"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part III

After another late night at work, I'm grateful for this opportunity to assertively focus my attention on positive thoughts, specifically, the most positive things that have happened to me this year.

11. The best decision (possibly ever)

Going to France.

12. Best vacation spot

The South of France.

Is it logical that a place could make me want to have children, just so that I could bring them there and share it with them? In any case, I fully intend to return to the South of France, and the affordable, easy-to-use transit system, vibrant countryside, and warm-spirited people ensure me that, even if I have a family in tow, it would be an ideal travel destination.

13. The best language

French.

14. The best new addition to my culinary repertoire

For some reason, I always assumed that quiche was exceptionally complicated and the method of preparation elusive to my present food-preparatory capabilities. After witnessing it made a few times in the kitchen of the family whose farm I was WWOOFing on, however, I was happy to learn that, with the help of a few eggs, some cream, some good cheese and chopped veggies, and a fresh pie crust, I could whip up the delectable dish and have it out of the oven in less than an hour. If it weren't for the sky-high calorie content, I'd make quiches nearly every day.

15. The best online community

I had heard from several friends who had tried it in the past that CouchSurfing was great, but I never got around to looking into it for myself until right before leaving for France. Though I was, admittedly, a bit concerned over the prospect of staying with complete strangers in their homes--generally, worried more about awkwardness than safety issues--I had nothing but positive experiences with my French hosts. And, since returning to San Diego, each opportunity I've had to welcome CSers into my and my parents' home has been fun, inspiring, and educational. I will never stay in another youth hostel again, if I can help it.

Recent CouchSurfers from Barcelona, Spain

How are you doing?

Nearly every evening, when I sit down in front of my computer to compose a new blog entry, I feel momentarily terrified of that blinking cursor dancing lonely on a blank white box. But it is a sensation that quickly passes; I type a sentence and, just like that, the hardest part is over. This is not to say that the sentences that follow flow effortlessly, but the terror of nothingness has been replaced, at least, by something. And that something, whatever it is, is almost always better than nothing.

Today, a man at church asked me how I am doing these days. My mind went to my job and the state of dissatisfied sadness I've generally found myself in lately, and, in that regard, the "All right," I responded with sounded optimistic. But, upon further reflection, I remembered the CouchSurfer from England who had just been staying with us and the two girls from Montréal who will be coming next week. I remembered that, though I earn a pittance at my job and live with my parents, I get to do the two things that bring me the most fulfillment--writing and cooking--every day and that I have the freedom to partake of simple pleasures--going to the zoo or just relaxing and reading--on my days off. And, taking all these factors into account, I quickly amended my reply. "I'm actually doing really well," I told him, "Yeah. Really well."

Words of Encourragement

An eventful day. I went kayaking on the bay with Chris, a current CouchSurfer from England, and, on the way back home, was involved in a little scrape between my dad's Jeep, which I had borrowed to transport the kayaks, and another car. It was my fault.

But tomorrow morning I am scheduled to offer some Words of Encouragement during the church service, and, having thought of a topic which I can hopefully wedge into my alloted time of "under three minutes," I'm going to have a go at organizing these thoughts in writing.

It begins with a story:

When I was in the ninth grade I was not a good student. I got mostly C's, and I was pretty much okay with that. I had always been a "C" student and rather apathetically assumed that I would always be a "C" student. In my mind, trying hard in school just wasn't part of who I was or who I identified myself to be.

In the ninth grade, I was sure my English teacher hated me; and, even now, looking back, I don't think I was too off the mark. She often made it very clear that she was disappointed with me and my lack of consistency in completing my homework. But one day, after class, she pulled me aside and said, "I was talking to Mrs. Anderson today"--Mrs. Anderson was my History teacher, whom I was also convinced hated me--"and we both agreed, 'That Meghan Janssen sure knows how to write an essay.'"

It was a simple comment, made by a teacher whose projected dislike of me I certainly reciprocated. But it changed everything. If I was really good at writing essays, then I was going to be good at writing essays. After that, my grades began to make a drastic turn-around. I had always liked to read, but now my favorite school subject was English. In college, I studied English, and, after graduation, I went to teach English in Japan.

What my ninth-grade English teacher did for me is something we all have the capacity to do for one another. Each of us has the ability to affirm and positively influence those around us by speaking words of truth and encouragement into their lives. Because when someone genuinely affirms you--when they really listen to you and are willing to extend themselves in order to show you something about yourself that is good and special and unique--it doesn't just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It also implicitly calls out a responsibility for you to be a good steward with what you have been given.

We have been called the beloved of God. God affirms this love in so many ways. And if we truly believe that--that we are absolutely loved, not in spite of who we are but really as we are, then, sure, that makes us feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside, but it also calls out a great responsibility. A responsibility to live, not as what we previously apathetically assumed ourselves to be, but to live as the beloved of God.

My First Evening in the South of France

As promised, it is shortly after five o'clock when my phone begins to ring. When I answer it, I am surprised to detect a seriousness in his voice that I had not anticipated from the picture on his Couchsurfing profile. Jean asks me if I can meet him on the steps of the Amphithéâtre in five minutes. I step outside the Internet café, where I have been updating my parents on my on my safe arrival in Arles, and I am already there.

I approach the Roman arena just in time to see a tall, blond man take a seat on one of the steps and begin fiddling with his mobile phone. I walk up and say, "Jean?" When he gazes up at me, his eyes are a shockingly crisp blue. Though my observations of Southern French people have been limited thusfar, I have noticed that most of the people I've encountered have been generally darker complexioned and more Latin in appearance than their Gaulishly fair-toned countrymen in Paris. Jean, however, looks like he could be Scandinavian. He greets me in heavily accented yet fluid and easy-to-understand English. Rather than offering the traditional three-kiss greeting of the South of France, he shakes my hand.

As evening falls we walk up the hill, down a boulevard straight out of a Van Gogh painting, to a bar where he says he and his friends often congregate. Conversation flows naturally. He apologizes again, quite unnecessarily, that he cannot host me tonight, explaining that his new roommates are less keen on the whole CouchSurfing concept than he, but that he at least wanted to meet me for a drink to be sure I felt welcome in Arles. He tells me a bit about his travels in New Zealand, and I share with him a few details of my life in Japan. We somberly acknowledge the strange coincidence that we should both have a strong personal connexion to two countries that had just suffered catastrophic earthquakes, and then allow the discussion to move on to lighter matters.

Jean is unmistakably good looking, and I fight back a tinge of disappointment when he promptly lets slip a mention of his girlfriend in New Zealand. Throughout my travels in France, I am repeatedly surprised to find myself falling in love with every French man I meet. Back home, I'm never so quick to bestow affections on a stranger. It's not that I necessarily have anything against American men. It's just that, in relation to their French counterparts, they are noticeably less adept at dressing themselves and comparatively poor at speaking French.

Some of Jean's friends enter the bar and, at my insistence, we go to join them at their table. They are very friendly and as the evening progresses and additional rounds of drinks are ordered, they become even friendlier. More friends trickle through the doors, in pairs or on their own, and tables are pushed together and more chairs pulled up to accommodate them. Some of Jean's friends speak some English, but most of them don't. Still, it's no matter, since once I've finished my third beer I find that my French is much better than I had previously surmised.

Jean says, "Meghan, I have to go now but you can call me if you need anything. And," he gestures around the table, "now you have many friends." I glance around the room and I know he is right. Whoever warned me before this trip that the French were rude and standoffish had no clue what he was talking about. The spell has be cast: I am deeply and head-over-heels in love with the South of France.

P.Y.T.

Pie

My mother's favorite treat is boysenberry pie. Every year, around this time, the vines in my parents' back yard overflow with tart, juicy berries. Some of the boysenberries get eaten fresh off the vine. Some get put into plastic bags and stored in the freezer. And some get put into a pie. Today, all three happened. When I was younger, we used to can dozens of jars' worth of preserves, slap them with the label "Janssenberry Jam," and give them away as Christmas gifts. I still sort of think of boysenberries as our berries.

Yoga

My gym recently hired a yoga instructor and I attended one of her classes for the first time today. The class wasn't very good. I spent the time thinking about the last yoga class I went to, during my first weekend in Paris. The girl whose couch I was surfing invited me to come with her. As it turned out, the instructor was Polish, and the class was conducted in English. The instructor was very dainty, had knobby feet, and pretty hair.

Tomatoes

Micah gave me some heirloom tomato seedlings that he didn't have the space to plant. I put them in the ground and they started to grow. I love them. The healthy green color of the leaves is thrilling to me. They haven't yet started to produce fruit, but I'm already bursting with pride over them.

Waiting for Wrinklebutt

On a Saturday afternoon, Laurent and I push our kayaks into the water next to the park at the National City marina. We climb somewhat clumsily into our boats--neither of us are professional kayakers--and, after a bit of trial and error, fit our spray skirts securely into place before paddling out into the San Diego bay. Laurent, a Couchsurfer from Bordeaux, France who is currently staying at our place, needs only a minute to get accustomed to the rhythm of paddling before he is speeding off in front of me; meanwhile, I suffer in silence with my old, defunct paddle, dousing myself unavoidably with sea water after each stroke. It doesn't really matter, though: the water in the bay is surprisingly warm, to the point that I'm genuinely tempted to tip my kayak over and go for a swim. But now Laurent seems to be stopping to let me catch up and so I power ahead.

To our left as we leave the marina and enter the bay proper are grassy saltwater marshes, bustling with bird life and excellent for exploring by kayak during high tide. I even spot a snowy egret taking flight: always a thrilling sight. But we're not here today for birdwatching. I must confess I've led Laurent to the bay today with somewhat exaggerated suggestions that we might encounter a sea turtle. And not just any sea turtle. The largest sea turtle in recorded history.

It isn't just I who feel the urge to swim in the warm waters of bay: the San Diego Bay is home to a group of about 60 green sea turtles (according to a 2007 report from the NOAA Fisheries Service), considered an endangered species throughout the East Pacific. Up until recent years, the water discharged by the South Bay Power Plant created a turtle jacuzzi on the south end of the bay, and the turtle population still seems most concentrated in this area. The conditions in the bay are so ideal as a turtle habitat, in fact, that they have succeeded in winning the long-term residency of an exceptionally enormous green sea turtle, Wrinklebutt, so monikered on account of an unusual deformity on her shell. When she was last netted by scientists in 2006, Wrinklebutt weighed in at an astonishing 550 pounds, making her quite possibly the largest of her species in the entire East Pacific. Since there have been no "official" Wrinklebutt sightings for a few years, however, it is not known for sure whether this colossus is still alive. Still, she remains a celebrity among local wildlife buffs and a legend among those who spend their weekends kayaking in the bay.

Laurent is beginning to tease me, "Where are all the sea turtles? I want my money back for this kayak tour." I reply with some clever crack about how they dislike French people. But turtles or no, neither of us really have anything to complain about. It is a beautiful day, and we have a clear view of Coronado Island and its bridge and Point Loma stretching out toward the sea in the background. There is a slight breeze, but the water is mostly calm. As we turn the boats around to head back to the dock, the tide pushes us in.

Though I doubt the likelihood of ever actually encountering the famous Wrinklebutt, it would be wonderful to someday spy a sea turtle while I'm kayaking on the bay (though, of course, going kayaking more than once every two years wouldn't hurt my chances). But if I never see one, that's okay, too. The point is not seeing the sea turtles, but simply being outdoors in the place where I might see them. On this day, I can't help but draw a parallel between Laurent and me and the two main characters in Waiting for Godot (I mean, besides the fact that we also seem to repeat the same jokes over and over and over again). Gogo and Didi spend the duration of the play standing on the stage, "passing the time" as they wait for an illusive personage who never appears. If we in the audience focus morosely on the fact that, in the end, Godot never shows up, I think we're missing out on so much of what the play has to say. It's not whether Godot comes but the act of waiting for him that matters. The journey is more important than the destination, an adage that holds especially true in the context of outdoor activities. In other words, life isn't about the turtles; it's about just getting out there on the water and having a lovely afternoon.