I've finally gotten over the initial hesitancy of painting that can only come from being away from it for almost ten years. Most of the stuff I've been doing has just been experimentation with style, color, and technique. It's the stuff the old art teachers didn't really encourage. Now that I'm all grown up (well, sort of) and I don't have someone breathing down my neck, I can do whatever the heck I want with paint. It's like that first morning of summer vacation with no obligations on the horizon- total joy inducing freedom. Over the past week, though, I went back to my roots and tackled some realism again. I've matured enough to not stick to the photos religiously anymore, but this had to come out looking like the picture for the most part. I was nervous. What if I didn't "have it" anymore and the painting came out looking juvenile? That would probably really mess with my head. Well, it came out looking pretty decent, actually. It wasn't my greatest work (I actually have no idea what that would be, probably because nothing is really that great), but I was quite pleased. That's good, because my head has been messed with a lot lately.
My husband and I had a status report meeting/therapy session over the weekend. We're fast approaching the five month mark of living in Luxembourg and that got us talking about how it's going- what we've learned, what we'd like to improve on, what our goals are, etc. We also had a dinner planned for last night with a some new American expats who will be moving here in a few months. They would have a bunch of questions and it'd be nice if someone had a few answers and could give them a heads up, so to speak. Such as, "Hey, the meat counter at the super market might freak you out the first time you see it."
"Why?"
"Whole skinned rabbits. The End."
So we reminisced and laughed and laid everything out. We discussed how neither of us really thinks about how we're living in Europe anymore. It just seems pretty normal. Occasionally something will jump out to remind us, like walking through town on a sunny afternoon while everyone is sitting outside at cafes and the church bells are ringing or the sliced headcheese at the meat counter (my gastronomic experimentation stops short at organs, folks, sorry). For the most part though, it just seems, well, like home. Even the fact that we never hear our language being spoken doesn't register anymore. It is more disconcerting when we do hear English.
Neither of us has really felt homesick either. That was something we were warned about time and again. Everyone said the first few months you're going to feel really homesick. Sure, there are people we miss seeing, but there hasn't been that stabbing sadness for home that I remember having years ago when I was working in Greece or Egypt... I guess that too means we are home.
One of our main points of discussion, though, was the weird stuff we're having trouble with. The stuff that messes with our heads, even if we didn't realize it. Talking about it got it all out there so we'd know what our little private struggles are and we could help each other out. It felt good to just get it off our chests. None of it was really anything enormous, like not feeling safe in the house or something. For me, the head games come down to two bizarre challenges to my "sense of self", for lack of a better term. One part that is being challenged is the anthropologist in me; the other is the cyclist. Those two things are probably what I identify myself as the most. I have a degree in anthropology and worked in the field and related fields until recently and I rode my bike pretty religiously. I felt confident in those things.
With all that cultural knowledge under my belt, I stepped off that plane feeling pretty good about living here. I mean, I've been to some pretty rough little corners of the world and came out unscathed. What could little cushy Luxembourg throw at me that wouldn't just roll off my back? No, the trauma of skinless Thumper lasted about 30 seconds while I quickly composed myself in the baking aisle. Oddly enough, the thing that I can't seem to get over is the personal space issue. It's a classic example you talk about in classes, read about in books, and hear from your profs in Anthro. And, I've been there many, many times in my travels. Those of us from the States give each other several feet of distance when we're talking. If you need something in the grocery store and someone is in the way, you either wait for them to get what they need and move or you say "excuse me" and do your very best not to jostle them when you reach for your desired item. If you are washing your hands in a public restroom you leave a sink in between and wait for a towel dispenser/hand dryer to be free before using it. And of course, all the guys out there know the unstated urinal rule. When you pass someone on the sidewalk, you leave at least several feet in between and if it's tight you let the other person go ahead so you don't run into them. If you do happen to make contact you apologize. We always, always, always walk on the right (you knew that, didn't you?). We never, ever stare.
Here it's totally different. Conversations are personal, close interactions. When I'm standing in, say, the cereal aisle quickly translating a box's ingredients someone will, inevitably, want something I'm standing by and they'll just move right in next to me, basically push me out of the way, take what they need, all without a word. They often come right up nice and close in the bathroom (so I've heard from the husband) or at a restaurant even when there are plenty of unoccupied spaces further away. Not only do they walk on the right, they walk on the left and in the middle and they're not going to slide over a foot as you pass by for anything. They will hold their line with a vengeance. They will pass by so close, many times even brushing you, in the middle of an empty parking lot where there is plenty of room to go around you. No word (which causes me to constantly check my pockets). And staring, well, it must be a national sport or something. It's a long, really disconcerting stare in which you expect some sort of smile or greeting to follow, but no. It's just a cold, blank stare. FYI, greeting people on the street, especially women, is not acceptable. They'll think you're nuts. Our natural reaction when someone is making eye contact is to say "hello" or "good morning." It took me weeks to stop doing that. And this smug little anthropologist is having a struggle with all these little things and she's not sure why. The Luxembourgish aren't the only ones on the planet with a different definition of personal space and social etiquette. They're aren't the first people I've interacted with that like it cozy or stare. For some reason though, it gets to me. The fact that it still gets to me after almost five months, well, gets to me too. I mean, I'm a professional cultural behavior analyzer/tolerator person, for crying out loud. Get over this already! They aren't out to get you, they're just going about their business. It's like I'm afraid of them or something. I can explain it to myself in a mental running lecture, but still when I go to grocery store this morning and someone gets all up in my grill in front of the Nutella, my gut reaction is still going to be frustration with a touch of bottled up anger. I know it's to be expected and we're all human, but that still makes me feel like a bad anthropologist/person.
Now for the cycling thing. I rode my bicycle in Akron, not exactly the friendliest city for cyclists and certainly not one of the safest cities in general. I rode in "The Hood" (as fast as I possibly could during the day, mind you); the one with the gang feuds, car jackings, and errr... illegal night time activities. I rode in Downtown, with the wacky delivery trucks, clueless drivers, and "spacey" pedestrians and bench residents. I rode out West Market street with it's four lanes of soccer mom SUV insanity. I've been screamed at, buzzed countless times (even by one of Akron's finest), and been called all sorts of creative names. I took my fair share of tumbles, once to much laughter of college students. Yeah, it wasn't all pleasant and sometimes a little scary, but I kept riding. Nothing bothered me so much I dropped the whole bike commuting thing all together. Hmmm....that may indicate some sort of mental problem.........
OK, Please no comments on that.
But, after that really nasty wreck in January in Diekirch, I've been off my game. Yes, it was by far the worst wreck I've ever experienced. I still have a bruise on my leg, by the way. But, I've injured myself many times not just with cycling, but when I was a competitive show jumper and during my brief career in soccer. You just get back up. Get back on the horse. Shake it off. Move on.
Something about this one, however, has caused me to pause before I saddle up. I find myself planning routes that stick to the paths as much as possible. Many times, I'll even opt for the trainer even if the weather is decent. When I think about it, it's not that I'm afraid of wrecking again. It's the what ifs that hold me back. They drive really fast and the roads are twisty and narrow, I'm not experienced with it yet, and the first time I rode here I barely escaped serious injury. What happens if I screw up again or a driver hits me? Granted, I haven't had any trouble with aggressive drivers, so that fear isn't even based in an experience. What if something happens to my bike that I can't repair roadside? Who would rescue me? What if I get lost? Everyone else out there riding is super fit and all kitted up, and I'm, uh, not. I'm already clearly uncomfortable with the staring thing, now I'm going to draw even more attention to myself? Better just to ride inside until I get in the shape I'll confidently slapping a kit onto. Honestly, yes, I've thought that. Why am I using these excuses to click that wheel into my CyclOps instead of taking advantage of the beautiful roads and pathways of Luxembourg that are right outside my door? Most of those things could have been issues in Akron too, but they didn't stop me. What is my deal?
Fear. I'm afraid. I'm letting that wreck and it's souvenir of a bruise be a problem. Of course, I have to be careful here since I only know about a dozen people and they're not at my beck and call if something goes wrong. But, there's a difference between being responsible and careful and just being a scared little wuss who's afraid to ride her bike. I blogged about cycling, and now I'm afraid to ride my bike! Frequently. I obviously and thankfully didn't quit riding altogether, but I let the quality slip. People say sometimes it takes some more time to recover and my confidence is already lower than usual by being in another country where we're often not clear about what's going on anyway. But, this doesn't get it.
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| Remember this one? Apparently, that company went bankrupt a few years back. Great. |
So, what to do? I'm not sure. I don't think there are any quick solutions for getting over these humps. I can tell you that just talking about it with my husband made me feel a whole lot better. It was kinda nice to hear from him that although his "stuff" is different, he plays some head games with himself too. Both of us, in the end have some fear issues. Now, I feel more confident by knowing specifically what they are. I haven't figured out how to strengthen all of them yet, but at least I know what they are. I think the cultural stuff will improve with time. I'll just get used to people running into me constantly. The only thing that will get me over my cycling issues is by riding my bike. Just get back on the horse.
Now, don't worry nothing is so debilitating that we are quivering masses of goo on the floor who can't function. All in all, we are having a splendid time here. These are just some things that have turned up since the move that are personal struggles. Everyone is different. Other expats have completely different things that hang them up like homesickness and language barriers. It's just part of the journey.
But, the other day when I stood back from that painting with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, I suddenly felt relief. I hadn't lost it. Even if I feel a little less like an anthropologist and cyclist lately, it's OK. I hadn't picked up a paint brush with the intent to recreate an image in ten years and it ended happily. I'm still the same person. There's nothing to be worried about. I'm still an anthropologist. I'm still a cyclist. Sometimes there are feelings of confusion, really bad rides, and a painting you throw in the trash.
But, no matter how long the dry spells last, we still have "it." It's going to be OK. We're cool.
OK, off to kick some fear in the butt. I'm heading to the grocery store for a little cuddle time with the townsfolk and then I'm taking the Varsity for its first ride in Luxembourg. Yeah, honestly, I've been afraid of that bike most of all with its persnickety components and penchant for blow outs.
Glad I got that off my chest too.
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