Foo doo fa fa

You all probably already saw this but finally I found aversion with subtitles. Fun for students of French of all ages!

You have to breathe

Another video for you. This one from "Mickey 3D" is called "Respire". The refrain is Il faut que tu respires / You have to breathe. Keep that idea in your head and just watch. It all comes together in the end. Watch it a second time and you'll see how clever it is!

Look! Sheep!

We all get so wrapped up in our own worlds and expectations. Our daily routines, whether they take us to work and back or in circles around own home, are sometimes just attempts to find something to do so we can go to bed at night without that guilty knot in our stomachs from having wasted yet another day. Self help books and well minded friends tell us to live in the moment, to take tame for ourselves, but at the same time, for me at least, there's this list of puritan inspired phrases that roll down the screen in the back of my head like the credits from a movie that will never end. Idle hands make idle minds. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. God helps those who help themselves.

I'm not too terribly religious but I can't help but feel its weight upon me. Lessons preached from the pulpit somehow echo in almost all of our minds whether we make it to church on Sundays or not. Yet I'm pretty sure that the religious rules that govern our psyche were not written from behind the altar; they are currents of conduct that the church assumes as their own to keep their lambs of God closer to the chapel and, of course, more generous with their offerings even though, no matter how hard we try, writing a check or stuffing an envelope with a few dollars is only painting lipstick on the pig that is our guilt.

No matter how hard I try, I can't shake that guilt. Granted, it has worked for me for all these years and certainly pays off for others whom I can help along the way. I enjoy a great job, live in a cute little house, and have a pretty healthy dose of education and culture to back me up. But being thousands of miles away from my real routine, thousands of miles away from paying bills and shoveling my sidewalk, I have much more free time to make those circles around my temporary home and even though I know that I am still pretty much on top of my game, that I am fulfilling my responsibilities to my job, my friends, and myself, I still have this echo of guilt that stabs me in the back whenever I choose to sleep in for another half hour or whenever I watch a mindless hour or two of Simpsons in French while playing online games and sipping cups of decaf fruit tea.

Eventually, at least for me, that guilt starts to build up and cloud my vision. I know it's there and so I resent it more than taxes. Maybe that's not true; I'm actually happy to pay my taxes, even when I get ticketed for not shoveling my sidewalk to a three foot width and later have to step through a mound of snow to gain access to the cross walk and shuffle on the ice in front of city hall to pay that ticket. But I do resent that guilt as it stifles me and hides my smile because I feel bad about not being even more productive, plain and simple.

Why do I feel bad about taking a week's vacation in the south of France? Don't I deserve it? Of course I do. But I can't just up and leave! So I drag my work with me, line up my emails to write, and gather all the numbers of anyone I may need to call. The French have no problem taking vacations and I'm almost jealous of that freedom. From the get-out-of-my-way-I-got-work-to-do American point of view, it may seem excessive, their at least four or five weeks a year. It may seem excessive that they can easily close their computer at the end of the day and head home with no manila folders in tow, no emails to answer, and no intention to even think about work for the next sixteen hours at least. That's not excessive, that's the goal.

But I felt bad all along as I planned this week. I procrastinated, waiting until almost the last minute to buy my tickets and make my final arrangements. But I got up this morning and in an hour's time, I hurried through my routine plus managed to also pack my bag, print my maps and itineraries, stop at the store to get a few goodies for the journey, and make my train with still plenty of time to spare. So did I really procrastinate? Or just plan on doing things in their own time?

Regardless, there I was on board, sitting in my seat, gliding along backwards, backwards because the luck of the draw gave me a seat facing where we were, and not where we were going. The landscapes then creep up on you, almost taking away your choice of view and, like in a movie, only offer you the scenes as they present themselves one after another. There's no anticipating what's coming up. The backs of warehouses and reconstruction era office buildings, the spaces between homes and buildings gradually becoming larger and larger until you get mostly green fields with electric lines and, off on the horizon, crowded groupings of homes centered around a church and sometimes in the shadows of modest château on the hill. The guy facing me -- early sixties, yellow pullover, and sensible wire rimmed glasses – was taking up way too much space. He barely seemed to realize, or care, that I was there and we were to be seat partners for the next few hours. The entire train car was stuffed any of the same sorts, French lambs of God, everyone as polite as they are supposed to be yet maintaining that serious French look on their faces that they tend to put on when out in public. If only they had been circus clowns, or massage therapists, or Zen masters, I would have been reminded that I'm on vacation, headed for fun in the sun. Instead, I was taking on that very same serious – but polite – look on my face.

Staring out the window as the lunch trolley rolled by, green pastures fading off one after another into the distance in front of me, all of the sudden I was practically startled but white fluffy dots only about a hundred meters away.

"Look! Sheep!"

Sounds silly, but somehow that's what I wanted to exclaim. That's what we say, 'we' being those of us who did not grow up on farms, or in Europe. It's funny how in a split second, we can right our minds and center our attention on what's real in life. In a split second, I was reminded of the countless times during our weeklong stay in Ireland a few years ago we exclaimed "Look! Sheep!" Here, the 'we' being a group of adventure seeking Americans and two Brits not afraid to set up camp in a small little town, or more precisely, front and center at its most popular bar. It was a week without worries, a time to regroup, a time to find the humor in what we normally can't even see in the midst of our regular routine. And here we go again.

There's a house about 22 kilometers east of Avignon and a town of just a few hundred people that don't know what's coming. Almost the same group of Americans and their two Brits are switching their pints and Jameson for dry rosé and cheese after the main course. They are all hard working, fun loving, caring people who deserve a break, a day in the sun, and more careless days to admire the puffy rows of lavender and to watch fields of sunflowers first hit us with their blanket of yellow, then watch rows of them seem to turn to us, one by one, then quickly domino along into the distance. I don't think there are too many sheep farmers in southern France but you can be sure that I won't let a field of flowers go by without my noticing.

You’ll never know until you try

Recently, an advisee of mine wrote to tell me that he was toying with the idea of adding a French major to his already busy academic schedule. He said that his main hesitation was a few required literature survey courses. He said it really wasn’t his ‘thing’. I can certainly understand because that’s how I felt as a young undergrad. My response below is in French (so many of you may be ending your reading here… sorry!).


Bonjour !

Et moi aussi je trouve cette communication par email tellement efficace et facile. Tu sais, je n'ai pas grandi avec Internet comme toi alors je suis toujours ébloui par toutes les possibilités qu'il nous offre. Et maintenant, je ne sais pas ce que je ferais si j'étais privé de cette habitude.

Et voilà une réponse à ta question… enfin, c'est plutôt un exemple (le mien). C'est un peu long, alors prépare-toi !

A l'université, ma spécialisation en français était centrée sur la culture. Je n'ai pris qu'un seul cours de littérature parce que, comme toi, je ne m'y intéressais guère. Je me penchais plutôt vers le côté pratique et contemporain des choses dans ma vie. Quand j'ai commencé mes études de maîtrise en français, je voyais au début mes cours de littérature comme simplement des obstacles à surmonter parce que je savais que je voulais enseigner la langue plutôt, mais je savais en même temps que, si je voulais plus d'options à ma recherche d'un poste de prof, j'avais besoin d'une éducation traditionnelle et variée. Ainsi le choix de faire mon PhD à UW-Madison.

Mais au cours de mon premier semestre de maîtrise, j'ai commencé à mieux comprendre. Les professeurs m'ont ouvert les yeux à un monde que je ne connaissais pratiquement pas ou plutôt que j'avais ignoré complètement. C'est vrai que dans mes cours, c'était pour moi 75% de bla bla au début. Tout le monde voulait parler et se faire entendre. De plus, comme j'ai dit, je ne m'intéressais pas vraiment. ça a pris de la patience pendant un certain temps et je ne faisais que passer mon temps à l'étude, sachant qu'avec chaque jour, j'étais plus proche à mon objectif.

Et puis, peu à peu, je ne pouvais pas m'empêcher de m'y mettre de plus en plus. Je suis devenu vraiment accroché à ce que je faisais. Il faudrait admettre que si un texte, un poème, ou une pièce dure depuis des centaines d'années et se trouve sur nos étagères à la maison, chez nous aujourd'hui, il y a certainement quelque chose de magique là-dedans. A travers chaque période de la littérature française, j'ai pu trouver quelque chose qui me parlait et dont j'avais envie de parler moi-même.

Et en fait, je me suis concentré sur la littérature du XIXème et du XVIème siècle, le XIXème parce que c'est pendant cette période (pour moi) ou la psychologie de l'auteur et de ses personnages commençait à se dévoiler ouvertement dans le texte. Et le XVIème parce que c'était la période humaniste, ou l'être humain et sa condition ont occupé le centre de chaque page, de chaque idée. Et c'était aussi parce qu'au XVIème il y a des textes vraiment explosifs, bizarres et fantaisistes qui semblent prendre des risques en choquant le lecteur avec des gros mots, des scènes obscènes, et des situations impossibles mais qui, en fin de tout, résonnent à l'intérieur du lecteur et qui révèlent non seulement des secrets ou des désirs des personnages, mais aussi des secrets ou des désirs cachés en nous-mêmes.

Et bien oui, je dois avouer qu'il y a des périodes qui ne me parlent presque pas. Le XVIIème siècle, par exemple, devient obsédé de l'ordre et de la bienséance, tellement que lire (pour moi) devenait un devoir. Cependant, c'est en comparant cette période aux autres, le XVIème par exemple, que je développais encore une meilleure appréciation pour ce que je lisais et commentais.

Aujourd'hui, la littérature continue à me parler et je continue à en parler aussi. A cause de mes études, j'ai peut-être du mal à trouver de la lecture contemporaine dont j'ai vraiment envie de lire parce que j'ai été gâté par la splendeur que j'avais étudiée auparavant. Je dois vraiment chercher pour trouver quelque chose que j'aimerais lire jusqu'à la fin.

Pour l'instant, les auteurs français contemporains me fatiguent ; pour moi, ils sont trop pessimistes, trop noirs, trop concernés par l'effet qu'ils produisent, ou par l'effet de défoulement de leurs problèmes, qu'ils oublient de nous donner des sentiments, des intrigues, des personnages ou des idées auxquels nous les lecteurs aimerions nous attacher. J'ai probablement tort et je continue à chercher. En anglais, je me suis accroché à plusieurs auteurs qui continuent à me fasciner : John Irving, Gregory McGuire, Mark Haddon, Jonathan Safran Foer, Nick Hornby, T. Coraghessan Boyle. Il y a aussi un auteur japonais (traduit en anglais, bien sûr) qui est vraiment étonnant : Haruki Murakami. Si tu as le temps, jette un coud d'oeil sur son 'Kafka on the Shore'.

Pour des auteurs français qui pourront t'intéresser, et qui viennent des époques précédentes, il y en a des tonnes. Par exemple, au moyen âge, si tu comprends le contexte autour des récits, les horizons d'attentes des lecteurs, les capacités de ces lecteurs, et les moeurs et coutumes, tu trouveras des textes qui fascinent! Tout le monde lit Ronsard au XVIème et oublient trop facilement Louise Labbé, femme poète qui, en comparaison avec Ronsard, est beaucoup plus honnête et touchante avec ses vers. Au XVIIème, les pièces de Molière, Racine et Corneille sont incroyables une fois qu'on comprend ce qu'ils ont pu faire dans les contraintes qui existaient à l'époque. Bien sûr, le Marquis de Sade au XVIIIème, mais là, faut vraiment aimer son côté vilain. C'est les Liaisons Dangereuses au XVIIIéme pour ceux qui détestent la contrainte, ou bien il y a aussi les philosophes et les récits philosophiques, et surtout les racines de la démocratie moderne. Au XIXème, c'est l'intrigue qui (re)domine, les complots, les femmes adultères, les filles égoïstes, les meurtres et les crimes, et vers la fin du siècle, ce sont les fous qui occupent le centre du cirque. Et tout cela, ce n'est que des opinions vite faites pour te donner un petit goût de ce qui pourra t'attendre.

Alors voilà. Tout cela pour te dire qu'aimer ou ne pas aimer la littérature est une décision personnelle, mais pas une décision que l'on peut prendre sans avoir l'expérience de connaître cet art. Aimer ou ne pas aimer ce qu'on ne connaît pas n'est pas logique. Mais en même temps, ne te laisse pas être trop tenté par mon enthousiasme, et il ne faut surtout pas te sentir obligé d'aller plus loin dans tes études du français que tu aurais aimée. Je voulais tout simplement montrer que les portes sont ouvertes.

Ceci dit, si tu décides enfin de faire cette spécialisation et de prendre ces cours obligatoires, nous devrions quand même nous assurer que tu choisisses les professeurs qui, pour toi, seraient les meilleurs. Et pour cela, n'hésite pas à me demander des opinions ou des idées. Je suis là pour ça ! Bonne continuation de tes vacances!

I found myself dancing alone

I recently had a life-changing experience. Not a happy one, but one that certainly moves me from one chapter to the next. After a break up with my partner of over four years, I was not certain how I would fare. The same story has be lived and relived by many of us, or many of the ones that we know and love. What lead to this moment in our lives was, I had thought, incompatibility despite our best efforts to fit together, inability to connect on the deepest level, and the eventual frustration that comes from a friction that we both tried to quell. What really led to this moment was that he, like many men, always thought he was going to find something better, something shinier, something nicer to show off on the town. He found that, came up with an exit strategy, and pushed me to my limits so that I would be the bad guy and initiate the break up. He was guilt free and free to hook back up. Nice guy, huh?

In any event, what came next was uncertainty. For the next few weeks, I was convincing myself that I was going to be OK, that I was OK, that I was better off and that I will again find my happiness in love and life. I can be a very convincing person and so I listened to myself just as I listened to the words of encouragement and confirmations from my friends and family that I was, in fact, going to be OK. On one level, I believed myself and I believed my confidants. Yet there was this nagging suspicion knocking at my door that left a tinge of doubt in my mind. I shut it out, I never let it in, but it was there, patiently waiting outside.

I didn't go outside that much.

Outside was a relatively new city filled with new professional responsibilities, new challenges and new places to discover. Yet it's also a city where one's neighbors, colleagues, and cohorts in incidental conversation do not make that leap to become friends or acquaintances with whom you can catch a movie or have a drink. The French, once they become your friends, are the best friends in the world. Otherwise, they are polite passers-by; they have their world already choreographed around them and thus the friendship dance can take weeks, months, even years.

Although outgoing, talkative, engaging and fun-loving, I never enjoyed exploring on my own. As a student and a young professional, I spent plenty of time in Paris, very little money in my pocket, content to take walks by myself to soak in the city's architecture and atmosphere. Those were not my favorite moments in Paris. At 23, I explored Spain's Mediterranean coast for two weeks yet rarely had the chance to exercise my Spanish. Most recently, while my students split up in groups to investigate one of Brittany's coastal cities, I gave it my best and made a quick tour around the center only to find myself wanting to settle in one spot and wait for the time when we would regroup.

It's not the opinion of others who may spy a lonely traveler that bothers me. It's the idea that life is meant to be shared, and nothing in front of my eyes or under my feet really has any value unless there is someone there with whom to share it. Shared experiences resonate more; they give you glimpses into yourself and into your surroundings that you may not see otherwise. And they are reassuring in that, with your companion's expression and opinion, you have the confirmation or even the correction for what you yourself are seeing, feeling, and trying to understand. For me, exploring on my own would be far too much of an egocentric activity and I, unfortunately, try to stake claims to a more altruistic and less self-centered life.

Yet here I am, inside, spending hours and hours on a self-centered existence. It took well over a week before I could drag myself away from the computer, drop the remote from my hands, and finally do more than just tap my foot to keep the beat with my existence. Perhaps the louder I tapped, the quieter became that knocking at my door. But it was still there… until just a few minutes ago.

Working away the hours of this Sunday afternoon, planning a course for this summer and creating to-do lists for myself, I was listening to the radio as it played French remakes and vintage rock in the background. Typing away, unaware of my own body, I caught myself shimmying side to side in my chair, eventually bringing my arms into the movement, lifting my hands off the keyboard and putting a temporary stop to my work. I was smiling and bopping as I got up off my chair and away from my work. Heading for the kitchen to top off my coffee, I glanced at the door and for the first time in a few weeks, there was nothing on the other side. That suspicious knocking stopped.

I found myself dancing alone… and I liked it.

I find myself dancing alone... and I like it.

OSS 117

A friend in Madison just saw this film at the Wisconsin Film Festival and by chance I found a long snippet on line. I wish I could see the rest of this French spy spoof! Too bad this excerpt doesn't have subtitles but take a gander anyways and you'll love the esthetics. I can't wait to see the rest of the film!

oss 117 partie 1
Uploaded by ahmaduss

And again for you French speakers, here's my latest favoritest funniest French comedienne, Florence Foresti, doing her bit about the film (with the Film's star eventually seated next to her). The quality is pretty bad but she is still a riot. I wuvs her.

Brigitte - OSS 117
Uploaded by fire-kurt

I’m privileged

(pictures to come soon!!)

I'm privileged. This is my way of saying how lucky I am, but with a greater world vision. In a world where some have not enough to eat, or fear for their lives, or are just waiting until sickness makes its way to their home, I consider myself privileged to live in relative calm, to have a job that feeds my passion, to know that I can (almost) always be warm, eat well, share my life with others, and travel to worlds far away from my own.

It is when I travel – when I am confronted with change, when I am surrounded by foreigners, and far from reference points of my own culture – that I realize how privileged I really am. I'm not rich. I count my dollars… each and every one of them that has hit its 'all-time low' against the Euro time and time again in the last few weeks. Yet I am practically limitless when it comes to making my way around the world and experiencing the high life. Like these past few days in Interlaken, Switzerland.

Mark and I took a long Easter week-end trip to the other side of the Alps to visit our friends – two of the very best people in the world – Rolf and Susan. Rolf and Susan live in the quiet city of Interlaken, Switzerland, nestled between two lakes and surrounded by mountains for skiing, hiking, and even hang gliding (I don't hang glide, so get that out of your head). In a short few days, we had delicious meals 'at home', a heartwarming Easter brunch with their family, we took a few walks, enjoyed a drink at the "Happy Inn", watched two DVDs, shared stories and photos, and laughed a lot. On Saturday, I got to go skiing with Rolf. This is when I began to remember how privileged I really am.

The weather for Saturday was supposed to be hazy at best yet the sun (that seems to be following me around Rennes, a city that had its sunniest winter since 1950) poked its head over the mountains and continued to shine for most of the day. We jumped in Rolf's Fiat Punto early in the morning and made our way to Grunwald (?) just on the other side of the lake. Rolf, in his obsession to be too nice, purchased my ski lift for the day. I purchased my ski rental and at that very moment I began to realize again how very privileged I am. Let me explain how in the space of 2-3 seconds my mindset shifted miles away from where it was.

I'm standing at the cash register in the perfectly organized, runs like a machine, ski shop where I rented my skis and boots. I just learned that Rolf had discretely purchased my ski lift. I gave him a little punch in the arm and told him he shouldn't have. But to be honest, I wasn't surprised because he and Susan tend to do this generous sort of thing and really enjoy making their friends happy. For example, on Easter morning, we had to make a quick stop at Susan's hairstylist /friend's house so she could drop off an Easter basket. There were also two baskets for their niece and nephew, one for a god child, and a surprise of goodies from Rolf to Susan. Mark & Andrew got their Easter basket as well that morning, filled with tons delicious Swiss chocolate and hand painted Easter eggs. So of course I wasn't too surprised when Rolf forked over the Francs to pay for my day pass. But I was surprised to find out how much my rental was for the day: roughly $63. So in the space of time between the moment when I read the figure on the slip, and signed my name, I went from sticker shock, to resignation, to realization of how lucky I really am and how, in fact, I should feel thankful for how privileged I really am in this world. For $63…

I learned that I still can ski. It had been well over five years since my last descent down a mountain, I think it was a 'White' mountain in New Hampshire with my Aunt Maureen; that was one of my favorite days ever in my entire life, and you'll just have to believe me on that one 'cause I'm sure you'd want to kick me if I digressed again here. But before my skis hit the snow (we're back in Switzerland again), I was already reviewing in my head, listening to what my first ski instructor, Yannic, told me almost 20 years ago: how to bend at the knees, keep the skis parallel, and use the shoulders at each turn. I could also hear my friend Benoît telling me (about ten years ago?) how to negotiate the turns, set the pole and turn around it, place my weight on the outside ski, and push. So while I did my best to look calm and self assured (I didn't want Rolf thinking that he was going to spend a day waiting for me to get my ass out of the snow and back on my skis), I slid gingerly off the first ski lift and glided to the top of my first slope. It was red and I was white with fear, on the inside. Calm with optimistic confidence on the outside. With a few words of encouragement from Rolf, I headed down, made my first turn, got the wobbles out, and learned that I still can ski. And with more helpful hints from Rolf, I was able to follow him down almost every slope around (we never made it to the black slope because that was closed. Avalanches. Nuts. ) So I learned that I could still ski and it was already worth those $63. But that's not all I got for my money...

I learned that my body still can hold its own. I hadn't had much real exercise in months but that didn't stop me from remaining on my feet the whole day (well, almost… I had a few 'almost falls, but never took a tumble). I felt my thighs burning from being thrust into the role of shock absorbers for about 6 hours. And a few days later, those thighs are still reminding me that I pushed them further than they had planned. They hadn't planned on only taking only one break for lunch, another for a coffee with amaretto (danke Rolf!), and a few short rests as we ski lifted our way back up the mountains. The lazy side of me could have easily called it a day by noon, but the other side, the one that waited for its cues from Rolf, keep my in motion until about 4pm. So 6 or 7 hours for $63 ski and boot rental really wasn't that much, because with that $10-11 per hour…

I learned how privileged I really am. Skiing alongside me down those mountains I saw Brits and Americans, Swiss and Germans, French and Spaniards, and even Indians, Japanese, Koreans, and Pakistanis. They two are privileged. But having them with me made me scan the globe and envision the far off regions where it never snows, or where there are no coffees with Amaretto, or where there are no cars to jump into to get to the slopes. I see images from news reports of families fleeing genocide in Darfur, Tibetans trying make a living with a Chinese yoke over their shoulders, Iraqis still clinging to hopes of normalcy, Afghans struggling to build a one-room schoolhouse, Brazilians catching (?) fever at a rate of 2000 per day, and even Louisiana shell fishermen scared that if the delta doesn't rebuild itself soon their catch of the day will dwindle down to unsustainable levels.

So as I pried off my $63 boots, knowing very well that my dogs were gonna be sore and that climbing stairs would be a struggle for the next few days… and as I headed back to the ski shop, weaving in and out of an international parade of late afternoon quitters, I thought again about how lucky I really was to be hobbling down a little road, at the base of a mountain, in a quaint little town, in Switzerland. I thought about what Mark and Susan had done all day, and I knew that we would be returning 'home' to a home-cooked meal, plenty of anecdotes, a great mix of tunes on Rolf's iPod, and a nice bottle of wine from his cave.

I really don't take this life for granted. In the past few months, I crossed three international borders, I wandered through the same rooms and routes as kings and queens of France and England, I worked my way through the Swiss countryside where William Tell honed his archery skills, I skied down the same slopes as Body Miller, and I was blessed time and again with the company of amazing, witty people with hearts open wide and the promise of another get-together sometime in the future. It is a privilege to have friends such as these and to share with them a life that most of the world's population can't even conceive, let alone imagine.

So as I sit here in my train across France, working on my laptop, listening to my iPod, snacking on Swiss chocolates and sandwiches that Susan made with the greatest of care, I am asking myself what I can do, or what I do do already, to balance things out a bit. Do I spare more change on my way to school each day? Do I give to more charities or attend more fundraisers? Do I crusade for democracy? Do I save the whales? To be honest, I don't know if I can do much more except try to be more cognizant of my place in this world, try to appreciate more the gifts it brings me, and share this appreciation with others. Maybe I have a hidden agenda here. Maybe I secretively want to feel less guilty about living the high life. Or maybe I secretively want those who read these words to take a moment and realize how privileged they are too, privileged to be sitting at a computer, connected to the world, and knowing that life could be a heck of a lot worse. Don't you think?

A “Wicked Good” time

How often can you say the phrase "I spent the weekend in London?" For us Americans, it doesn't seem possible. But if you take the train from Lille, it's only an hour and a half (or so). So as you can tell from the last post, Mark and I spent the weekend in London visiting our friends Niall and Seamus. The food portion of the trip was both good and bad, and the entertainment portion cleverly danced around that idea of good and bad. Let's start with the food.

You know you can't judge a book by its cover. The "National Café" at the National Gallery overlooks Trafalgar Square, Nelson's Column, lots of other columns, sculptures, lots of tourists, and Canada House (hurrah for Niall who, while born in the UK, grew up waving the Maple Leaf flag and making lists of Canadian actors on American television). The service was pleasant but not proficient, shall we say. But for $50 per person, you'd expect the proficient as well. Service errors included reaching across my face to fill up my water and showing me an elbow; grabbing two steaks, not knowing which is medium rare and which is medium, then hoping the customer will sort it out; and carrying that huge oval tray around like a cocktail waitress and exposing diner's foreheads to near collisions with rubber coated plastic. Some of the food was just ok overall, yet other bits were not even digestible. I had a cèpe (mushroom) tartlet for a starter and the chicken for the main course (it's hard to screw up chicken). As a side on my plate was a round heap of "spelt" (yup) with barely any flavor, sitting on top of a slice of grapefruit. Odd combination. Mark and Niall's steaks were not even edible. Mark tried to be a trooper and grind down the gristle, yet Niall gave up all together. You know this is a common occurrence in this restaurant when at the passing request that it would be nice to remove the cost of the steaks from our bill, our waitress acquiesced and the bill showed up steakless… just like Niall's tummy.

Now, change gears completely. This next experience presents itself like an open book. Take a 15 minute taxi to a section of town only known for its empty warehouses. Take that taxi even further down a little alley and, without even a sign on the door, you find the entrance to the Bistrothèque. This was my kind of place. No need for any sort of pretention because it was all real. Interesting cocktails, excellent food, and down to earth yet impeccable service. This is a dining experience from the get-go. The smartest thing the designers did was to make the only passage to the dining room be through the kitchen. You have to carefully make your way around bustling waiters and waitresses while you catch a glimpse of the cooks who seem even more rushed, but happy to be there. The four of us had cocktails, then a starter course that we shared – crab cakes on one plate and a goat cheese salad on another – then our main dishes. I can't quite remember what we all had but I ordered the roasted chicken. I know what you're thinking: "he ordered the chicken again". But this time there was a reason; the place reminded me of Madison's Sardine restaurant where I always order the chicken and it's delicious. I wasn't disappointed. We gave in and ordered dessert as well! Here, the cost was about $85 per person but well worth it, as all memorable experiences are.

Our entertainment agenda for the weekend included two events: Sweeney Todd (the film) and Wicked (the musical). Both deal with the convergence of good and evil on one human being and how someone who is inherently good, innately good, can become evil. Let's do a quick résumé of both stories (and if you know this already, you can skip a few paragraphs).

Sweeney Todd was a barber, a husband, and a father. His only mistake up to this point in his life was being naïve and having a wife too pretty for words. A judge, wanting this wife as his own, had Sweeney Todd arrested on false premises and sent him to jail for 15 years, just enough time to woo his wife. But the wife, apparently too frail and too weak-minded to handle the stress, poisons herself. Fifteen years later, long story short, Sweeney Todd takes up barbering again but uses his chair and his blade to eventually get to the judge. Man after man who unexpectedly came up for a shave ended up with a slit throat and a two story drop into the basement, landing square on his head, where he was cut up and used for meat in pies. The barber gets his man (the judge) but in the excitement of it all, kills the neighborhood crazy old lady who , it turns out, is not just any old crazy old lady. She is Sweeney Todd's wife. You see, the key line is that she poisoned herself, she didn't kill herself. So in this bloodbath of a film, evil conquers good. That is, until you take into account that the cute little adorable singing shop boy, someone who grew up surrounded by evil, remained good through and through and eventually takes a swipe at Sweeney Todd himself. So yes, good conquers evil.

Wicked plays around with ideas of good and evil, but not to show that one conquers the other, but rather to explain that they exist together in us all. G(a)linda, the "Good" Witch, is also self serving, opportunistic, and not too smart. Nessa Rose (whom most of us know as the Witch of the East, the one with red and white striped stockings who gets a house dropped on her) uses her disability as a way to get attention and hold onto her adorable Munchkin husband, Bock. Elfalba, the supposed Wicked Witch of the West, is the one with the purest heart of them all. She dedicates her life to helping those who cannot help themselves, defying the Wizard, denouncing his fallacies, and she eventually accepts her fate of being banished forever. In the novel, where the author, Gregory McGuire, did not have to worry about offending the pleasant expectations of theater goers, good and evil are reversed even more. In fact, good becomes evil, and vice versa. Careful! Spoiler ahead! In the novel, Dorothy is depicted (only for a few short paragraphs) as a bitchy teenager, Elfalba's mother is a real whore, her love interest (Fiero) is beaten to death, and Elfalba herself really does die. In the sequel, if you dare, "Son of a Witch," there's a rape and a gay sex scene. Imagine that in OZ!

Wicked wasn't just good, it was great. I've been wanting to see that musical for a few years now, knowing all too well that it would be white washed of its grit, but still happy to see something like this on the stage, something that puts into question our ideas of good and evil, something that takes the victimizer and makes her the victim. Ever since I began reading books about Buddhism and compassion, I have been learning how to try, at least try, to sympathize with the evil one, to understand what would drive him or her to commit such evil acts, and to ask myself what I have contributed to allowing such evil to make its way through my society. It's not an easy question, and one that is certainly worth more than an Internet blog. But it's still a good question to ponder. Did I help get that judge elected? Did I 'ding dong the witch is dead' with the rest of them? How about you?

Eurotrash

Mark and I just boarded the Eurostar (Lille – London). Do you remember years ago, maybe the late 80s, when we started to hear of this tunnel through the English Channel, a.k.a the Chunnel (clever, huh?)? There were news reports, documentaries, images of Thatcher and Mitterrand shaking hands in the middle (or something like that). I remember this movie with Tom Cruise, Mission Impossible, and how classy it all was. The style of the French mixed with the practicality of the British. What could be better?

In the Lille "Europe" train station, everything is modern, clean, wide open spaces and carefully marked to keep both the English and the French speakers informed. Passport control was a breeze. Security? The nicest security experience I've had since well before 9/11. Shoes stayed on, belt stayed on, the security officers (kind, intelligent people with heads on their shoulders… nothing like the TSA drones in the US), helped us move through and down to the quay where we waited with the other border crossers. I was actually getting excited about getting on board the Eurostar and sitting where Tom sat, or nearby at least.

Time out: Pardon me as I add a quick little observation before we get on board the train. Mark and I were on the quay and realized that our car would be clear at the other end. So we had to roll our little bags for about 500 or so feet. We strolled past the business men in their matching pinstripes suits, their slightly generous girth, and their nonstop talk about business. We walked past the well dressed ladies with their silk scarves and designer eyeglasses. We walked past the families with their miss matched luggage and their plastic bags of food. We walked past French people, Brits, and a few other nationalities. But what was interesting to me – and I apologize as I now complain about the French for a bit (remember that I chose to dedicate my life to them so there's lots about the French that I love, but here's something I don't) – the Brits, almost obsessed with being polite, each stepped slightly back out of the way as Mark and I rolled our bags along the narrow quay. The French, on the other hand, remained either oblivious, or chose to stand their ground ('cause they were there first?). In any event, each time we had to squeeze by a French crowd, we had to carefully navigate a tiny passage between them and the 5 foot drop to the tracks.

I love the French, but I wish sometimes that they could pay just a little bit more attention to others when they're in public. Trying to navigate sidewalks, malls, train stations or airports in French cities is like those first few seconds after class in high school when 100s of kids would empty into the hallway and it would take a good 10 seconds for the crowds to even out. Take those 10 seconds, and that's most every time you are walking in a place where crowds of French man & women & children happen to come together. Of course, we Americans learned how to stay out of the way back in elementary school when we had to file in and out of every classroom, single file, and walk (don't run) to our next classroom, cafeteria, gym class, or recess. So by high school, everyone was used to following more or less the same rhythm, walking always on the right hand side of the hallway. And if you had to stop to tie your shoe or search through your bag, you dove into a doorway or behind a decorative concrete pillar so you didn't cause a five-person pileup on the way to the cafeteria.

I can't tell you how many times I've been walking down the sidewalk in France and there's this one person walking diagonals, side to side, coming towards me. I try to stand my ground, but end up hovering next to the wall to my right; eventually that person heads towards me, surprised to be almost crashing into me, and I have to stop, or move to my left, or prepare for the colliding of the elbows, the clash of the shopping bags, and the 'pardon'. I thought pardons where reserved for those unavoidable intrusions on one another, pardons are not green lights to ignore everyone around you and walk zigzag to and from your destinations.

Anyways…. here we were, ready to board the Eurostar. The train pulled into the station right on time. It was a bright yet dingy yellow. That should have been my first clue but I was still awestruck. We were in car #1. The train stopped. The door finally opened, we climbed aboard, and the first person we see is a passenger lurking in the entryway (someone with a ticket but not a reserved seat). He wore dark sunglasses not so cleverly hiding a beaten black eye and newly sewn stitches. He looked like one of the guys in Mission Impossible after Tom exited the train.

We head into our cabin by opening the sliding door and woosh! What's that odor? It smelled like dirty underwear, polyester, and cheese. Our seats were the very first ones, one to our right and one to our left, both occupied. So what was to be a quick and easy boarding of the Eurostar turned into a bumblefuck (sorry, that's the best word for it). Everyone else had to cram into the entry way as we tried to politely take our seats and boot the squatters out. I have to say, those oncoming passengers stuck in the bottleneck were very understanding… or maybe they too were put off by the smell and not looking forward to venturing forth.

Once finally seated, I began to think… This feeling reminds me of something…. I can't quite describe it yet… but I do remember when I've felt this before. Maybe you have too.

I went to Hollywood, got my share of Hollywood Boulevard, the stars in the sidewalk, the Chinese Theater, and thought… I almost wish I had never come here. The idea I had in my mind of what Hollywood was quickly vanished. Glamour lost in exchange for gum stuck to my heel. A sense of style squandered in favor of the stench of fast food fries and urine. The hope of stardom replaced with the hope of finding a parking spot or a table at a restaurant that wasn't overrun with a bus full of Japanese tourists.

I went to Disneyland (still in California). This is where my Mom and Dad went on their second honeymoon. They brought me back record album from the Magic Kingdom that I listened to hundreds of times. I stared at the album cover and imagined the Small World, the Pirates of the Caribbean, Cinderella's Castle and life-sized characters at every bend in the road, Mickey, Minnie, Goofy… we even had a photo of Mom being kissed by Goofy right on the lips! Wow how cool, how magical, how exciting. Then I went to Disneyland. There was a life-sized duck (a real duck) standing in the Three Pigs village in my Small World. There were Pirates of the Caribbean that were less animated and less life-like than the mechanical band members at Chucky Cheese. Cinderella's Castle was just a passage way, not a destination. And as for Mickey? You now had to stand in line and make your way through a cartoon village to eventually get a photo with the guy, all 4 feet 8 inches of him. When did Mickey get so small?

Umberto Ecco talked about this feeling in his book of essays: Travels in Hyperreality. It's what the French would call 'déception' and what we call disappointment. But Ecco places it in relation to travel and finding out that the real thing is much less interesting than the fake version in our heads. In that one word, déception, is the perfect mix of what I'm feeling now: disappointment and deception.

There's the disappointment of the Eurostar being more Eurotrash than anything; the carpets are dark grey and stained, the seats are ripped, the luggage hovering above our heads, straps hanging down, teasing us with their gravitational pull. Then there's the deception involved in all of this. The gal from the French SNCF who sold us our ticket and raised her eyebrows in awe as she uttered the word Eurostar; the huge Lille Europe train station, sleek, and modern, and kind to travelers. The shaking of hands in the 80s, the coming together of two countries, Tom Cruise and the simple pleasure of making it from one side of the Channel to the other without the risk of sea sickness or the annoyance of boarding a plane.

I guess it's about time I grew up and stopped staring at album covers. I don't really want to, though. I want to walk through the streets of France and not stress over keeping my head up to avoid collisions and keeping my head down to avoid stepping in dog doo. I want to be in a Hollywood where a director had cleaned up all the clutter and chose the perfect angle with which to view it. I want a Disneyland that takes me to the very same place I had imagined wither real fake pirates and finally something to see in Cinderella's Castle.

I'm a new soul

Hi Friends! This is just a quick little blog to share some more video clips with you.

In a country where Britney Spears just received the 'NJG'' Music Award (similar to our MTV award) for "Best International Artist" (I know! Tell me about it!), it is very comforting to know that the French also appreciate the more sane, intellectual, poetic and artistic side of music. Video clips are still very popular here (when's the last time you turned on MTV?) and they can be works of art.



New Soul: Yaël Naim

This one is particularly special for me because it describes someone who is moving into a new place and a new life. Like me, she's already happy, ready to put a bit of herself into what she's doing and where she's living, and what she gets in return is more than she ever imagined. You really have to watch it all the way to the end and finally everything makes sense. I was actually quite moved. I hope you will be to.





Happy Endings: Mika

Mika was also a winner at the NRJ awards (NRJ is pronounced "energy") but this time for Artist of the Year (or something like that). Well deserved.





Tais toi mon coeur: Dionysos

The refrain here is "Tais toi mon coeur" (be quiet my heart), and she replies "Je ne te reconnais pas" (I don't recognize you). This one I enjoy purely for the visual.

I’m exhausted!

As you may have noted, it's been a while since my last entry. I thought I was coming to France to bring my life back into 2^nd gear and slow things down a bit. But I've been here for three weeks and so far, it's been in overdrive every day.

Now, I don't want to complain too much! I'm in France for Pete's sake (or for Pierre's sake). On my way to and from school, I (quickly) stroll by 500 year old buildings, charming cafés, little boutiques with stuff I really can't imagine wanting (but it looks cool), statues and historic plaques here and there… But I think the best thing is watching the French in action. I have to admit, they make me giggle from time to time. Here are a few glimpses of what goes through my head.

• My neighbors across the courtyard are very cool, that is, cool neighbors in a French context. Many people here don't even know their neighbors and I have the privilege of getting a wave from them whenever we're outside at the same time, and a smile from their son, Mateo, who's about 2 years old and adorable. I have another neighbor, just next-door, who goes out of his was to not look my way. It's more of an effort for him than for the wave from the others.
  
• The French somehow learned to not smile on the street and to mind their business. It's a safe way to go about your day. Today, as I was heading down my sidewalk, I saw a gal heading out, still talking with people inside, smiling, laughing, the cute "au revoir, oui, oui, je t'appelle, je t'aime" and she's still smiling when she shuts the door. Then like elevator doors closing on the fun floor, she suddenly brought her emotional pendulum back to zero and took to the streets with a 'get out of my way' attitude.
  
• People here are not usually in a hurry, unless there's a chance they may have to wait. I know, that doesn't make sense. Let me explain. The French, as you know very well, can stay at the table for hours after a meal, can savor a tiny cup of coffee for a half hour and consistently engage you in interesting conversation. They can be walking down the street, stop to study a store window, or read the headlines at a newspaper stand. Then, as soon as they head down the steps to the subway, it's 'get out of my way I have a train to catch.' Why the sudden hurry? And then, there's how they wait in line. And for Pierre's sake, the subway here comes every 2 minutes, really!
  
• When French professionals do their business (not that business, come on!), they are always serious and seem to have two goals at once. The first, answer your question, or provide you with the information, or not. And the second, show you that they know what they're doing. Perhaps it's a default in the American character but we often don't have a problem saying "I'm not sure", or "Let me check" or "Can I get back to you?" Here, you get "no" for the "I'm not sure", "I have to consult with my colleague" for the "Let me check", and "You'll have to come back tomorrow" for the "Can I get back to you?"
  

  This is perhaps a reaction on my part to a problem with our bank today. Three weeks ago, we ordered a business visa card for me. When I got back to the office, I noticed that they had spelled my name wrong on everything; it was "Irvng" Ya, YOU try to pronounce that. Anyways, three weeks later, still no card. I go back yesterday and they can't believe me. They wanted me to go back and check my mailbox. So after insisting for a while, the lovely gal checked in her computer, made a call, and realized that she had never really hit "send" to start the whole thing going. Remember, however, that I had explained that we need to correct the spelling error. This was her chance! So of course… no correction. Luckily here in France, nobody checks your card, or signature, or whatever.
  

Then there are all the things that make you smile no matter where you go here.

• Moms and Dads dropping their kids off to the elementary school just up the street.
  
• And the voices of those kids… like out of a Truffaut movie. Adorable.
  
• There's the ever pleasant "bonjour" waiting for you everywhere.
  
• The yeasty wafting smell of bread when you walk in the bakery door.
  
• The pointy, colorful, fringed or striped or whatever SHOES…. oh, ya, on the men!
  
• The American reruns on French TV. Ever hear the Fresh Prince speak French? Oh, and the French version of the Wheel of Fortune? They have a French speaking 6 foot tall Scandinavian blond to turn the letters, a goofy funny-face-making presenter who just seems to be there to waste time, the contestants who talk a heck of a lot more than ours do and are always trying to be funny (is this an audition?), and a cute little dog that roams free on stage for the entire show.
  

So I know it sounds at times like I'm making fun of things here. But I'm really not. Simply said, I would not be here if I didn't have an enormous respect for the people, the places, and the ideas that France puts in my head. So I'm exhausted, but I manage to crack a smile, inside my head our outside for real, all day and every day. Pas mal, non?

For Zach

I've been thinking a lot about my friend Zach who is going through a very rough time right now. So I found a few dance videos to cheer him up.

Parle à ma main (talk to my hand): This doesn't need much of an intro, nor is understanding the French really necessary (although it's hilarious!). You'll get the point. Just something stupid I saw on the TV this morning.





Mondotek "Alive": Think the opposite of hip-hop. Here, the weight of the beat is much more up. As far as I can tell, hip-hop is all about the weight being down. Sometimes we all need the weight of things to be up for a change.




Nocturne's Despondency: I wish I had a YouTube video for this too. The quote will have to do: "The most satisfying piece of the evening was associate director Zach De Vries' lovely and evocative "Nocturne's Despondency," set to John Williams' mournful score from Schindler's List. The four dancers in muted shades responded to De Vries' sophisticated choreography with beautiful breath and phrasing. Even when doing simple gestures like tracing circles on the floor with their hands or bending to gather up another dancer, they were luminous." (from "Jazzworks sparkles and shines at Overture Center", Isthmus Daily Page, 03/03/2007).

Here are the words that I'm pulling from that quote and that describe Zach: satisfying, lovely, evocative, mournful (at this moment in time), sophisticated, beautiful, simple, luminous.

Rennes 3 - OM 1, or… Rennes 4 - Eric 20/20

My first European 'football' match. "Stade Rennais" vs. "Olympique de Marseille", two somewhat evenly matched teams on the field, but certainly not in the stands. The Packer fans out there will understand; there were lots of similarities.

• Record attendance: the last time this stadium saw this many people (almost 30,000) was the last time Marseille played Rennes.
  
• The bars around the stadium could not keep up with the demand of thirsty Marseille fans, all wearing their OM light blue and white.
  
• The fans didn't quit cheering, really, they cheered for 90 minutes straight. It started before the match, hit a high when OM scored the first goal, and continued until the end of the game, even though Rennes had scored their 3 by then.
  
• And although OM has not won a championship since 1993 (?), the fans still are true to their team.
  

But now, here are a few differences.

• The stadium personnel and the police, while very respectful, treated the Marseille fans like animals. Really. There was only one entrance for all the Marseille fans. I personally was padded down three times (me, Andrew). We passed through one locked gate, then something like a cattle chute, then up some stairs where, once inside, we were locked in. I'm not kidding. The 15 foot gates were closed and we were in for the entire match. There was no leaving.
  
• A perfect example of how, for the French, less is more: the real fans, Eric tells me, only sport a scarf and perhaps the jacket of their own OM fan club. The amateurs, on the other hand, go overboard with jackets, jerseys, flags, you name it, they have it. A big change from Wisconsin where if you don't wear green and gold on Sunday, you must be from Illinois.
  
• The Marseille fans were 99.9% young men, early 20s to late 30s. I felt old. Obviously you don't have to wait until your retirement to get season tickets like you do in Green Bay. I rarely saw a family and maybe a total of 3 children the entire evening (before and after the game). Perhaps that was because…
  
• The game started at 9pm on a Sunday evening. I suppose this is actually one similarity because 9pm is prime time and apparently the French don't cling to their TVs on Saturday or Sunday afternoons to watch sports.
  

There was another sport in town for Andrew. It was watching after Eric who got tossed and turned in the excitement of it all and came out a bit hung over and a bit black-and-blue. On Friday night, Eric and I were both lit up like Christmas trees (see Le Bâteau Ivre) and that's when Eric took his first tumble, somewhere, and was left with a pretty bad scratch on his elbow. Rennes 1. The game Sunday started at 9pm but we had to be at the stadium by 6 to get the tickets. So for three hours, what was one to do? We spent the three-hour pre-game in a café/bar just across the street from the stadium where (granted, the steps were slippery) Eric took a tumble and so I yanked him up by his collar until he found his feet again. That dive brought Eric chin to railing. Rennes 2. The last episode was in the stands where we were pushed around like a heard of sheep. One wave landed Eric two or three steps down and resulted in a tear in his jeans and a torn up kneecap. Rennes 3. Probably around that same time, either someone lifted his cell out of his picket or it tumbled down the bleachers. Either way it was gone. Rennes 4.

But Eric still gets a grade of 20/20 (a perfect 100% on the French grading scale). It was Eric who went out and bought the croissants every morning this weekend, Eric who found the best restaurants, and Eric who kept the ball rolling at every moment. For me personally, the best thing was counting how many times Eric called his wife, Fabienne, throughout the weekend. Every time we did something great, or saw something amazing, his first impulse was to dial the phone and share it with her and his almost 5-year-old, Batiste (also known as Puic Puic). And his youngest, Aubin, was also on his mind all day and every day, especially when we visited three or four clothing stores for infants (the French dress their kids very well, no Garanimals here). At this very moment, trying to catch up on sleep in the train back down to Marseille, I'm sure he is regretting the loss of the phone, not because of its value or the list of numbers saved inside, but because he is cut off from Fabienne until this afternoon at least. A loss for Eric but proof that he's a 20/20.

Saint-Malo

« La ville close ouverte au monde » (literally, the closed city open to the world), Saint-Malo, France's first Britain community established in 1308, seems to have leaped from a sea of rocks to secure its place in maritime and world history. While the French professor in me wants to tell you about Chateaubriand, the father of French romanticism, born in Saint-Malo in 1768, the North American in me wants to tell you about Jacques Cartier who sailed from Saint-Malo's coast and eventually down the Saint-Laurent to discover Canada. History aside, there's more I'd like to tell you about my visit.

Eric and I drove to Saint-Malo from Rennes; it took less than an hour and I was very happy with my driving (French drivers make me nervous… but less and less every day now that I made the leap to behind the wheel). We were able to take the car inside the walled city and park! This event came as a surprise to Eric for two reasons: one, Andrew parallel parked the car with only inches to spare and paid homage to the American drivers who are not limited to wide open Mall-of-America spaces, and two, parking was free. No parking in Marseille is free.

Within just a minute or two, we were up on the walls of the city and taking in the best views I've had in France since my arrival. The tide was on its way out and the sun was shining down on us (another surprise for the both of us this time). We made it almost entirely around the city before we eventually descended to street level where the wide open views were replaced by a network of narrow streets, tourist shops, crêperies, and biscuits au beurre salé. Eventually it was too much. Too many little stores and too many little cars reluctantly sharing the little cobblestone streets. I knew very well that Saint-Malo was one of France's cities that suffered a pounding of bombs WWII bombs (the city of Brest was perhaps the worst), but I had the impression that, even during this low season, Saint-Malo suffered the pounding of tourists almost year round.

This all changed with our visit of the Saint-Vincent Cathedral. The only cathedral I have seen where, once you walk in, you step down. In fact, by the time you get to the back of the church, you're a good 15 feet lower that when you started. But while stepping down from the walls of the city brought disorder and disarray, stepping down to the back of the church brought peace, calm, and through that, an appreciation for this cathedral and the entire city. It was one of those moments when clarity hits you like a rock. We walked passed Cartier's tomb, flanked by many others, only a few of which were marked. There were memorials to important figureheads of Saint-Malo, and even relics of a Saint. And then, just before leaving the church, there was a display of photos of the cathedral from before, during, and after the WWII bombings. It hit me. This church has suffered so much yet it rose again, not for any tourist, but for those that came to worship. Like the old man on the other side of the church, sitting quietly by himself.

We stepped out of the church and Eric had to reel me in, bring me back to Earth. I was wrapped in thought. Difficult to explain but there was a weight inside of me that centered me for the first time since I've been here. A weight that gave me reason. A weight that told me that a lost suitcase was nothing compared to a cathedral spire that crumbled to the ground because of hate, and now reaches back to the sky because of faith.

I've never been terribly religious but I do enjoy the spiritual experience when it hits me like a rock. Don't you?

Le Bâteau Ivre

My first week is done. To recap:

• Arrived Monday early evening. No luggage.
  
• Learned the ropes at the office and met lots of great people there Tuesday. No luggage.
  
• Ditto on Wednesday. No luggage.
  
• Ditto on Thursday. One bag arrives (how can they find on and not the other?).
  
• Eric (friend from Marseille) arrived Friday noon. C'est la teuf! (It's been a party ever since).
  

For those of you who don't know Eric, he's one of the greatest, most fun-loving people I know. Finishing his PhD in Aix-en-Provence in English (American Culture), he's married to the most charming woman, Fabienne, and has two sons, Bâtiste (5) and Aubin (1 ½).

The fun started Friday afternoon when we took the typical tourist walk through the old center of Rennes (I'll get photos up here soon). Of course, one of the first stops was in an Irish pub, and that was the beginning of the end. After a few beers there, a walk around town, and a few more at a less interesting place, we returned home for a few minutes then out to a nice restaurant in the area recommended to Eric by a friend of his: Café Breton. The clients and the staff there were all very cool and eventually we struck up a conversation with the couple sitting next to us. Why is it that in some parts of the world, that's ok, and in others, it's not? In Paris, we would probably have been sitting even closer and not a word would have been exchanged. In Rennes, just 2 hours west, it's almost expected that you say hello and strike up a conversation. (I have a few ideas as to why, but can't get into that now since you're probably wondering how drunk I eventually got this evening!)

After dinner, we were invited to join our neighbor for drinks at a bar back in the old center called "Le Bâteau Ivre"… bad omen… for the non frenchies out there, it's "The Drunk Boat" (reference to a poem by Rimbaud). By that point, neither of us needed anything more to drink (but has that ever stopped me? I had to pay homage to Wisconsin some how!). At the Drunk Boat, Eric and I met a few more people, including a gal named Anne Claire (great conversationalist) and Thierry (a doctor!). While the three of us were chatting, somehow Eric got out (makes him sound like a pet ;-) and then he was gone. About 10 minutes later, my cell phone rings and it's Eric. He's lost.

Lucky for us, lost meant that he was about a block or so up the street.

Home by about 1:30 am, up at 9:30. Eric got us croissants and pain au chocolat. Next on the agenda…

• Visiting Saint-Malo. A walled city on the coast, about 45 minutes from here. Mark and I had planned on discovering the city together but let's look at it this way: I'll be able to get us in and out much more efficiently after this first try today. Mark likes efficiency.

day one

I've been in Rennes for 24 hours, still no luggage, but very happy none the less. The 'Bretons' are certainly living up to their reputation: kind, friendly, helpful & practical.

After a delicious dinner, typically breton, and great night's sleep (after watching my downloaded Desperate Housewives... some habits are hard to break... I just had to see if Lynette's family made it out from underneath the rubble after the tornado's trip down Wisteria Lane), I had my first 'French' breakfast of coffee, a croissant and a 'ficelle' (a small, thin baguette, perfect for one). How lucky to have one of the best bakeries in Rennes just around the corner!

The day was filled with brief introductory meetings at school, lunch at a chic restaurant, more training for the job, and then a stop to pick up my new cell phone (you'll find the # here).

Tonight promises another dinner on the town and hopefully another good night's sleep.

lift off!

I have to say, for all the times I grunt and complain about airport employees, today I am very impressed with the people at Madison's Northwest. (update: Northwest in Detroit? that's another question... as of 24 hours after mon arrival, they still haven't sent my bags!) In Madison, they did everything right, it seems (except for the one gal at the ticket counter who, in the course of over one hour, took care of two people… oh, and this was the first class line). ANYways, for the first time in a very long time, I felt immediately compelled to write. Here's how it all went down.

The captain himself came out into the waiting area and explained that we needed 1600 feet of clearance before takeoff. His plan was to take the plane out onto the runway and wait for that window of opportunity. So we boarded, quickly. Most everyone figured out that there were plenty of seats on the plane and that we could sit just about everywhere… everyone except for this, well… let's start a new paragraph. He deserves it.

Five foot eight, very generous around the waist, red curly hair, and a black carry-on satchel with white piano keys printed on it. He wore an olive green turtle neck, tucked into his brown corduroys, with a nice strong brown leather belt. Rosy red cheeks and a grunt as he lifted his piano bag into the overhead bin, he needed to sit in HIS seat, the one tiny seat next to an I've-got-it-together young Importance-of-Being-Earnest wanna-be with the argyle sweater, black hair swooped back, red rimmed glasses, cute jeans, shiney black shoes, and his cell phone permanently attached to his right ear as he perused the offerings in the Sky Mall Magazine. Earnest, ever so polite, handled the situation very well. He mentioned some excuse as to why he would move up a seat and continued his conversation and perusing. Ernest eventually ended up being joined by a cute 30-something gal with a tiny waist, cream cable knit sweater, and class written all over her Coach bag. All was well. But were we going to get lift off?

A few more stragglers came on board, like us, a hopeful look in their eyes, they quickly scanned the plane and found a seat. We taxied out onto the runway, and then sat. Nobody gave up hope and sure enough, 10 minutes later we heard "Flight Attendants, prepare for takeoff." I was never so thrilled. This is too good to be true! Just imagine: all the cup-half-empties were on coach buses to Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Chicago and even Detroit (that's an 8 hour drive withOUT fog!). There were about 40 of us on this plane, and we had liftoff! And what a liftoff it was. The captain used that method of revving the engines while holding onto the brakes so we literally took off in what seemed to be an instant.

Here's the cool part. Think back about the foggy day, the foggy beginning to my Rennes experience, the foggy idea why I was doing this in the first place. We took off like a jet (duh) and quickly saw the lights below dim under the haze of December's snow finally melting. Within just a few minutes, we were in the thick of it all. Pea soup. I sat there, staring out the window, happy to finally be off the ground yet still a bit lifeless about what was in store. Then it happened.

We rose through and then above the fog. Like a flash of gunpowder, the horizon lit up in reds & oranges as the sun was setting beyond the clouds. It was so amazing I gasped, then turned and tapped my seat partner on the arm and told her she had to look. She was glad I did. It really was beautiful, and inspirational, I should add. Inspirational because maybe it was… wait, not 'maybe'… here I am talking about hopes, and optimism, and fog and red skies and I write 'maybe'? It was definitely a sign of things to come.

A beautiful horizon that I will share with you, and especially Mark.

You see, for over 4 years now, we've traveled together. Mark - always in a fog of his own during these flights (if you didn't know, he gets a bit Rain Man-ish about flying) - needs me to interrupt his planning to point out the tiny ant-like people below, the Capitol building, Lake Michigan, and the Midwest landscapes spread out like quilts, more beautiful from the sky then from the ground. So this red horizon lights up in front of me and my first impulse is to turn and point it out to the person sitting next to me. That should have been Mark. I already miss him.

a foggy start

Sitting in the Madison airport, hours past when my flight was due to leave, I'm reminded of many things: patience really is a virtue; some people really care about their jobs and others really don't (avoid the ones that don't); and a skinny latte with sugar-free vanilla syrup is really delicious.

Getting ready to go during these past few days was a bit strange. My attempt to leave things in a convenient and hospitable state for those coming to Madison to replace me, and to live in my home, ended up feeling like erasing traces of me everywhere I was. My car now looks like a rental, my office on campus has a much bigger desktop than I remember, and many spaces in my home are sitting empty, waiting for new people to leave their mark for a while. Leaving for five months was never such a big deal… I lived in France for a semester, then a year, then two summers… but that was in my 20's when I had fewer roots to uproot. I've lived in my home for almost 20 years now and am obviously very attached to it, and I think IT is attached to ME. The quirks that I've developed over these years make it harder to move away, abandon it, because that old house depends on me, just as I depend on it. It's hard to leave those two cats too, like the house, they depend on me.

So why would I choose to spend five months away from home if I'm so attached to it (and it to me) and, if in all of this writing (this is the kicker) I have yet to express any excitement for what's to come? To be honest, I don't really know if I'm going to like living in Rennes and working for CIEE again. I'll do a great job, I know (I've done plenty of things I don't like). So maybe it's not where I'm going that's so important, it's where I'm leaving that makes this journey so interesting. I'm taking a break from a 12-year work routine, abandoning my home of 18 years, and leaving behind my love of 4.

Leaving Mark at home for this first month doesn't seem too challenging. We spend plenty of time apart, but in much shorter intervals. He'll be flying over in late January or early February (depending on how far the Packers take it this season). This first month without him will fly by and in our virtual age, we'll be in close contact via phone, email, Skype & chat. In fact, as I sit here in the airport, we have had 4-5 phone conversations, him on his computer checking the skies, and me walking from monitor to monitor wondering if I'm going to get out of Madison today. But still, I won't see Mark for a month and really don't feel too sad about that. Why is that?

It's a foggy start to the adventure. I know where I'm going, but don't know when. I know what I'm leaving behind, but don't fully comprehend why.

 

And pardon the quick ending here! We're going to leave NOW!! Have to run!