The beauty of our insignificance

A hundred and twenty drafts later--here is an update! Lot's of goodness has transpired since our last check in.
Let's start with the obvious plot line: Love on vacation!

Lisbon, for me, was wrapped in a thin gauze of nostalgia. It was new but only after I tore through the first layer.
You see, I spent a few impressionable years growing up in the largest Portugese enclave in Boston. During the summers there were Saint's festivals that would crowd up our streets and make the wind carry laughter and the smells of grease and sugar. There were flags on everyone's porch, rose bushes behind each chain link fence, cold glances from the Cape Verdean kids slogging by and a Virgin Mary in a half shell  in front of your duplex if there was enough space for a two by two yard.
So when Seb and I ascended the final staircase into Lisbon's afternoon sunlight, the first thing I saw was the flag of Portugal, and while my brain registered it's existence, it took me a second to remember what made seeing it now different.
All of a sudden I was somewhere where I had never imagined I'd be. Again. And as a fresh Atlantic breeze tickled the sweat under my backpack, my mind highlighted all those afternoons with Fabio and the gang teaching me their cuss words on one of our stoops--the twilight games of Relievo which would turn into catch and kiss and therefore granted me those awkward stretches of guarded innocence in which I pretended I suddenly had homework to do...
If only they could see me now. A smile for Fab and a well wish for all.
So new, but nostalgic too.
For many Americans who are well traveled in the lower 48, Lisbon is what San Francisco's brother who almost speaks Spanish would feel like to meet. Ps he prefers to think he speaks French. PPS he kinda does.

The guys are hot if you're into the jaunty faux-hawk thing.

The street art community is thriving.

And grilled meats, fishes and pastries are well met by coffees and beers.
It was every bit as relaxing as we hopped it would be. We spent six hours in Madrid and Seb finally understands why jamon is the Spanish meat of the gods.

De nada

As for the weekend in Nancy, we had an amazing time with Seb's cousin and his family. They've basically have the cutest littler girl ever.

She even tolerated my pretend French, which is only marginally better than her own.
It feels good to remember we have family in France and a part of me really envys the life they have built.
I won't lie though, after a great evening of  learning to play le jeu de Tarot and drinking into the AM the little one was awake at five. She was screaming and in my head I was screaming, "I don't want kids, I don't want kids, remember this Erin, YOU DO NOT WANT KIDS."
Obviously I still do(ish.) But it's like one knows on the surface that kids are not an undertaking to embark upon lightly, and yet nothing I have done or experienced has fully prepared me for the task. I'm sure we're not ready.

A stroke of good luck on the French learning curve front: I am back with my professor from July. He does a great job of incorporating both technology and kinetic learning into his already creative curriculum. I'm not the only teacher who thinks so either, an American University professor of 15 years who was finishing up her two weeks in Paris and consequently her time with our class stopped me on the street to rave about him. Not to mention his organization had him training four teachers back in July.As you can see, I find his intelligence formidable and his skill set impressive professionally. Obviously, I try to make him laugh--wit being what comes most comfortable to me, and I am pretty sure as a result I come across as arrogant.
I asked Sebastien if he thought I was an arrogant person and he told me I can be when I'm incensed but at the root of that, we agree, is my pride.
If you've lived like me, though, sometimes pride is all you've got.
To quote the popular huckster and modern man's philosopher Shawn Corey Carter, "If you grew up with holes in your zapatos, you'd celebrate the minute you was having dough."
I don't have dough, but I do have a degree--and anyway, many from my petit village de pêche get along without either.

If you're wondering about the title, all I can say in my defense is that I was feeling a bit whimsical this morning. Possibly because we watched in  the Land of Blood and Honey last night. It's been awhile since I thought about mass graves or the mid-90's ethnic cleansing in [the former] Yugoslavia. I know it's naive to say so, but sometimes I am amazed at how poorly we can treat one another in the name of perserving group identity.
Thankfully the harshness and hatefulness of life is not all there is. Take this song for example:
Hot female drummer ripping the ill neo-disco. Seriously, if you want to go back one day, I'll take you there.

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