John Mellencamp ain't got nothing on me, cougar or no cougar

So things have been pretty steady, you know, smooth sailing for the past few days. My ankle is feeling much better, as is my shoulder and allergies. So I am almost totally mended. That is good. It was not easy to work that way in the kitchen, but the last few days have been slower, so that helped.
In celebration of my second month here (almost.... October 17th), I am taking myself to Champagne this weekend. Actually, the town in called Reims (pronounced 'rens' Go figure). I have booked myself into a little one star there and will tour the vineyards on Saturday, and then rent a bike and ride out to another little town called Epernay to see the big boys of Champagne on Sunday. Moet et Chandon, Veuve Cliquot, Dom Perignon, etc etc etc. That should be a lot of fun, and I think I need a break. I have been working everyday for the past nearly two weeks, and I am getting grumpier by the moment. I don't even want to talk to people anymore.
Yesterday, I sat in my room and watched The Patriot, a Mel Gibson movie (he's a ruggedly hansom Revolutionary war hero, out to save his son, Heath Ledger, whom you might remember as the ruggedly hansom homosexual cowboy, out to save his friend Jack in Brokeback Mountain... yes, yes, its all a rich tapestry). If you know me, you should know that I despise Mel Gibson. I count him as my arch rival and will one day stand over his broken body in victory. But until that day comes, I am happy to while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers and consulting with Mel Gibson in his strictly formulaic action meets romance meets period pieces.
I guess what I am trying to say is that if I have to spend much more time cooped up in this hotel, getting up, eating, working, sleeping, getting up... I am going to go crazy.
So I am getting the hell out of Dodge and heading out to the most drinkable streets in the world, to quote Winston Churchil (the ruggedly hansom leader of the British Isles. I think he also played Jack Twist in Brokeback, but don't quote me on that).
Oh, and to add insult to injury, yesterday, after work started, I had to run back up to my room to get something, and I walked in on Will and his girlfriend, um, how you say, in flagrante, as it were. I wont go into detail, but sufficed to say, the whole event resembled two woodland creatures going into severe muscle spasms or toxic shock syndrome whilest on top of each other. It was soooooooooo beautiful....
So I need to get away.
The weird thing is this: I grew up in a big town. Chicago is a world class city, and even though I didn't grow up in the Loop or anything, I still think that I reaped all the rewards of being in such a cultural center. But there are things that I missed out on, and I am starting to understand that now.
When I go out to visit my mother or father in law in Crystal Lake (goooooo C-Town!), my wife always tells me that the area has been so developed. She says, when she lived there, it was all rolling hills and fields and lakes and what not. I don't really believe her. If she means, rolling Spring Hill Malls and Marshal Fields, then I see what she means. But seriously folks, she can remember swimming in ponds and walking in actual forests (not forest preserves, where it was always rumored that Satanists met up for fondue parties and such). I have no memories like that. The closest thing I had to swimming in a pond was when the sewers were backed up, and our basement flooded.
Now, there is a hill that I go to sometimes if I want to be alone or want some quiet or whatever. I went there last night, and just put on my iPod and laid on my back and watched the stars. It was so peaceful and relaxing. I never had that before. I mean there was no one around at all. I think about what it must have been like to grow up seeing the stars or with fresh air or actual animals around you. I mean, in Chicago, we had squirrels, and once there was this raccoon that bit my cat, but that is as far as I got with animals as a kid. There's all kinds of four legged friends here. It is really creepy.
A lot of the cooks at work are from small towns in the area, and they are all really proud to tell you about their town. Drancy, Villepinte, Allnay Sous Bois, Saint Denis; they will go on and on about how their town is the best town. It just floors me; why would you be so happy to be so close to Paris, but not live there? I guess there is something to be said for a quiet life.
I defiantly don't have one, but I am learning that it ain't so bad. Still, I think I would never be totally comfortable with such quiet nights. I don't know if I would ever really grow out of noise, air, and light pollution; ahh, the childhood chums of an urban adolescence.
Work is going well now. I think I got to a point where I just gave up on relying on my coworkers. Some of them are really great, but to all of them, I am a stagiare. When you are becoming a cook in France, there are three levels you have to pass through: stagiare, apprentice, and comis. Stagiare is the closest word we have to intern, so that is what I am, but generally a stagiare is the guy who just watches, and runs errands, and throws the garbage and such. He's the guy you make do all the stuff nobody wants to do. Now, since I am a student, I get to do all kinds of cool stuff, but whenever something comes up that no one wants to do, I do it. I mean, that's cool. I am paying my dues. Everyone has to. Everyone in this kitchen was a stagiare at one time or another, so I guess they all got the same treatment.
Regardless, if I want to get something done, I really have to push for it to happen. If I am going to cook a steak, I have to have a tray to put it on before it goes into the oven. Well, if I pull out a tray and turn to get the steak, when I turn back someone has invariably taken the tray for their own use. If I am slicing lettuce for a salad, and someone needs it, they will just come along and take it out of my hands.
I would get really upset at first, because: A. That's totally rude, and B. I am thirty years old, and who the hell does this 19 year old think he is, taking my mesclun greens. I could be your father you know! That's what I want to say, even though it isn't even remotely true.
I had a chat with one of the sous chefs here though, and he said, "You have to forget that you are thirty. You have to work like you are just starting out, and you are 18 years old." OK, so that's a challenge. I mean, I'm up for it. If I can run around on a twists ankle for 10 days, sneezing and wheezing all the while, then I can learn my place in the brigade. It is just another challenge.
Really, this place is breaking me down. It is like culinary boot camp. My school friends are all on internship too, and as I understand it, in Chicago, you go and work for eight hours and go home, and that's it. Here I work for about nine hours a day; I have to do written reports on everything I learn; I am required to be at all the wine tastings for the restaurant to work on my pairing skills, and I am learning the language all the while. It is whipping me into shape.
If have never worked so hard in my life. I come home, and my hands smell of salmon and cheese; they are cut and burned and bruised, and I like it.
I can look at my hands and know that I worked today. I can see what I did today, you know?
Now, if I can just get a little time off to regroup that would be great. So that is Saturday: Champagne and me, and of course, the rugby semi-finals.
I am just holding my breath 'till the weekend comes.