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I've kicked into full job-getting gear. I literally just wrote an email to the head of communications and public outreach at ESA asking him for a job. Hey, might as well start at the VERY TOP, right????

Actually I gave a talk at a citizen space conference hosted by ESA a few weeks back and the head of communications for ESA was at the conference. He tracked down M, asked if we were colleagues (why yes, that is what we are), and gave him his card to give to me. He said he liked my talk and that my English was excellent and he wanted to know if I'd be interested in doing some communications outreach for ESA. I said yes, and he said he'd be in touch. So I thought about it for a few days, and then wrote him back and added that if he knew of any opportunities at ESA in communications, my current contract was ending in November. BAM. We'll see what happens. My English is excellent--- I've been practicing it for a long time.

I'm also writing a bunch of grants, as I said before, but I'm rolling closer and closer to actually submitting one. Terror.

I applied for a faculty position at MIT. Because... why not?

I'm going to ask some people in Berlin for a job too. Because BERLIN.

But there's still a high probability that I'll move to Italy.

I sent emails to all my friends asking them for examples of various successful proposals and budgets they've submitted. Right now I'm getting by with a little help from my friends, this is true.

Last Thursday I had a wicked pinched nerve of some kind. The pain was so terrible that I couldn't bend over or pick anything up with my left hand. There wasn't a single position in which I was comfortable. I had to wake up early that day to go to a middle school to teach little bilingual middle schoolers about what it was like to be a space scientist. The middle schoolers were awesome. They all sat in rapt attention and then at the end they all had a million questions. Standing in front of them was like being in my qualifying exams all over again--- they asked questions on every subject from conspiracy theories to philosophical questions to Kepler's laws and the Deccan basalt traps. I gave one talk about how scientists work in Antarctica (to the 8th graders), then I gave a talk about the planets and how scientists study them using light (to the 7th and 6th graders). It was a very full day, but very rewarding. The 8th graders were learning about stomata in leaves, which was a huge blast from the past. As I walked around the school I was like a minor celebrity and I had kids coming up all day with more questions. My pinched nerve still hurt like a bitch, but while I was presenting at least I could forget about it.

I basically learned that if you are feeling right awful and you have a pinched nerve, you should just forget about it and wear heels and give presentations all day, and then follow that up by going hiking and camping in the wilderness all weekend, because PAIN IS IN YOUR MIND.

---

Today

Him: I'm pretty much done with my work today, I think I'm going to leave.
Me: Ok.
Him: Unless you're going to leave soon.
Me: I was thinking I'd leave in like 20 minutes.
Him: Ok.

Twenty minutes later we leave. I kind of assumed that he meant that he wanted to hang out or something, but as it turns out he just waited 20 minutes so that we could walk together during the 3 minutes it takes to get to the metro.

Do I really have to leave France?

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Everyone should move to Italy. All of us. Let's do it.

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I'm shivering. There is only one thought in my head, repeating itself over and over again: I'm going to fall in the Seine. I'm going to fall, crack my head open on the side of this bridge, and then drown in the Seine. The river is at flood stage again, as if it were winter. If you felt how cold it was on this bridge, you would think it was winter.

Then he comes, the model, with his broad shoulders and his even features and his bow tie and his neatly combed hair and his tuxedo. He puts his strong arm around me to keep me from falling in the Seine and he puts his other hand on my knee.

"I think you're supposed to put your hand..."

"Tell me," he says, leaning in towards my neck, "where would you like me to put my hand?"

"I mean... in the photo..." I try to specify, clearing my throat. We're trying to remake a famous photo from 1957.

"Ah yes, in the photo the man's hand is hidden somewhere," he says, laughing. I would think he was up to no good except for the fact that it is so clear that he doesn't care at all, not even a tiny bit.

He is talking to me about something else now, but his hand is casually caressing my knee. "Are you used to having your picture taken?" he asks. I nod. I'm trying to concentrate. "So am I," he says.

The photographers ask him to go back to hiding his face in my neck. "I don't like to be hidden," he says. He kisses my neck suddenly, completely dispassionately, as if he were resting his lips on an ice cube. The photographers hiss for him to stop. "No kissing!"

Thank you, photographers.

Maybe I'll fall in the Seine.

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Yesterday we started off the day well by taking the m�tro in the wrong direction. We traveled for five stations before we realized that something was amiss. We were going to a fair celebrating the French province of Brittany. Or, in French, la Bretagne. Or, in Breton, Breizh. Breizh is a province of France that is known for its Celtic roots.


The people there have their own language and their culture is closely tied to that of other Celtic peoples like the Irish and Scottish. They even have their own version of Stone Henge, called Carnac.

Instead of arches, the ancient Celtic Bretons built alignments of some 3000 standing stones (menhirs) all over the region.

The other thing that la Bretagne is famous for is its terrible weather. It rains there all the time. They have some sayings about the weather in Brittany:

"In Bretagne you can tell the weather by looking at the sea. If you can see the sea, it means that it is going to rain soon. If you can't see the sea, it means that it is already raining."

"In Bretagne it only rains twice a year- from August to February, and from the end of February until August."

So it was appropriate, perhaps, when the skies of Paris opened up and a great deluge inundated the Breton Fair. The hardy Bretons were not to be discouraged, however... the Celtic band played on under their shelter, and the Bretons young and old continued dancing. In Breizh they dance circle dances, similar to those danced by the Greeks. Often times you link pinkie fingers with your neighbor and form a long chain that snakes its way around the party. So we finally abandoned our umbrella, and our efforts to stay dry, and we joined the Bretons in their dance. Mr. M and his geologist friend, who was playing with one of the bands, are both from Brittany or thereabouts, but Maude and I were d�butantes.

Round and round we danced, first the circle dances, then the polka, then the waltz, and finally an amazing square dance where we constantly switched partners. The rain came in buckets, in sheets, in waves. "Aren't we dancing this dance a bit fast?" asked Mr. M at some point. I shook my head. "People have been known to break bones dancing the polka," I explained. "Yes," confirmed his friend, whirling by with Maude, "the polka is a crazy dance."

Finally we were all exhausted and soaked through. My nice leather jacket (oops) had stained my arms black. We went home and changed our clothes and ate dinner at a cr�perie. Cr�pes are a traditional food of la Bretagne. I had a galette (savory cr�pe) with huge slices of cheese and potatoes and bacon and onions.



For dessert I had a cr�pe with Nutella. We continued our Breizh theme by drinking pitchers of Breton cider. Finally we came back to my apartment and Mr. M, his friend, and Maude, who all used to play in an Irish music band together, brought out their flutes and tin whistles and began to play. Two other friends, who had joined us for dinner, added to the affair by singing and playing the spoons. I made a fine drum out of a trashcan.

"It was delightful to have you at our house," said Mr. M to everyone as they left my apartment, until finally he himself left.

She is handsome, she is pretty,
She is the Belle of Belfast city
She is a-courtin' one, two, three,
Please won't you tell me who is she.

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