God wants me to join a convent, but there just aren't enough electrical outlets.

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So I have arrived. Safely, maybe not so soundly, but I am here. Where is here you ask? Well, to be completely honest, I am not sure, yet. It is somewhere between medieval and modern, young and old, safe and completely terrifying. As with all new places, it is a dichotomy of opposites, and first impressions are always the most fascinating because they lack the comfort or contempt of the familiar.

I would have to say that my very first impressions were a bit skewed by exhaustion, frustration, and a healthy dose of fear that I had to barrel my way through. Anyone who has taken French could attest to the fact that if you are just beginning to learn the language, it is hard to understand someone when you are perked up on a strong café and discussing things that are naught to the world. But throw in a 9-hour flight (where the traitorous sandman was busy flirting with other passengers), include the phenomenally huge mistake of taking the metro from Charles De Gualle Airport to the Montparnasse train station- therefore struggling for two hours to lug two 70 pound suitcases and a 20 pound backpack on and off two metro lines, up and down numerous flights of stairs, (while turning pink and actually beginning to sweat, to sweat… in France… in September… in front of a bunch of French people- Mon Dieu!), and then riding a train for another two hours to immediately meet about 20 different people telling me all the things I will need to know about my living situation for the next year (understanding about 10 percent.) If you thought that sentence was long, try living the day! I honestly can’t say when I fell into my bed that night with rank, funky travel clothes and all, that I was all that optimistic.

A closet decorated by (if I had to guess) a colorblind monk- yes monk, a nun would have never tolerated such an atrocious spectacle.

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But on Wednesday, I woke up and made a decision. I knew when I lost my mind and decided to do this that I was going to feel out of place, I knew I was going to be overwhelmed, and I knew I was going to have to adjust quickly, so I sat there and reminded myself why I am here and to just try. What was the worst that could happen? That I could irritate an already irritable French person and they roll their eyes or speak badly about me when I leave (and considering I can’t understand most of the bad things yet anyway, it couldn't really hurt my feelings.) I actually relearned how to say “I am trying” in French just to make sure everyone knew that I wasn’t just here to annoy them with broken sentences and blank smiles. But everyone has been exceptionally friendly, tolerant, and helpful, which gives me hope for my fragile confidence and a blooming regard for the people in Nogent le Rotrou.

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So, after about 18 hours of sleep, I took another look around at my new home. By the luck of the draw or by fate’s small tugs, I am living at College Arsene Munier, a refurbished monastery from the 16th century. It is beautiful in an enduring way, like the swell of pride in an elderly person when they feel useful and needed, even though it is also a devastating reminder they are not what they used to be, and all too often return to feeling lost. I find it strange that this is actually the second monastery I have lived in, the first being Santa Chiara during my study abroad in Italy in 2000. As I thought about how life, or at least mine, tends to be cyclical, I realized maybe God wants me to join a convent…then we had a good laugh, and I told Him there just aren't enough electrical outlets.

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If I had to describe my room in one word, it would be… closet. I live in a closet. A closet decorated by (if I had to guess) a colorblind monk- yes monk, a nun would have never tolerated such an atrocious spectacle. Not-so-appealing-peeling pink and white floral country-French wallpaper adorns every wall, with drapes that sit conveniently on top of the radiator and announce their existence with luminescent yellow and orange vertical stripes that I believe was made from an old crossing guard vest, and a twin bed- that is in fact plastic in nature, has an eardrum piercing squeak, and is held together with what looks to be burlap. I also have the use of a small middle-school-cafeteria-looking table that acts as a desk, a 1970s plywood wardrobe, a sink with someone’s half melted Irish Spring stuck in the soap tray, a luke-warm shower down the hall, a toilet that echoes like you were flushing in a Riccola commercial, and drum roll please... one plug. Let me repeat… one plug. No TV. No kitchen. No fridge. No radio. No laundry. No overnight visitors.

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But before you get onto me for being a hypocrite and complaining about my room, and the lack of modern amenities (I am always rolling my eyes at spoiled Americans who travel or live abroad and complain about silly trivial things like the lack of plugs or clashing wallpaper and drapes) I have to say this room suits me. I wake up, I see the swimming pattern of the wallpaper, and I know where I am. It is eclectic, spontaneous, has a huge closet (strange odor not withstanding) and an even larger storage closet/room/dungeon… don’t ask because I don’t know. And the best part about it is, when I draw back my singed neon curtains and open my window, I have stone walls older than my country, trees that have memories, roses that bloom in October, and a castle up on the bluff wishing me good morning. Who needs more electricity when you live in history?