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!