a WAY too sweet rhum arrangee (a homemade rum). The food was fantastic and absolutely authentic creole. After lunch, we walked up the windy road a bit to a little essential oil distellery and learned out the distilling process works, bought some oil as a souvenir (and to use as perfume, mmmmm geranium,) and chatted with the jovial man running the distillery.
By now it was around 4:00 and we expected our descending bus in a half hour. We casually looked for a shady spot to wait along the road, since up in the hills there are no official bus stops. A 50 minute wait put us in a worrysome state, and long story short it was another hour and a half before we boarded the bus, sunburned, relieved, and able to say we'd stopped traffic and feared the worst. We got home safe, though later than we'd hoped, feeling sheepishly like tourists who can't read bus schedules correctly.

So anyway... that was yesterday. Today was another trip to the market and a lot of down time. I realized that I'm starting to really feel settled in here, especially since tomorrow marks the beginning of something resembling a routine for me - classes, cafeteria food, etc. Now the more pressing issue has become one of my emotional state. I won't bore you with a long excursus, but I will say this:

Last semester I learned that the spirit of God is water. Now I find myself living on an island. As big as the ocean is, I didn't think about it being salty. This may be a long and lonely semester, but I know that I'm getting exactly what I signed up for: a lesson in dependence.

Repoussant (ou en anglais, Repulsive.)

I can honestly say that the most repulsive experience thus far in my Reunionese adventure was NOT the traffic-cone chicken murder (facinating, really.) The sight that nearly made me gag was here, in my beautiful little haven of a room, not more than a half hour ago.
You see, with all the perks that come with this incredible set-up, there are a few draw-backs. These include surprising details like finding out that public restrooms are co-ed, realizing that they don't make anything resembling skim milk (crazy half-cream junk), and waking up to the sound of jackhammers every glorious morning. Perhaps the most inconvenient, though, is the lack of affordable washing and drying of clothes.

The drying isn't a major deal... Just pop up some clothes line, clip 'em into security, and let the tropical breeze take care of the rest.
The washing though... Yes, there are washers in my building, but each load requires a token that costs 2.60 euro (which is somewhere around 4 American dollars.) Add the purchasing of detergent, the risk of having clothes stolen from the community washers, and the spiked stress level from having to actually go into the basement by myself, and count me out. No, no, I decided to copy my new friend Heather and purchase a plastic wash basin (for the price of 4.5 tokens.) You got it; I've resigned myself to hand-washing my clothes for the next several months.

If you've never done it before, here's what I've learned:
Yes, it is difficult, but totally doable, especially if you have a detachable shower head like me!
Yes, your hands get very soft.
Yes, this does have to do with the first sentence of my post. AKA... dumping the dirty soapy water out made me want to gag. In a way, though, I was glad to know that all my hard work had a positive effect. If all that brown came out of my clothes, there's that much less IN them!
It's ultimately a very worthwhile experience, and I admit I feel accomplished. More than anything, I think having done tonight's medium-sized load will encourage me to stay on top of laundry by doing smaller loads and discourage me from buying anything new for fear I'd have to wash it!

Alright, well the evening is winding down, so I believe I'll be spending the next few hours reading HP and the Prisoner of Azkaban in French. (does anyone else accidentally spell it Prizoner every time?!)

Arrival.

Soooooo much to say. For my own sanity, I'll save some of the details and give you the reader's digest version of the past few days:
3 airplanes, 5 airports, 10 hours time difference, 1.5 days of travel = 2.5 days, 2 freaky nights with jetlag.
6 floors, 1 balcony overlooking the sea, 0 roommates, 1 ridiculous toilet.
4 fellow americans, 85 degrees F, 1.5 weeks without school.
4 trips to Jumbo (= Walmart), 4 different offices to fill out paperwork.
1 hour bus ride, 2 souvenir shells, 3 feet deep in the salty waters of the Indian Ocean.

I witnessed a chicken being killed in a traffic cone.

Current diet (til the school cafes open): bread,yogurt,fruit, milk, juice.
I do my dishes in the shower and bought a tub for laundry.
I sleep on top of the sheets with my window/door wide open.
I sweat instantly if I move between the hours of 11 am and 5 pm.

Alright, I know there's a LOT more I could say, but these are my first few hours with real internet access, so I'm going to use it to chat and skype. Loves you all.

My address, as requested: (though mail is slow and expensive from the US)
Mlle Pearson Laura Kay
CROUS Cite Internationale Chambre 601
20 rue Hippolyte Foucque
97490 Sainte Clotilde
Ile de la Reunion, France

Travels

A brief summary of what I've learned these first 24 hours of traveling...

1. Just because I slept the whole flight to Paris last time doesn't mean it's easily done. (Should have taken Mom up on that Tylenol PM.)

2. Wearing the Invisible Children Ak-47 shirt to an airport security check = not necessarily the best idea.

3. The Air France Shuttle really is all it's cracked up to be.

4. People do understand me when I speak French.

5. Shutter Island, or at least the first 170 pages of it, is a very quick read.

6. Eating only half-meals and/or skipping on-board offers of food is a good idea when you do nothing but sit all day, as long as you keep hydrated.

love love love love love love love love.

Catharsis

I have no idea how to write what I'm feeling. I am spilling over with emotion, which manifests itself as a quite uncomfortable form of butterflies in the... duodenum? I need to finish packing, then sleep for a few hours, then... Holy Heavens it's time. The very thing I've been anticipating for years now.... All I can say is, goodness gracious, Char' Brow'.

This weekend I used the word "goodbye" with a different meaning than I've ever used before.
Something beautiful I saw: my dear friend's face carrying all the expression I was feeling: sadness, expectation, love. Thank you for that look.

Alright, well. The only real decision left to be made is how many books it's worth fitting into my backpack.
Next time I talk to you, I'll be living in Europe...(well, kind of.) Love you.

Leaving.

So ready.

Novels the begin with the letter P.

Oh Walter, you are so enchanting with your lack of charm.

Today I've finished reading W. Somerset Maugham's "The Painted Veil," upon which was based the 2006 film of the same name, which features a devastatingly excellent performance by one Mr. Edward Norton. The book proved very worthwhile, though I proudly admit I had difficulty relating to our scoundrel of a heroine, Kitty. After seeing the movie, I simply could not comprehend her inability to love the shy, sweet, intelligent, and intentional man that is Walter Fane. If not Mr. Darcy, I'd gladly find myself such a man. Anyhow, I was distracted from the story by Maugham's frequent use of the adjective "singular," meaning "extraordinary, remarkable, exceptional, or unusual."

If I may be allowed to so dramatize my own experiences, I would say that the feeling I have comfortably slipped into these past few weeks is just that: a quiet singularity. I find myself at some sort of anxious peace, like a young girl dressed and ready for her first date with fifteen minutes to spare. I am watching the sun rise, with a very-real sense that the day ahead is not to be wasted, but the beauty of the moment demands a pause.

My father is gallantly stationed at his new home and getting along rather nicely.

I depart two weeks from tomorrow, and have a relatively short list of to-do's between now and then, a good portion of which involves spending time with people I love to love. I know that the semester before me shall be one of growth and dependence and discovery, all of which I find myself in desperate need, but with that acceptance comes the vagueness I imagine to belong to our same young girl, still sitting patiently enough waiting for her date to arrive, thinking of her future husband, their life together, and the intimate-but-distant feeling of who she will be in those future days. It is vague but it is strong, like a wave.

Speaking of waves, if you've never read Jack's Perelandra, do that very soon. Clive my boy gives quite the image of how femininity and masculinity were designed to work together. Incredible.

That's enough for now, I suppose. I promise to blog more frequently and with more pictures when I have arrived at Reunion Island. For now, you are excused from the table and are not expected to make a meal of my words, but may go on about your lovely little life and ruin your appetite with ice cream sandwiches.