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?