My trip to Spain was excellent. With the exception of my last two days, I had clear blue skies during the day, and cool nights. I extended my time in Granada, which I don't regret in the slightest, and loved Seville. I definitely hope to go back to both Granada and Seville at some point.
Cordoba was nice, but the only thing I felt was worth seeing was the mezquita. And I've done that, so now I don't need to go back. The two nights I spent there were the only nights I was bored in the slightest, or lonely. The hostels I stayed at in both Granada and Seville were awesome, and I met tons of new friends.
I might eventually get around to posting pictures, and more information about the trip, but that's not really why I'm writing. Since getting back from Spain, on March 1st, I've had a really bad month. Normally February is my tough time, but this year February creeped into March.
When I got back, I immediately had to step up my apartment search. I had started beforehand, but my cough kept me in bed a lot. There were days I visited four apartments, I was making dozens of phone calls, sending out masses of emails, living on apartment search sites, and setting up as many appointments as possible. I saw lots of nice places, some laughably small ones, a few roommate dealies that were okay but overpriced, and then I saw The One.
I walked into this apartment on March 11th, and immediately thought it was the nicest apartment I'd seen. One of the nicest studios I've seen in Paris, period. Clean, airy, bright, renovated, and in a great neighborhood. Even the price was totally reasonable. The only possible downside could be that it's on the 5th floor of a walk-up. That's the 6th floor to Americans. But I could even find a way to spin that into goodness, since lord knows I could use some more exercise.
The landlord said he would only contact the one person he chose for the apartment, and I came very, very close to not bothering to fill out the information sheet, thinking that there was no way this guy would pick me out of the 25 people there. But I filled it out, and told him that if he picked me I would be really happy. I left, and thought no more about it.
Until the next night, while tutoring Ella. I got a phone call, and the caller ID was from the landlord! Holy shit. I told Ella I had to take it, and almost blew a gasket when the landlord, Mr. W, told me he hadn't made his choice yet. He was down to four people, and couldn't decide between them. So, he was asking us each to write a motivation letter. For the apartment.
Part of me thought "you have got to be kidding me," but with Pauline's help, I whipped up a brilliant letter. As I sent it off, I told Pauline "I'm going to be really sad when I don't get this apartment." Oh, I forgot to mention that while I was on the phone, Mr. W decided to just ask two of us to write a letter, and so therefore I had a 50/50 shot.
About 15 minutes after sending the letter, I got a call saying that I was the One. And there began two and a half weeks of stressing that he would figure out I don't have a carte de sejour, and I would lose it. The worry was for naught, however. Although it took FOREVER, I signed the lease Saturday morning. Two and a half weeks after first seeing the apartment!
All of the stress definitely got to me, and I got bronchitis. The cough I had before Spain lingered and evolved. I've gotten bronchitis at least once a winter since I was in 8th grade, when I had walking pneumonia. So the search and the bronchitis and the antibiotics all combined to make a rather sad Sophie. But all of this is really just the preamble to the real reason I had such a bad month. It's just hard to write about.
I lost a dear friend to cancer. Sylvia, who some of you will know as Benjamin's mother, died about two weeks ago. Over the years I've become close to the whole family, and have spent a lot of time with Sylvia. She had had breast cancer years ago, but it was in remission. Last year, though, she started having serious stomach problems, and was often unable to eat. In June the doctors confirmed that it was cancer. I got the email while I was in Santorini, and was really upset. But I felt optimistic, cause she was at the best cancer hospital in the country.
The first thing I did when my plane landed in Paris after Greece was call. And same thing when I had two days in town between New York and Ile de Ré. I visited for a few hours at home, and while I was sad to see how skinny she'd gotten, I was relieved that her personality was very much intact. And so began her second round of chemo. It went pretty well, and we had a lovely family dinner this fall. But shortly after, Sylvia was back in the hospital for more treatments.
I visited her a few times in the hospital, and as it turns out I never saw her at home again. Christophe and I had lunch the day before I went to Spain, and while I was away the cancer spread again, to her kidneys. About a week after my return I got a call from Christophe, saying that if I wanted to say goodbye I had to come then.
The doctors had given her a few hours, maybe a couple of days. But Sylvia held on for a week. It was awful, watching her get weaker and less and less aware. But I am so grateful that I was there. The first night I went, the night Christophe called, was the last time Sylvia knew who I was. She couldn't really talk, but she knew I was there.
I told her I loved her, and would miss her, and would watch out for Ben and Juliette. I told her that I would never forget her, and that our friendship would not end. I promised to continue telling her the crazy stories of trying to make my life work in France. And so far I've kept that promise. I still talk to her, and I still miss her.
I don't know how much she understood of what I said, but she must have felt my love for her. She brushed the tears off my cheeks, and looked into my eyes. I am just so grateful to Christophe for giving me the chance to properly say goodbye. Because over the next week, each time I visited she was less and less Sylvia.
I've never lost a friend before. A friend's sister, a great-grandmother . . . no one that close. I loved my great-grandmother very much, and I was 13 or so when she died. But while I can still hear her voice in head, and am so happy I got her hair (on my head, not in a drawer somewhere), I didn't truly know her. And she was in her 90s when she died, after having met most of her great-grandchildren. Sylvia was not ready to go. She had so much to live for, and so many people who love her.
Most of last year I was tutoring her in English. The French word toujours has two meanings in English, still and always. In French it's very easy to know which is meant, from the context. But Sylvia could NEVER get it right in English. I'm sad that I can't tease her about it anymore. I'm sad that she won't have the chance to get it right. I'm sad that she had to stop learning.
So, Sylvia, thank you. I miss you, and haven't really realized that you're gone forever. I Iove you, still and always. Thank you for being my friend.
