I'm not going to narrate here. I'm just going to let you look and see for yourselves.
ahh. lovely.
Now, I must fill you in, temporarily, on the life of Mati.
Here he is with one of his friends, Gustave Flaubert. We ran into him on one of our walks.
He'll be checking in with you all at a later date to fill you in about his adventures in the French academic beauracracy and then you'll have a break from the sappy but sincerely feminine sentiments of yours truly.
The translation work is starting to roll in for him now. He's working on a paper...wait I have to get the title...You're gonna love this...The Environment and People from Neolithic to Classical Times in Greece and Albania...???? He's working on it nightly. Twenty eight pages from French to English...Last night he asked me, wryly, if I was familiar with ..."the evolution of post glacial vegetation landscapes in Southern Greece..."? Needless to say, his brain is on overdrive.
Thanks, but I'll stick to writing poems on poo. : )
The university students are getting ready to come back to school next week. So our languid days of roaming the city streets and outskirts of town, looking for trouble are coming to and end.
While we have had the time this month, he's also been connecting to his manly home improvement roots by assembling our closet, drawers and bookshelves with few instructions, a swiss army knife and a creative stream of cuss words. He was very proud of his American-ness as he negotiated the work.
We found a cabinet for the kitchen and our TV stand in the recycling bins and we're proud of these acquisitions. They cleaned up beautifully!
We are getting into a nice routine centered around meals and walks. And isn't that how it should be?? : )
We seem to eat a lot and obviously we're rather impressed with our cuisine seeing as we're obsessed with documenting it.
As many of our friends know, we introduced a radical shift in our diet at the beginning of January in which we have, for the most part, cut out refined packaged and processed foods. We eat primarily vegetables, fruits, beans, nuts and seeds and some grains. We save the high quality animal products for special occasions and as you know, feasting days. I bring this up because I was told we would have a difficult time finding the things we're used to eating. But with the markets, we have been in heaven. It's been a amazing adventure for me cooking on two electric plates with one small saucepan and one bigger pot. I'm learning a great deal about the beauty of simple cooking. Tonight, though, we're going for Japenese food. : )
We're completely and totally plugged into technology in a way that we have never been before. It's magnificent and terrifying at the same time. We have TV with 79 cable channels, internet, a land line and a damn cell phone. This is all so crazy considering back in Long Beach, we had no land line, shared a cell phone and I usually had to stand next to our 14 inch TV with my elbow touching the rabbit ears at a 42 degree angle so Mati could actually see the ball land in the Nadal/Federer tennis match. I'm not exaggerating.
We have all this technology because its really cheap. We pay 29 euros a month for all this mind numbing goodness and we love it. I will say we'll have to start weaning ourselves and get back outside. I've noticed our walking, which was usually like 3 times a day to soak in as much of the sunlight as we could, is beginning to diminish considerably as we're heading back to the crib earlier these days so we can suckle the techno bottle.
We joined the boathouse here in the quirky little city. It's absolutely gorgeous. They told us it is the second oldest boathouse in France. Since Mati already knows how to row, I know he won't have any problems. I was learning to row before we left Long Beach and though I've been an athlete for the larger portion of my life, I wasn't learning as quickly as I'd hoped. Rowing is an extremely beautiful and difficult sport. On our last outing, I found myself gently crashing into one of the Long Beach docks and couldn't dislodge myself from between another boat and the dock and honestly have no idea how I could have gotten myself into that particular position. I got better as we went along but now I'm going to be learning with the Frenchies....who will be teaching my in FRENCH.. I don't speak French well yet, remember. (though i am getting much better) Add to that the butterflys of being someplace new with new people and a new sport... It should be ....interesting to say the least. Think of me on October 11th : )
I've managed to secure a job with a little French speaking Russian who will now learn English. Mati has been coming with me too since school has been rather slow. A couple of weeks ago I found a post at the English bookstore. We're on bit of a budget so we knew that if we want to travel around and see more of Europe, I had better get a job to supplement our modest income. Matt and I went back and forth about my teaching English..I couldn't wrap my brain around the idea of teaching English to the French. My confidence was low because of the little French I know and I was thinking the Frenchies who are learning English probably understand more about the grammar than I do...But then I found the perfect post. The woman wanted a Native English speaker to work with her 5 year old son. I knew that was the job for me and with Matt's help, we set it all up and now we fetch Eliot from school 3 days a week, feed him, play with him, teach him some English and put him to bed. It hasn't gone exactly like that so far - more like: we pick him up and walk home from school, give him a snack and he cries, ask a question and he cries, try to soothe him...louder crying...right up until the time when he flings himself onto his bed and cries some more....until he cries himself right to sleep.
Update: Since I wrote the last paragraph, Eliot, whom I now refer to affectionately, as Smelliot because he tends to toot a lot, has had a breakthrough. NO Crying! Some English sentences too....We play a lot of indoor football (soccer), which he loves and Mati taught him to say "I am ready. Kick the ball"
He also shares with us his small arsenal of weapons, consisting of 3 swords which he dangerously places 2 in his pants and the other through the handle of one of the swords exiting the front of his drawers, 1 colt 45, 1 shotgun and one other smokewagon I don't know the name of, an eyepatch - which, puts him at a definite disadvantage - and a pirate hat.
We're making progress. He now feels rather safe.
Next week, school commences for Mati and I begin my French intensive language study. On my own. I've committed to approximately 3 hours a day. While Matt teaches, I study. The french lessons here are very expensive and I figured I could do it on my own if I stay disciplined. Wish me luck!
Notes from the Observation Deck:
Title: Organisms adapt
Mati and I love Eckhart Tolle’s teachings. Regularly, over the last few years, we’ve been listening to his CD lectures, reading his books, and most recently participating in the web event he and Oprah produced about his book “A New Earth”. Tolle’s teachings on inhabiting each moment have influenced our lives in a powerful way and experimenting with this type of awareness continues to be a humbling, eye opening and rewarding practice.
As I was re-reading one of the original posts here from the beginning of September when I was in such an incredibly new and different landscape, I didn’t have a choice but to be powerfully present or perish – not literally, but that’s how the organism feels when attempting to buy fruit for the first time in France.
The minute we become accustomed to our surroundings even, just a tiny bit, that extreme alertness is no longer as necessary as it was in the first weeks of learning to survive in a new tribal land. The parasympathetic “rest and digest” nervous system takes over and we begin to relax. Staying in the wonderland of newness and awe of each of life’s moments then requires practice and discipline.
Life for humans is an intriquing paradox in this way.
We want to feel the newness of life, which forces us into that powerful presence and then with our natural primal instincts, we move swiftly to adapt.
Once we have adapted to the new environment –whatever that may be, living with an alert and powerful presence becomes a keenly more difficult practice.
Looking at the world with brand new eyes at the mundane takes discipline unless you participate in activities that naturally force you into this state.
This is why we love to travel.
Intuitively, we are familiar, at the organism level, with the rewards of being present and the ecstasy of time standing still – whether it be through raising children or traveling.
The newness fades though in the face of adaptation. We become comfortable with our routines and before you know it, we’re making lists of the things we must finish, or how we wished we’d said something different in that conversation/argument all the while ignoring the magnificent sun setting on a theatrical stage filled with dancing clouds and operatic colors – kind of like talking loudly on a cell phone while attending the symphony. How rude.
I had a reminder of my own organism adapting when I was walking home from the market this morning.
We found a health food store in the local square.
I like it there because its small and quiet when you shop.
When was the last time you entered a shopping arena and it was quiet? Whoa dude. It’s kinda weird at first and then its amazing.
Across the square from the health food store is the Intermarche. It was the market we felt most comfortable in when we first got here.
We bought our pillows and sheets and comforter there. We bought our first two tumblers to drink wine out of there.
We bought our produce and grains and spices there and the 2 pots to cook them in.
Our 2 spoons, 2 knives and a cutting board, a backpack for school – you know – the supplies you need most when you are glory camping in your French flat.
In any case, we set up our initial life from the Intermarche. It’s one of those places, that although it smells like a combination of bums (meaning backsides not beggars) and meats, it will always be held dear to our hearts.
Since then, we found the La Vie Claire. That’s the health food store. Its small, like I said and quiet and it smells good. And the produce is limited to organic and what's in season and the same two ladies are always working there and they think I understand French better than I do and they always comment on what I’m putting in my basket. I like it when one lady weighs the produce from the other end of the counter where the scale is inconveniently located and then tells the other lady the price and she enters it on the cash register at the other end. Totally inefficient. I like that. If you’re in a hurry, you definitely don’t want to shop French. And especially not the health food store. I’m not entirely convinced that one of my favorite cashier ladies isn’t stoned every time I shop there.
Like I was saying earlier, initially upon arriving at the square, I made my way diagnally across the large concrete block where the bigger than life open air market on Sundays takes up the space. During the other six days, the square is weakly occupied by a few hippie Frenchies talkin’ their French hippie smack (I don’t know if this is true…its just what I imagine when I see them and because most of the time French sounds a little like smack talkin’ impassioned banter – I can’t wait to learn it better!) or skaters or scooter riders or the open air mini markets that take a fraction of the space of the Sunday Mac Daddy market.
I walked into Intermarche and was immediately bombarded by the strange smells along with aromas of baking buttery breads and coffee from the boulangerie. And then the music. There’s always this music playing and usually in English. Typically, not my favorite English music either but I always have the songs playing in my head long after I leave the market – which feels a little like pollution in my brain. Nevertheless, I grabbed my little red basket and began my regular routine pathway through the store. The first couple of aisles have kitchenware and candles. I was thinking of other things as I made my way directly to the loose silverware. I know the silverware location since I’ve been here frequently enough. I’ve laid down the mental pathways and so it’s not new to me anymore. I’m comfortable and I know the layout and the policies. I know that I can use my US bank card here to purchase things. I know that when I choose my produce, I must place it in a plastic bag. “Thank you. tie the plastic bag”, the sign tells you in French. Then I must take my goods over to the produce guy who pulls himself, reluctantly, away from unpacking bananas and walks over to the weighing station to weigh the leeks and kiwis and puts a price sticker on the bag for me and off I go to the checkout line. That's how its done here in this store.
I know the produce routine because the first time I tried to buy garlic and onions – much necessary ingredients for the meal I was preparing – I left the store in tears because I went to the checkout line without weighing the produce and the checkout lady blurted out a long winded French question while holding out my individual garlic heads for me to see.
The checkout people sit in chairs rather than standing like they do at home, by the way. This creates an interesting environment in the line situation in France. The French don’t seem to mind waiting in line, which is wonderful except for the fact that I’ve been conditioned in the US where if we must wait for any extended period of time…say 2 to 3 minutes, we begin feeling the hostility rising from toes to nose of those waiting around us and shifting their weight from hip to hip and leering to the front of the line to see what the damn hold up is.
Of course I couldn’t understand the question she was asking and the sweat start to bead on my upper lip as I glanced at the long line of customers waiting behind me and imagined their impatience with my incompetence and American-ness. I remembered then reading something on a blog about having to get the weight and sticker and suddenly felt my foreign-ness weighing even heavier on my back.
“No, eeesse okay”. I said “essse okay” like “its okay” but with a Mexican/French accent.
I guess I thought she would understand me better if I spoke English with a French accent. And then it came out kinda Mexican. We finally negotiated that I would leave the onions and garlic behind – the very thing I went to the store for. I paid with my bank card which always throws the cashier off because in France, they have a Carte bleu, a bank card with a different kind of chip and reads their cards quickly. More waiting with the American. The cashier must figure out how to swipe the magnetic strip and that always requires a question to another cashier – who comes from her stand, leaving her customers (oh the pain of it!) and they collaborate looking at their card swiper machines and finally come to an agreement on how to swipe it. Then they always swipe too slowly. By this time, I’m a puddle of sweat and with my red apple cheeks I hand over what dignity I have left, to each one in line behind me, as an apology. The two cashiers then look to me. I gesture to swipe faster. It works. I sign. I leave. I cry. Exhilarting, painful presence. I adapt and grow and next time, I know the ropes.
As it turns out too, the Frenchies aren’t even annoyed by waiting in line. They chat and make good use of their line time. It seems they are used to the slow moving pace of the sitting cashier and the little obstacles of grocery shopping. Who knew??
But like I was saying before, on this particular day, many weeks later, no longer a rookie, I was planning other things in my head as I knowledgeably made my way directly to the loose silverware. I was searching for these particular forks that Mati loves the weight of. Then I was heading over to the produce section for bananas – we eat a lot of bananas and I’m obsessed with finding bananas without bruises when suddenly I realized I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t need to be because I had laid down other routine pathways as well. I know the route to and from home – a couple of different ways. I know that lovely health food store where its quiet and I can shop languidly amongst the frenchie granola ladies straight out of 1973, I know how to use the bank cards to shop and the basic phrases in French to get what I need. I routinely see the same faces of the people who work in the places I regularly go. At the internet café I see the same lovely woman and speak the routine lovely phrases. At the Sunday market, I make my way to the same cold and rugged farmer for spinach and chard each week. And each week, he gives me, with his stiff cracked large and handsome cold hands, the same delicious greens and writes the prices down on a paper and I pay him routinely.
I have grown comfortable, adapting to my surroundings.
The quiet of La Vie Claire was nice. I said my hellos to the ladies working and made my way to the grains, then the produce, and last stop for nut butter before my ritualistic slow check out process with my favorite stoner cashier and off down my routine path home. I go left out of La Vie Claire and make another left at the corner and then walk straight for a 6 or 7 blocks of cobblestone, past the church and through the square, another left and 2 more blocks or so before I’m home.
Organisms adapt.
I was reminded of this as I took my same path home with my health food store purchases.
My head was down and I was thinking about something outside the moment I was experiencing. It was important although I can’t remember what it was at this moment.
“Past the church”? The church is not just any ol’ church. It’s a huge old historic symbolic regal building that’s been around since the 1600’s and deserves a little more reverence than “past the church” but St. Maclou church, on my left, couldn’t get my attention today.
I’ve walked this path home for a month and half now.
I was lost in whatever thought I was lost in, when I moved my gaze from my shoe to the earphone wearing camera donning tourist in front of me, mouth agape and staring up in wonder, barely keeping his 73 year old balance on the old cobblestones in order to capture the majesty of this old church.
I stopped to look up at what he was seeing and instantly felt sheepish gazing into the electric blue sky and this intricate beanstalking architecture of a building climbing through the clouds. Seriously, how did they make them so tall? One of the gargoyles appeared to be glaring at me : )
We love to feel the newness of life. We travel, we raise children, we explore new relationships, roller coaster rides, bungi jump, Vegas, shoplift. Whatever. To feel more alive and awakened to life’s mysteries.
But we don’t necessarily want to experience the discomfort of that newness for very long.
I know this to be true. I have been in awe of my surroundings for the last month and have felt the true wonder I only remember feeling as a child. I have also been extraordinarily uncomfortable not knowing the language, the culture, the habits and the streets. You name it, its slightly different and uncomfortable at first. So, as quickly as possible, I watched closely and learned how things are done. I remembered the streets in order to get home and quickly learned to blend in more in order to feel comfortable.
Organisms are designed to adapt, which is important for our species' survival but not necessarily for the human soul and spirit.
I stopped and put my bags down and looked up at the church and remembered its age and nobility and I paid my respects before picking up my bags and getting myself lost on a new route towards home.
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