Its Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

We celebrated the Italian's birthday last Saturday night by roaming the newly Christmasfied Rouen, drinking vin chaud, eating beignets and walking a mile and half through the city buzz to catch a Rouen hockey game.

We’ve been waiting for this day for a few weeks now. The Christmasfying of Rouen, that is. I mean, we knew the birthday would be a blast but the Christmas preparations have been going on for weeks now. And it happened to all come together on Mati’s
birthday, which made it all the more festive for us.

I’ve waited for the Christmas lights to come on here since they started working on them in an ever so unsafe manner in mid-November.
The idea of construction safety here is the safety reflector vest - and that's all - no safety measures to speak of other than the vest will be taken. They just “grip and rip’ through the city readying for the Christmas party month with tractors, saws, and other unidentifiable and dangerous looking machinery.

After the famous yearly rotisserie pork roast festivities at Lours Noir have closed the doors, after the last ferris wheel basket has been trucked away along with the Crazy Mouse ride, and the bumping American,"Gettin’Jiggy Wid It" tunes have been silenced and just when we were about to feel the vacancy of that side of the Seine going dark after a month of boisterous carnviviality, the Christmas preparations saved us from melancholy.

There is literally always something happening in this city. And if you live here in the city, if you walk in this city without a car, you naturally have a visceral connection to it and you participate in the life unless you hide in your flat for sleep or recuperation which is necessary from time to time.

But when I walk out my door and into the city streets, it reminds me of going to Trula’s house when I was 10. She was a strange lady but I loved her madly. She had a weird doll collection that I loved too – like over 200 or something like that. She decorated up big for every holiday and there was always something cooking on her stove. There was the inevitable crazy theme music playing along with whatever the occasion, an opera, a polka, an irish jig…something to fit the mood. I visited whenever I could, running up and ringing her doorbell incessantly to see what was new at Trula's house. She was impulsive too, like Rouen and its inhabitants. Once I had a loose tooth. Normally, I would work the tooth back and forth over time until it was ready to come out on its own and it would all happen in a safe and natural fashion. Then I would put the tooth under the pillow…and you know the predictable rest. But not at Trula’s house. My tooth was loose and she had the Rouen, “grip and rip” impulsive, spontaneous nature of my new French city. Before I knew what was happening, Trula had string wrapped around my tooth and the other end tied to door-knob and before I could think straight – Wham! The door slammed shut and out came the tooth. Shocking and a bit painful? Yes,but really very harmless too. And I was a buck wealthier two weeks sooner so I didn't complain. : )


Rouen is like that friend. It’s all so intriguing but you must be cautious or you could lose a tooth.
Smoking construction workers in their reflective safety vests hanging precariously over city sidewalks and stringing lights wildly around oversized ornaments and barren branchy trees, while a 97 year old shopping lady walks underneath, oblivious to the life endangering activities taking place above her head.
They’re smoking and welding metal plates together for some kind of Christmas "thingie" in the middle of the Cathedral square.
They’re smoking and welding.
With reflective safety vests on!

We waited for the lights to shine their Christmas spirited pride. We heard it through the grapevine the city would light up on Dec. 1 and with childlike anticipation, we ventured out at dark fall to see it all happen.
But in the Frenchie style, not a light..nope not a peep..nothing…just the city more quiet than usual for that hour.
So onward home.. tight lipped and disappointed …me anticipating if it would be the next night for the lights..no, not the next night..or the next …nuthin…nada.

I’d worked myself into a bit of a waiting French fried frenzy over the lights and decided I needed to chill. So I pretended to get used to the Christmas city roadies working their safety hazard set up and dismissed the process, chalking it up to “lame”.
The construction continued and I became immune to the excitement.

On Wednesday, I pretended I was only interested in Mr. Accordian Man, as I walked my walk but I did notice the construction guys were working on something big in the middle of the Cathedral square, which indicated that maybe the lighting of the city would be soon. They were putting up a stage of some kind. I turned my nose up a little, thinking, "Oh yeah..sure. When?"

But when I got home I feverishly described what they were doing in the square and demanded from the Italian,
"WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY'RE PUTTING THERE?? WHEN DO YOU THINK THE LIGHTS ARE COMING ON?? MATI, WHEN?"
"Soon, baby, soon."

We passed at 10pm in the evening and they were construction crews working late with those bright movie type lights and what to my wondering eyes should appear...
An ice skating rink and construction guys smoking and drinking beer??
They were pouring water onto a rink for ice skating? How cool is that?
I was sucked in again.



On Saturday morning, we dressed and moved methodically to the boathouse in anticipation of a cold but spiritually productive row on the Seine. It turned out to be a nice birthday morning for the Italian, not too entirely cold and the good work of the oars internalized.

When we were through, we made our way towards the Cathedral, sensing festivity in the air. Happy Birthday to Matthew! The festivities were, indeed, underway.
We were about to witness and participate in Christmas, Rouen style.
And it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas - but just a little bit off.

A French telethon was underway, raising money for children with needs. Don’t ask for the specifics of the needs because my French is getting better, but I still miss many of the details. : )

There was a long line of spandex wearing firemen participating in a continous chin-up party under a pop up tent. One guy would do 5 and go to the end of the line. They kept it going for a designated number of hours to raise the money. And every other fireman was either lighting a cigarette, putting one out just before his turn at the bar, or talking to a buddy with one hanging out of his mouth. Little log cabins with cross country skiing Santas and elves were surrounding and a large staircase of the Cathedral had been transformed into a snow hill with sleigh rides for kids. There was a clown in full on clown gear too, which wasn't quite Christmas but more circus - but that's how they do it around here. The more fun, the better. And clowns are fun. Big red clown afro, big red round rubbery nose, long floppy clown shoes pointed skyward as he walked and complete with a big clown cigarette hanging from his smilin’ clown lower lip. It’s a French Christmas - festive, feverish…and just a little bit off.

Later, we anticipated the lighting of the city and timed it so that we would walk out the door and to the hockey game under the Christmas lights and we did…

But you know how in the states, people hang their Christmas lights ever so meticulously around and around so even and uniform and it’s primary color Christmas for the most part?


That's not so here. It’s Cosmic Christmas in Silver, Black and Blue, and Gold.
And the lights, though pretty and charming too, look a bit like the web of a not so stable black widow…shall I say, a bit crazy…I was taken aback after all the buildup and I might have maybe judged it as mediocre upon first sight. And not saying anything out loud, thought to myself, “Oh, American Christmas kicks French Christmas’ ass.”

When I say things like that out loud or to myself, I always and I do mean Always have to eat crow.

Etymology of a phrase: I’ve always wondered about the origin of “to eat crow” so I did a little research. Evidently it is not known with certainty the origin of the phrase, although it is clear that it originated in America in the 19th century. Its meaning is similar to the phrase “to eat humble pie”. Crow is really gamey and stringy and tastes terrible so this is one possible meaning of the phrase’s origin.

So, I eat a lot of crow, despite my attempt at a mostly plant based diet.:)

We drank the hot wine and we ate the beignets- those little powdered sugar covered nuggets of deep fried goodness - that beckoned to us and we listened to the “grip and rip” rockin’ band singing a festive rendition of Johnny Be Good.
The hot wine was beyond delicious on the cold walk to the hockey rink and the band rocked Johnny Be Good without knowing the lyrics and I danced a little in my spot.


We walked through the city that had been haphazardly prepping for this day and the month to come…and we made it to the hockey rink where the 6,000 or so fans who were packed in to cheer for their team, the second place Rouen Dragons, and they did not stop cheering and chanting for their team for the entire 3 periods…I’m not kidding…no breaks…all together at the top of their spirited lungs….chanting….
“Allez!, Rouen!, Tes supporteurs sont la!…Allez! Rouen!, Tes supporteurs sont la…!”
So loud…in unison…together…a team of fans cheering “Let’s Go Rouen!, Your Supporters are here!”

They weren't there to eat snacks or drink beer or chat with their friends. They did do that a little - with preoccupation, though and only at the end of each period. But when the break was over, they were back in their seats, ready to cheer. They were there, all 6,000 of them, to cheer for their team - and that was the clear and main priority.

I observed them, as I had been all month, the people who live and work here in Rouen. I felt the thumping of the city heartbeat in my own little by little, but I couldn’t quite give over to the childlike whimsical abandon that these people cheer with, hang their Christmas lights with and work and play with…and while at first I judged the Christmas lights and their ways, I realized there’s no competition. I can love both. I’m not betraying my home city if I embrace another, am I?
So, I admit I’m falling for the French whimsy of Rouen.
I finally had to let go and chant along with the others that love their city with wild abandon. It's becoming my city too.
“Allez, Rouen, Tes supporteurs Sont La!! Allez, Rouen, Te supporteurs sont la!!”
Love, Ruth

Barabbas and other American Heros

High Treason


I do not love my country. Its
abstract lustre
is beyond my grasp.
But (although it sounds bad) I
would give my life
for ten places in it, for certain
people,
seaports, pinewoods, castles,
a run-down city, gray, grotesque,
various figures from its history,
mountains
(and three or four rivers).


José Emilio Pachedo


America what have we made of you? Our one nation under God has more the look and feel of David's Israel. How quick we are to ignore the wisdom of our forefathers and how ready to gamble it away on the next cheap thrill. Our children deserve better and so do we.

Where is the America of Thomas Jefferson? What has become of his vision of the independent yeoman farmer, the healthy distrust for cities and financiers, the separation of church and state and the principle of religious tolerance?

And Martin Luther King, Jr.? The youngest Nobel Prize winner this world had seen. A man who used purely nonviolent means to bring down the shameful legacy of segregation in a hostile nation. A man who denounced the Vietnam War and sought to unite the poor of all races into a coalition for change.

And where is the thrift, hard work and community spirit of Benjamin Franklin in the America of 2008? Remember it was Franklin who emphasized that the new republic could survive only if the people were virtuous in their sense of attention to civic duty and if they rejected corruption.

How is it we so readily accept injustice and folly when great Americans have shown us more noble ways? Have we forgotten that of those to whom much is given much is expected? We have been brought to our knees by the recklessness of our own social institutions and are made to cower before a constant menace of terror.

Indeed, what has become of our Christian concern for the meek and poor? How have we forgotten that humility and charity are the foundation of any just society? Capital punishment and unjust war are the mark of a vengeful nation, which has forgotten that most Christian notion of turning the other cheek. Can we really regard with surprise then the financial and spiritual impoverishment of the American family?

Jesus and others like him gave their lives for the poor and disenfranchised. Rather than succumb to the ready temptation to strike back at those who wished them harm, he and Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi laid down their lives so that the actions of a corrupt state would pale in comparison to their own peaceful example.

I weep for an America which regards the rhetoric of Washington warlords and fear-mongers as anything but poisonous slander. I do not love this nation. Nor any other. I am incapable. History is overflowing with tales of bloodthirsty nations just like ours. Past and present, they share a common fate. Our children deserve better and so do we. I will choose the America of Franklin, Jefferson and King.

Matthew

L'aviron

As readers of this blog know, for the past four months Ruth and I have been living in the Normandy region of France. In an effort to try and get integrated into a new culture and city, we sought out the boathouse here in Rouen and signed up to become members of le Club Nautique et Athlétique de Rouen. Believe it or not we actually have been spending our weekends rowing on the Seine River. The view has been spectacular and I only wish I could say as much for the other members of the boat.



It's a rather hodge-podge collection of first-time Frenchmen with an unfortunate fondness for rushing the slide and varying the timing of the catch according to their fancy. And as if shaking off the rust wasn't enough of a challenge for both Ruth and I, we now have to try and make sense of a whole new slew of French commands bellowed over the din of blades washing out left and right and not to mention the occasional collision of oars. Talk about poor sense of timing. Incroyable!



This being the case, they are a likeable enough group of fellows and the boathouse itself is an absolute gem. Some 160 years old and chalk full of character. It's quite a new perspective being back on the water, slipping along the banks of a quiet city where the spires of centuries-old cathedrals loom in the morning light. I dare say it inspires a powerful sort of remembering, with time and place adrift on a current that renders everything new and yet oddly familiar at the same time.



I'm myself quite glad to be back in rowing. It's quite a challenging sport, especially all these years later. I often find it difficult to reconcile the dedication I used to practice so many years prior with the casual incompetence of rec rowing. But I know it would be very difficult for me to return to a serious level of competition. I see the junior team here, which is said to be one of the top crews in France, and their dedication and training is truly impressive. So I find myself inhabiting a kind of middle-ground trying to appreciate the best of both worlds without getting too far lost in either.




Ruth has excelled admirably at the sport when you consider she still does not have a firm grasp on the language. But having rowed prior, she's picked up right where we left off. She even takes her turn coxing (steering) the boat, bellowing commands in broken French with the air of an old pro.



It's a fine group of people who've gone out of their way to include us in their little French slice of life. We are grateful and more than just a little tired from climbing out of bed early each Saturday and Sunday morning.

Insane on The Seine

This is how it is supposed to look. Pretty, huh? The photo will give you a reference for post below : ) Beginners have a coxain, too, so there's 5 total.


At a Friday evening party-type event at the boathouse, there was an activity announced that we decided not to participate in. The members who signed up would row an hour and a half to Elbouef to eat boef bourguignon and drink the new 2008 Beaujolais. We didn’t go because it was a little out of our budget this month but really.. the truth was...it's really really cold here...and…and…they don’t seem to think it's cold or hard to eat and drink outside in the freezing cold.. and I hate eating when I’m freezing...because you're nervous system gets all f*#&ed up trying to decide on fight or flight or rest and digest. It seemed festive and fun in theory. In reality, I'm from SoCal and its really just too damn cold.
I’m sure they had a blast, though. They don’t hold back here – at all-and they don't really show their fear or concern either. They just go for stuff. I like it and I'm scared of them too.

Speaking of spontaneity, this past weekend, we rowed to our halfway point and stopped. The coxain, Jean Jacque and Karin exchanged some fast French which I didn’t understand. I didn’t care either because I was trying to breathe hot air into my hands that had developed 4 nicely plump blood blisters and was wondering if my thumb would ever thaw out or would it need to be amputated because of frostbite. When I came back mentally, I asked the Italian, sitting in front of me, what they said.
He glanced back to me and said…“They’re going to switch seats.”
“Oh.”
Whoa.?! Is what I was really thinking. The last week we came to the boat house, Sophie, our organizer, gave us like a 30 second lesson on how this would happen, should we need to switch seats in the boats. I let out a very American sounding “NO WAY!!” when I saw what it entailed. They laughed at me and sounded very sure of themselves and of our beginner abilities, like they always do, and then pushed the boat away from the dock, waving with confident parental smiles. They really do have the sink or swim mentality.

But here we were. It was going to happen right now! It was sprung on us just like most everything has at the boathouse, because otherwise I probably wouldn’t have tried much of what we’ve been asked to do so far. The sink or swim style of coaching has been good for me here, since I over-think most everything I try : )

And so the process of switching began!
The coxain was switching seats with the three seat – behind me. How did they do that, you ask? In the middle of the river? I know. I was scared too. Because what that particular activity entailed… was the girl behind me….beginning rower… not having ever made a switch like this before….was moving out of her seat, while we, the others, balanced the boat…(there’s only room for you to put one foot on thin wooden plank in front of you, which is about the length of your foot, in order to get in and out of the boat. The boat would be damaged if you step anywhere else inside the boat.) Okay.

So she had to put one foot there on the thin wooden plank in front of her and place the other foot- ever so very gingerly on the side of the boat (about ½ an inch of wood..aaah) while holding onto the other side to balance the weight of her body.
(By the way,her feet were clothed with a clunky pair of sneaks with rubber bottoms– slippery looking, I thought)
Next ..my heart beats faster as I remember this….she must trust the process enough to take the other foot, replace her hand with this foot, so that she is straddled, with her slippery soled sneaks, balanced precariously on either side of the boat and each hand gripping for dear life on each side too. Oh, but that’s just the beginning, my friends.

Next, she must inch walk her way along the boat from the three seat to the coxain’s seat. Okay, which means, she must inch walk over my crouched body as I let out little whimpers of excitement and fear and encouragement and then over Matthew’s 6’5” crouched body and he’s big no matter how he folds himself.

I nearly passed out just thinking about it. I did the "tuck and hope". She made it over my head and placed her ever large looking tennis shoe on the left side of the boat. Whew. One down. As I glanced up from my tucked position, Karin’s bum was nearly resting on my forehead as I could feel her hesitance to lift her right foot from its oh so stable position and move forward with it. You know how you always have one side that works better than the other? Well, for Karin, I think her left worked better, because she gave it the "fling and hope". She picked up her right foot and flung it forward hoping it would all work out. That clunker of a sneak, though, slipped and the shoe and the right leg slid down the side of the boat and into the freezing cold Seine.
I tucked and squealed into my leggings. It’s been a while since I’ve felt so out of control of a situation. At the same time, I was thanking the universe with extraordinary guilt and ever so profusely. “Thank you for that not being me. Thank you for not letting that be me. Oh thank you so much.” I was never so happy to be freezing cold numb in my life because it wasn’t me having to walk my crotch over people’s heads in the middle of the river on a frigid Saturday morning.

And it wasn’t over yet. I looked up again and Karin was bravely making her next move over Mati’s head. Good Luck. Please get her there. She was smart too. She lifted that weak ass right foot first. Good Girl. Do that. Yeah. She carefully lifted the hypothermic foot over Mati’s head and meticulously placed it on side of the boat. She landed it and I turned back to Melanie, in the 4 seat, and we exchanged worried glances. I looked up again and Karin had taken the left, more confident foot and successfully managed it. A couple more steps and she was in. I was exhilarated with endorphins, adrenaline, dopamine..you name the stimulating hormone, it was pumping through my veins. When she finally sat and Jean Jacque made his experienced way with sleek looking grippy rock climbing type shoes – no less- up and over our heads and into the seat Karin had left. I nearly jumped in the river with exhilaration.

We made our way back to the boathouse. The strokes I took felt stronger, I squarred my blades better than I had been in the previous weeks and I was in better harmony with my boatmates. Thank you, Karin, for taking one for the team. Thank you.

When we hit the dock, I had four bleeding blisters on my hand and a smile on my face. Mati and I completed our boat chores. We were giggling at the craziness of it all - the ‘grip and rip style’ which Mati calls it, and our joyful harmless risk taking adventurous Frenchie friends on the Seine.
“That was INSANE.” I can’t believe that just happened. How are you?” I was shivering more with excitement than cold, probably.

“That was Crazy. They’re Crazy…We’ve could’ve just gone to the dock” The logical Italian said through icy lips.

I thought back to the river and our location where we 'made the switch'and the dock was indeed just on the other side. He was right. They are Crazy.

“I’m sooo cold and happy right now.” I blurted.
“How are your hands baby?” He knew about my blisters because I showed them to everyone in the boat during the rest period.

“They’re great. I couldn’t actually feel my hands until they started bleeding all over themselves.” I stated.
We laughed a worried kind of laughter as we hurried down the street, happy to have made it through another Saturday and heading for the Bakery Man with the good Quiche.