They Had to Travel Long Distances...

Do you believe in miracles? Not necessarily the walk-on-water or miraculous-physical-healing variety (although I definitely believe in those too), but do you believe in the small things that come together just a little too perfectly? If you don't, then this next installment of my story might seem like nothing more than an interesting string of curiously fortunate coincidences. To me, however, all I see is a merciful, omnipotent hand rapidly assembling the confused jigsaw of my life, and it is nothing short of miraculous.

I love temples. In the LDS Church, we have quite a few of them across the globe, and in my home state of Utah, there are upwards of fifteen. Before setting off on my crazy France adventures, I was in the habit of going to the temple at least once a week, both because I love the peace I feel there and because they are so accessible. But here in Europe, they aren't as easy to come by. The nearest one to Lyon is just outside of Bern, Switzerland--four hours away. The distance isn't too terrible, but going there requires advance planning--finding transportation, figuring out a place to stay, getting a travel group together, etc. Since one of my job hazards includes not always knowing when I'll have enough of my own time to travel, putting together temple trips has been a challenge, and by March of this year, I had only gone once to visit the temple. Fortunately, I finally had a weekend where I knew for sure that I would not be traveling with the Roneys, so I immediately started organizing. In no time, some friends and I were preparing for a temple day on
April 13.

Not long after Roby and I started writing to each other and in the midst of all my secret hopes and thoughts and dreams of spending time together in person, he asked me one day if I ever had the chance to go to the Swiss temple. Of course I told him about our anticipated trip in April and how I was excited to finally be going again. His next message, though, came as quite a surprise. It turned out that he had been planning to go to the temple the same week as me.

Now, you might easily say that he decided to go when he heard I was going to be there. We had both been hinting at each other that we would love to meet up, and we hadn't been writing for more than two weeks before he invited me to come to Italy. But you have to know that Lecce, Italy is nearly 13 hours away from Bern. It was even more difficult and rare for Roby to get the chance to make that journey than it was for me. Furthermore, he had been invited the day before asking me by some friends who were making the trek. This was not a sneaky plot just to see me. The first puzzle piece had simply been put in place.

Of course, things always have to be a little complicated. It turned out that I wouldn't be at the temple until Saturday whereas Roby's friends were leaving early Saturday morning. My initial excitement crashed down into disappointment when I realized we might not be able to see each other. But Roby just kept saying "we will see." The day before Roby left, he told me that somehow, there wasn't a place for him to stay near the temple on Friday night, and he was trying to figure out what to do. A crazy idea came to my mind. My friends and I would stay Friday night in Geneva--two hours away from the temple. What if I invited him to stay? Of course, it would mean taking a train down to Geneva and taking one back to Bern as our car was already full. It didn't seem logical at all. But the idea persisted in my mind, and I finally asked him.

It turns out he had been praying that I would invite him to Geneva.

Although I thought my idea was crazy and improbable, he also said he'd been hoping I would then take the train back with him to the temple. Puzzle piece number two. Furthermore, he had found someone who could give him a ride to Geneva that day--piece number three. And once again, if you'd still like me to be counting pieces, it turned out he would be able to stay all day on Saturday as there was yet another person who could give him a ride back to Italy even though his friends were leaving much earlier. It all seemed so perfect.

Friday, April 12--finally, the day arrived! I was so anxious and excited and nervous that I could hardly teach at all. Roby and I had just Skyped for the first time a few days before, and I had realized that he was even cuter than I thought from his pictures or my fuzzy MTC memories. But what if he didn't like me in person? What if things felt awkward? What if there wasn't any chemistry? What if we didn't fit well together after all? He had known me as his teacher--what if I was just imagining that he was really interested? What if I had to deal with a horrible disappointment yet again? I imagined dozens of scenarios for our first meeting--everything from a cold greeting and a miserable train ride to swelling orchestral music and a love-at-first-sight kiss. Soon enough, we were on the road and I was headed closer to my uncertain fate.

And, of course, things got complicated again. I had arranged for a friend to meet him and take him to where he would be staying, but the intention was always for me to meet up with him that night as well. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I spent the whole day anticipating our first meeting that night, but coordinating our locations became too complicated, and we ended up staying 20 minutes away from each other. I was keenly disappointed. It seemed too ridiculous--so close and yet impossibly far away. Fortunately, we still planned to meet early the next morning at the Geneva train station.

I think I slept about two hours that night.

...A Young Man and Young Woman Fell in Love.

Back in the day...here we are on opposite sides of the group!

I don't remember what I thought after commenting on Roberto's new profile pic, but I do remember being excited when he wrote back two days later, clearly wanting to hear back from me. We started with the basics: work, school, an exchange of memories from the MTC. He asked for help with his English. I told him that he already wrote excellently well. I explained what I was doing in France. He mentioned that he went by Roby and that his hometown and current residence of Lecce, Italy wasn't too far away from Lyon...  They were small things that somehow made for rapid connections. Within just a couple days, our messages grew much longer and even became significantly more personal. I started checking my Facebook several times during the day to see if he'd responded yet and always felt unusually happy when I saw one of his messages. We fell into a pattern before a week had passed, and I started learning what times he was most likely to write back. But then one day, I didn't get a message.

It was getting late in the evening--almost time to go to bed--and I started feeling anxious. What had happened? Why hadn't he written back? Had I done something wrong? I must have reread my last message about ten times, carefully combing through it to make sure I hadn't said something stupid or something that could be misinterpreted culturally, linguistically, or otherwise. Finally, I went to bed feeling disappointed and yet telling myself not to be ridiculous. Obviously, people have lives and things they have to do. It's not like I was a priority for him, right? We weren't dating or anything--I had no claim on his time. But I'd been through similar situations before and they always ended up badly: waiting up for a text that never comes; hoping for an email response that is never written. This was probably just another one of those got-my-hopes-up-way-too-soon moments that I'd spend the next week or two coming down from. Residual bitterness from past experiences? Maybe. Fears created by old wounds? Absolutely.

This is where the next miracle happened. I woke up the following day, and, even though my hardened-by-experience side tried to stop my little-kid-at-Christmas side, I checked my Facebook first thing.

And he had written back.

Dear friends, not only had he written back, but he even apologized for not having written sooner. This seems like a very simple thing--and really, it is a simple thing that most people wouldn't think much of. But to me, it was a sign. In all my ten years of marriageable-age dating, I had never had a guy apologize to me for responding just a little later than normal--especially not without any prompting from me. Honestly, from that moment on, I was sold. Here was a man who obviously cared about my feelings, even if they are a little neurotic at times.

It was also at this point that I realized he had tried to contact me two years earlier, when I was elbows-deep in a master's program and struggling with my first time teaching a college French class. He had wanted to get to know me back then and had tried to spark a conversation on Facebook, but it never went anywhere. Frankly, I completely blew him off. I still don't remember why or what I was thinking. Ultimately, I guess it just wasn't the right time. In fact, back then I specifically did not want an intercultural relationship, because I felt like they were too complicated and would make a marriage too hard to navigate. I look back on that attitude with a smile now...but, I digress!

My favorite walk

At this point, I suddenly became very quiet about my personal life. It was unusual. I generally told at least my mom and a couple of good friends about every guy I was interested in. But this felt so...BIG...that I took a little while to open up about what was happening. And what exactly was happening? Well, I was discovering remarkable similarities between myself and Roby. Our minds had similar ways of thinking. Our beliefs were entirely compatible. Our life goals were aligned. What we were looking for existed fully in the other person. I was falling in love. And I could sense that he felt the same way. We hadn't spent a moment together in over five years, and yet I felt like I knew him very well. I began taking long walks in the crisp, spring air and spent a lot of time just thinking. I will always associate that season with those feelings--fresh blossoms mixed with new emotions and ideas. I didn't even know yet that the next series of even bigger miracles was just around the corner.

Once Upon a Time...

Remember how I said last time that big things have been happening in my life these past few months? Well, to sum up the story, I've been considering changing my blog name to be "Poppins Goes to France and Falls in Love With an Italian..." BUT, I think that would be a little less catchy. However, this does mean that I have some explaining to do! I've been turning this story over in my mind for months, trying to figure out the best way to share it on here--should I tell it like a fairytale? Should I make it funny? Should I just give an account of everything that happened? In the end, I've decided to tell it to you the way I see it--as a story of faith, healing, and learning to deeply trust God's promises after recognizing that my trust was wearing thin. And of course, there will be JOY! (And love and maybe some mushy stuff...) I guess that means that for the first time on this blog, things are about to get very personal around here... :)

When I came to France last September, I was very unsure of what I was getting myself into. Most people were excited for me and I was pretty excited for myself. But there were a few people who said to me that deciding to live in France for three years would probably mean that I was limiting my marriage possibilities--I know that might seem like a strange thing to say because there surely isn't an unusual imbalance of men to women in France, but to a 28 year old Mormon girl like myself, those kindly expressed concerns nagged at my mind. Couple that with all-too-many dear souls who for several years have asked me the tremendously personal question, "why aren't you married," and I guess you could say the pressures were running a bit high when I embarked on this adventure.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm a deep thinker. But not only do I think a lot, I also thrive on talking through my thoughts to a good human sounding board, especially a practical one who can tell me to be realistic. Unfortunately, my first few months in France were seriously lacking in sounding boards, and frankly, I was pretty lonely. Don't get me wrong--I was surrounded by very good people and I was unbelievably well taken care of by the Roney family. But I didn't feel like I had any friends that I could really talk to. As a result, those nagging concerns started turning into feelings of desperation and even despair. Part of me is embarrassed to admit that I really thought my chance at getting married was past--and I was pretty upset about it. Retrospectively, I'm telling myself that I was being dramatic. People get married in their much older age all the time--28 is not the cut-off for marital bliss! I guess it all goes back to that nun thing I joked about once...

Ooo--who is that handsome fellow?!

Anyway, I started the new year with a sense of quiet desperation and a bit of resignation. I wasn't going on dates at all, and I wasn't really seeing any dateable guys around. But, as I've said before, when life starts looking grim, that's when the "magic" (or I would say miracles) happen. One day, I was killing some time (a terrible expression, isn't it?) on Facebook and I saw a new profile picture of someone I hadn't seen in a few years--five and a half, to be exact. Back in those days, I was a teacher at the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC), and I had many missionaries file through my classroom. And, of course, being a good teacher (hee hee), I am now friends with many of them on Facebook and like to follow up on their lives. I hadn't heard much from this particular former missionary (he wasn't and still isn't a big Facebook-er), so seeing his face lead me to wonder how he was doing and what he was up to (and I won't lie: I thought he was pretty cute...). So, I commented on his picture--I figured it was my teacherly responsibility, right? HA...ahem. Well, it turned out that an innocent Facebook comment has now changed my life forever.

Do I have your attention yet? Oh, good! Well...I'm afraid the rest will have to wait until next time. And don't worry, the preamble is over and there are still many awesome things to come!

Among the Dead

I know what you're thinking, but no--the reason for the temporary demise of my blog is not because I have been among the dead. Actually, some very exciting things have happened in the past few months which, frankly, I ought to have been writing about. BUT...when life gets exciting, isn't it better to just live it and then write about it later? At least, that's what I keep telling myself... Anyway, the recap on exciting events will wait for next time, because today, I just feel like giving you all an interesting snippet of French culture. And what better way to revive a blog, after all, than by talking about a cemetery! :)

It may seem strange to most people, but I have a confession--I have long had a mild fascination for cemeteries. There was a time when this fascination was connected with ghost stories and the supernatural, but for a much longer time, it's been more a question of interesting history. It all started when I was a little girl and my parents would bring flowers to their grandparents' graves on Memorial Day. My siblings and I would spend that time running around looking for the oldest headstones in the cemetery--and being from Utah, they didn't usually date much farther back than 1850.

This cemetery in Nice is much better-kept than the one I encountered
as a missionary in Metz--no cracked tombstones here!

When I first came to France as a missionary several years ago, I expected cemeteries to be absolutely fantastic--packed with ancient graves and looking just as green, tree-lined, and generally lovely as the average American cemetery. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered for the first time why some people consider cemeteries to be creepy: in addition to the gravel walkways (no grass in sight) and the imposing monuments, some of the cement coverings on the tombs were so cracked and broken that I honestly wondered if I'd see bodies poking out of some of them. I was also very disappointed to learn that in France, a burial plot is sold to a family for a specified period of time--usually not more than 100 years--after which time the family has the option to renew their contract. However, if they choose not to renew, then the body is exhumed, the bones are either put in an ossuary or cremated, and the plot is sold to someone else. Alas...the rules that accompany overcrowding... And thus died my dreams of seeing graves from the 14th Century. In fact, it's rare to see graves dating back past, well, around 1850... HA! The irony!

Fortunately, I finally came across a rather lovely cemetery yesterday during a stroll through Nice, and I'm happy to report that my faith in French cemeteries has been partially renewed! No, there still wasn't any grass or trees or park benches, BUT--I discovered that some monuments can be really beautiful instead of frightening and certain cemeteries are actually well-kept and free of broken tombs. Not to mention the fact that this hilltop burial ground afforded a spectacular view of the sea. Perhaps I'll have to take up my old habit of evening strolls among the dead...

Anyway, that's all for today, friends. But stay tuned for next time in which I'll tell you all the details of this century's greatest love story!! Well, at least most of the details... :)

Bits of Bordeaux

Have you ever felt like a city was speaking to you? I mean, not in the literal "hello there, how are you doing" sort of way but in a "you belong here" sort of way? I still know remarkably little about Bordeaux, even though this was my third time visiting it--but something clicked for me this time. And for those of you who saw my crazy hotel pictures all over Facebook, no--it wasn't because I stayed in my very own "princess tower." Although, while we're on that subject, check out the accommodations!

Yes, that is a real rose on the edge of my
marble bathtub...

I even matched that day! It was just too perfect...

But anyway, back to the topic at hand... I've always been a fan of classical music; I took piano lessons for years and even started my college career as a music minor. I love going to the symphony and the music that seriously pumps me up is...don't laugh...Beethoven's 5th Symphony (the 3rd and 4th movements). And so the thing that really hit me about Bordeaux is the feeling that the opera house--rather than the standard gothic cathedral--is the heart of the city. Its surrounding streets are all teeming with people seeming to emanate from the opera's plaza. Somehow, I think if cities had a pulse, Bordeaux's would be pumping to the tune of Mozart's 40th Symphony. And it was wonderful.

Place de la Comédie (in front of the opera)

But as if the classicism and nearly palpable musicality weren't enough, artsy types seem to be drawn to this gold-stoned city. The most common mode of transportation was bikes--I've never seen so many business men and women on two wheels in my life--and as I walked around the city on my own, I understood why; who would want to be trapped in a car when there is so much art to be seen?! Further, the city is just incredibly artsy-bike-rider friendly. To illustrate, here's a small sampling of the Bordeaux I instantly fell in love with.

Just a standard movie theater...!

And a standard city gate

Yeah, I think I could live in Bordeaux...

Why I Will Never Live on the Riviera

Is that a heavenly light shining on my hotel room?
Might as well have been--it felt just like home!

Last weekend, we spent a few days on the Riviera--that idyllic piece of Mediterranean loveliness that has attracted people from all over the world for centuries. I've become particularly fond of Nice--it's bursting with color and history and it's officially the location of my new favorite hotel room. Why then, you might ask, would I never want to live in this enchanting city?

Do you see what I mean by color?

Well, it all started innocently enough. After a morning of rain, the sun finally decided to show its face and tempt us outside for a walk by the sea. We spotted a rickety old staircase at the bottom of a cliff and decided to try our chances skirting around the rocks and rolling waves to see what we could see. The boys ran down the standard stairs first, and I gaily traipsed after them down to the pebble-strewn beach.

There was a 20-something couple off to one side of us, but I didn't pay them any more attention than you normally pay to the average stranger. When I glanced over towards them, I saw the girl getting ready to pull her shirt off. I naturally assumed she had on a bikini or something underneath--what else would come to an unprepared mind? Imagine my momentary confusion when I realized she suddenly wasn't wearing anything at all... I just stood there for a second feeling like a very stupid and very embarrassed American. When I snapped back into gear, I rushed the boys back up the stairs as quickly as possible, ensuring that they didn't turn around and become pillars of salt...

What are the odds?! It was probably only 55 degrees that day, and that crazy woman was the only one on the whole beach to sport her summer swimming attire...and it just had to be right where we were. Alas--even March isn't a safe month for a walk on the Riviera. Oh well--I'll stick with my own beliefs on modesty and go off to explore friendlier shores! :)

Explore Roman ruins in your Sunday best? Sure! As long as it's far away from the beach... :)

Food Blunders

Recently, we went to a French buffet restaurant--Flunch--with the missionaries. I'd never been to a buffet in France before, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Well, it was exactly what you might find at the nearest Chuck-a-Rama if it were given a distinctly French flair. For example, the drink section included a wine dispenser (as in a soda machine that dispenses wine), the dessert table had a selection of cheese plates, and the meat included some French specialties in addition to the familiar roast chicken and fries.

At any rate, after we all puttered around and gathered some food that looked moderately good, we found a table to sit and enjoy the spoils. Then, one of the elders sat down with a plate of this...

Regrettably, I didn't think to take a picture of his actual plate, but this version that I stole from Google images comes pretty close to what he had. For those of you who don't recognize it, it's known as andouillette--sounds fancy, right? Well...let's just say that even though it's served in some high-end restaurants, I wouldn't order it no matter who made it! (And to get it at a cheap buffet? I shudder at the thought...)

I think we all know what hot dogs and sausage are made out of, but I still find them delicious and appetizing, because they are sufficiently ground up so as to disguise any thought of them containing bits of offal. Besides, most of them don't really have offal, do they? Ahem...well, andouillette is not quite so discreet. It's a loosely-packed sausage that quite obviously contains chunks of...pig parts...and is clearly wrapped in an intestinal casing. Sounds yummy, right? Ha...yeah...I've never been gutsy enough (no pun intended) to try it for myself.

So when this bold elder sat down, I couldn't help but stare at him--in fact, my jaw probably dropped a bit.

"You got andouillette?!" I said.
"Weeelll," he responded, "I always like to try regional dishes and get a true French experience!"
"Me too, but I've never liked the idea of going that far. You know what it is, right?"
"Uh, yes."

I'm still not sure he did know. Because when he cut into the casing and all sorts of...indescribable bits of I-don't-know-what tumbled out, he looked a bit concerned. Not to be dissuaded, however, he plunged in and ate several bites while we all looked on in wonder. But as he was eating, I noticed something slightly odd; it looked like bristly animal hair was still attached to one of the pieces. I couldn't very well let him eat that, so...I pointed it out. Upon closer investigation, we discovered I was correct. And thus ended Elder Arnold's andouillette experience--however brief it proved to be. Lesson learned.