We Beachies in France and These Frenchies Are Fried

Ode to Sport

2010-04-09T07:50:00.000-07:00

I don't think you ever really know your own country until you spend some considerable time elsewhere as a foreigner. What is unique, desirous or noteworthy of your native country can never really be perceived until you’re plunged into the chaos and newness of a foreign culture. A culture where you have neither authority nor knowledge of the workings or origins of its customs.

It’s from this place of humility and wonder that the prodigal son finally sees what it is that has always connected him to his birthplace. That with which he cannot live without. And it is always that which calls him home, prodding him to lay to rest the wanderlust of his youth, and to undertake the difficult reconciliation with an unchanging past and far more familiar future.

As springtime slowly returns to Northern France, just as much as the almond blossoms and warm spring sun of my youth, I’m reminded of the return of baseball season. Indeed, of all the cultural aspects I miss most from back home, the American sports calendar is felt most strongly.

The New Year fervor of bowl games and the frigid warfare of the NFL playoffs slowly ceding way to spring’s playoff excitement in hockey and basketball. The languorous dog days of summer at the ballpark culminating in the chill of October baseball and the return of crisp fall afternoons with the sting of pigskin on bare hands.

Most of my youth can be seen as a sort of active meditation centered on the pursuit or practice of those sports at the heart of American culture. And I have no doubt that this education did as much for me as any other to open my eyes to the wonder of this world and my place in it.

One does well to resist the temptation to reduce the sports world to one of overheated egos and runaway testosterone. To the unpracticed eye it may appear so but to the true seer there is a world of myth and moral truth of incomparable richness. And it’s every bit as true as those found in the more respectable domains of literature or politics.

Indeed, given the choice between a randomly chosen ballgame, movie or book, I’ll choose the ballgame any day. As I find it’s much easier to lie and hide behind convention and sentiment in the arts (theater excepted perhaps) than in the world of sports. Remember I’m in the midst of a French literature MA too. Of course if I had to choose between Maupassant’s short stories or the Magic-Bird battles of my youth I’m not sure the choice would be at all the same.

The real tragedy though is the crude, reductive choice we're so often pressured into as children between what are two of the great joys in life, sport and art. I only wish that rather than see the world in terms of jocks and geeks, we begin to imagine each life as a canvas or playing field (choose your metaphor) where we might explore the great play of ego and id we’re all engaged in.

The crude specialization our society forces upon us has created a world where sport and art have been reduced to passive, consumer experiences for far too many people. This Faustian wager is perhaps the most dangerous of all those offered us. For both body and soul are lost in it and little joy can ever come in its wake. The good news is you don't have to buy into this lie.

It wasn't the sensible advice of some guidance counselor or career coach that allowed Ruth and I to spend two of the most enriching years of our lives here in France. It was the courage to take a chance and believe in the vital necessity of following our dreams. Indeed, had we taken the sensible route we would have certainly never left our teaching jobs back home in Long Beach.

It should come as no surprise though that both of us are former college athletes. For much of the courage it took to follow our dreams to France was no doubt forged on the courts and playing fields of our youth. In this same way, sports have played an equally vital role in helping me adapt to each new culture I've encountered along my life's journey.

For all the wonderful cultural richness I experienced in Africa, one of my most memorable experiences was watching Brazil beat Germany in the World Cup final in the company of my Mauritanian host family. I’d canceled classes that afternoon to make it home in time for the start of the match. Our TV was powered by a car battery and we watched, reclining against the cool mud walls of their modest home. Each time Brazil threatened to score, a torrent of shouting and support would fill the air in Pulaar, their native tongue.

Our stay in France has been marked by similar excursions into the French sporting world. Just as much as the language or cuisine, these sporting excursions have allowed me to understand the culture in ways I’d have not been capable without. As much as anything else it was watching Federer win on a rainy Sunday in Paris for the first time that will mark our time here in France. These experiences have been of an incalculable worth.

Amidst all these travels I’ve never forgotten that the first really vital lessons I learned in life were on the playing field. Whether it was the times learning baseball from my dad or the long solitary hours shooting hoops in the driveway while recreating the epic battles of my heroes, sports have so often been the compass by which I've navigated the mystery and wonder of this world.

And with each new spring, the promise of hope eternal is renewed. As I recall again the simple joy and mystery I first knew as a boy back home. One boy standing alone before the world and his dreams.

The French Paradox

2010-04-08T16:03:00.001-07:00

Today I'd like to dive into one of the dietary clichés so often bandied about by Americans: the French Paradox. The idea that a couple glasses of wine, a nice piece of foie gras and a healthy dose of joie de vivre are all you need to live a long, healthy and happy life. For it's an idea that many Americans seem to buy into.

Certainly one can be relatively happy eating almost any type of diet. And happiness is too broad an art form to reduce to the sum of what you put on your plate each day. Rather it's the first two adjectives I'll humbly take exception with in this post. That's to say, are the French really any healthier or longer living than Americans?

To begin with the health claims of the so-called French Paradox have long been overblown if not downright false. Any supposed difference in heart disease is more than offset by the similar disease rates from which the French suffer in almost all other areas of health. Disease rates that mirror other countries that eat a similar Western diet.
Indeed, healthy adult life expectancy varies little between Western countries. A few years of generally declining health does not constitute a reasonable dietary goal in my opinion. Nor does the prospect of diseases like cancer or Alzheimer's that can seriously diminish not only the quantity but the quality of our lives. So all health claims aside, lets take a look at the other inherent claim to the French paradox, the pleasure principle. Fiction or fact?

Before we begin, let me say that the French do a lot of things right in my view. Selection and preparation of ingredients is taken seriously. The variety of fresh produce and other items is impressive and affordable. Once the meal prepared, much more time is dedicated to the ritual of dining than in the US. Meals are eaten with friends and family in a setting that befits them.

The culture of fast food, while making further inroads each year, remains far less evident in France than in America. There still exists a strong social taboo in regards to snacking between meals, whose hours you can literally set your watch by. For an American in France, these social rules can surprise by their unbending rigidity. But how does it all translate in regards to pleasure?

First, let's say that the French in general are far thinner than most Americans, a fact that's true though of almost every other nation on Earth. Thinness is of course a relative standard and the French are far from immune to obesity or excess weight. Lets just say that not all French women are skinny bitches by any means. But more importantly, those that are in my experience are almost just as paranoid about their weight as many American women.

For no sooner does one of their infamously rich entrées or desserts arrive at table than a barrage of fat-phobic dialogue fills the air. "Oh, ça fait grossir" (Oh, how fattening). Or "je vais faire exploser ma balance" (literally: I'm gonna make my scale explode). I have nothing against a woman wanting to stay thin but its this type of behavior that can put a guy positively off his appetite.

For surely there is no less pleasurable way to eat a meal than with this type of guilt or anxiety surrounding it. This type of "bad faith" as Sartre would call it has become as entrenched in the flow of many dinners I've attended as the detailed descriptions of the origin and character of the wine or cheese selected for the meal. I find it incredibly bad taste to subject your neighbor to your own dietary hang-ups at the moment of crowning pleasure of the meal.

Because if you do occasionally partake of rich cuisine you can either honor how your body will handle it or continue to play the role of the tortured gourmand. I would argue for the former. For there is a beauty in the fact that your human body has been honed through millennia of rich evolution with its environment to look upon this piece of foie gras or camembert as an excellent chance to stock away extra calories for a rainy day.

It is a luxury most people throughout human history would not have taken nearly so lightly. For in their simple wisdom lay a truer understanding of what feasting should mean. Only in a society of such decadent abundance could we so pervert our natural instincts, swapping gratitude for guilt and joy for vanity.

But a truer understanding would let you happily enjoy your dessert because you'd have ample faith in the excellence of the rest of your diet to keep you thin, healthy and happy. Gone will be the tortured choice between thin and happy, between pleasure and pride. Such a recognition represents one of the rare chances remaining for us to break free from our body-hating culture and make friends once more with the most elemental part of ourselves, the body.

And one shouldn't deny the beauty of a thin, capable body in this world for it's one of the most divine forms of our human condition, a true work of art. But if it comes at the price of anxiety and worry, we will have made an enemy of our body. And such a trade-off should never be justified. Nor should we sacrifice a thin, healthy body in the mistaken belief eating will thus be pleasure-less and dull.

This world exists for you to be free in and anyone who tells you otherwise is surely no wise man nor artist. For you can have your cake and eat it too. The art is entirely in knowing how.

So please be happy and well little cell.

Lies

2009-12-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

"War is over--if you want it."

--John Lennon and Yoko Ono

"Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

--Jesus Christ

"Now it should be incandescently clear that no one who has any concern for the integrity and life of America today can ignore the present war. If America's soul becomes totally poisoned, part of the autopsy must read: Vietnam.

--Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only one. But surely there are others like me. Haven't we all just finally had enough? Republican, democrat, black, white, hokey or hip, we just keep circling round the same tired lie. I'm talking about the big one, the holy of holies. I'm talking about the war on terror. If no one else will say it, I will. The war on terror is a lie.

It's been a lie from the beginning when an incompetent cowboy went in guns blazing, vengeance on his breath and not a clue as to what it all meant. It's transformed into a more eloquent and sweet-sounding lie now that President Obama runs things. So sweet it even won a prize, for peace no less. Ah yes, a rose by any other name.

The simplest truths are always the easiest to forget. Murder, hatred, vengeance. They're wrong. To justify them--ever--is wrong. You can say it's for democracy, liberty, justice, peace. But it will always be a lie. And lies will always poison everything they touch.

So say no today. We cannot afford to wait any longer. Be like John, Jesus, Yoko and Martin: Say no to the poison that is war.

Food: the ultimate moral choice.

2009-12-08T15:58:00.000-08:00

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
--Hamlet
Two years ago, Ruth and I decided to change our diet after awakening to the dangers associated with almost all Western-style diets. Cancer, heart attack, stroke, autoimmune disorders, global warming, pollution of our environment and water supply, obesity, antibiotic resistance.

The list goes on and on and in the end it all comes down to three basic factors: breakfast, lunch and dinner. We are literally poisoning ourselves and our planet with our food choices. Don’t believe me? I invite you to read on.

The science is clear. Food is the most powerful environmental factor in the vast majority of diseases. The laws of cause and effect tell us that most diseases are preventable and even reversible. As is the suffering they provoke for our planet and its inhabitants.

Despite all this, each day we choose a path that leads to disease, climate destruction, health care crisis, poverty and famine in the third world. We elect eloquent politicians who speak of change but we choose to ignore the real power each of us exercises each day with our wallets. Do we want change? It sure doesn’t look like it.

Not yet at least. We’re quite happy with our green energy compromises, our troop surges and our well-lit supermarkets with their promise of endless prosperity and material goods. I wouldn’t be so sure. Not with the specter of bankrupt health care, unemployment at 10% and the dollar sinking like a stone.

Or did you really think the American dream would last forever. The good news is that change is possible. You don’t have to worry about carbon taxes, nuclear-armed Pakistan or when the Fed will finally get around to raising interest rates.

If you don’t like the way things are you can change them. You don’t have to wait for you president, preacher or parents to tell you how. It’s pretty simple. Go to refrigerator right now and open it up. Take out everything that you didn’t personally grow or buy from a farmer in your community. Now take out everything whose origins or manner of production are unknown to you. Odds are that’s most of what was in your fridge.

Now give or throw all of that food away and replace it with things that come from your community or personal garden. Repeat with your cupboards, pantry, freezer, and second fridge until you’ve reestablished a link with where your food comes from, how it was grown and transported, and how the grower was compensated.

I’m not asking you to be a saint but I am asking you to return a notion of moral duty to your food choices. For the Jewish it’s called kosher, Muslims call it halal. Christians alike fast and avoid meat on holy days. This is change my friends and you don’t have to wait four years for it to come again.

If you want to put people back to work, always buy locally from organic farms, which require lots of manpower in the place of pesticides and chemicals. If you don’t want to buy all your food this way, start with 20%. Then work your way up. Can you buy a third or half of your food this way?

Each dollar spent is a vote for change and sanity in these insane times. Talk to your friends, support food co-ops and insist your politicians begin to discuss and support local, organic agriculture for a change.

If you don’t want to give up your daily cup of coffee, you can at least insist it be fair trade and organic. The same applies to all our food choices. The more we inform ourselves nutritionally and politically the more we will see that we don’t have to give away our power nor accept the mediocrity that has come to characterize American life.

And most importantly, if you want to choose a healthier lifestyle for yourself and the planet then stop eating animal products. This type of change won’t appeal to your ego nor will it win you the support of many of your friends and family at first. But it will bring about a radical change for both your health and that of the planet. What it lacks in sex appeal it makes up for in vitality. This, my friends, is the American way.

Reclaiming paradise

2009-08-28T19:04:00.001-07:00

Spring - An experience in immortality.

--Henry David Thoreau

Speak to the Earth, and it shall teach thee.
--Job 12:8

The shift of colonial power from European monarchy to global corporation is perhaps the dominant theme of modern history. All along, it has been the same story of the gathering of an exploitive economic power into the hands of a few people who are alien to the places and the people they exploit. Such an economy is bound to destroy locally adapted agrarian economies everywhere it goes, simply because it is too ignorant not to do so. And it has succeeded precisely to the extent that it has been able to inculcate the same ignorance in workers and consumers.

--Wendell Berry

France and the United States share a long and complex history. The Declaration des Droits des Hommes was inspired by our own American constitution. Our Statue of Liberty was of course a gift from the French in commemoration of the centennial of our independence. American soldiers landed in Normandy in 1944 on the way to liberating the majority of French territory occupied by Nazi Germany at the time. France has the world's 2nd largest agricultural export economy in the world behind the United States'.

There are other similarities one might wish for. Here in Europe the level of political discourse, while far from ideal, is far more diverse and informative than anything in America. Western European social democracies, an unutterable political concept for Americans, continue to insist on universal health care of equal quality to the American system at a far lesser price. Abolition of the death penalty is a requisite condition for membership in the European Union. This in countries which have long since distanced themselves spiritually and legally from their corrupt and marginalized religious institutions.

There are other things Europeans, particularly the French, do not excel at. In general, there is a level of cynicism or perhaps resignation amongst French intellectuals and society at large in regards to ideas outside their cultural history. This is certainly normal in all countries. But in my experience there exists in America the possibility for a more profound and diverse level of exploration personally be it in the sciences or the arts. This exploration of course by no means attracts the interest or support of the vast majority of Americans. It is however in my opinion true that the most progressive and relevant thinkers in this age tend to be produced within the framework of the English-speaking world.

Should you find this encouraging, do not forget that for every great system of insight or thinker of import, there is a mountain of idiocy standing between them and the earnest seeker. The amazing thing it seems is that Americans for the most part are quite happy to defend at all costs the essential right of these idiot fear-mongers and hucksters to do everything in their power to increase the torrent of unmitigated nonsense that fills up the lives and space of the already over-worked American citizen.

A few examples: America has the best health care system in the world. A fact readily reflected in the skyrocketing levels of obesity, cancer, heart disease and the quasi-impossibility to secure insurance at reasonable fees if at all. Another example: America is the greatest force for democracy and good in the world. Once again backed up by our two atomic bombs dropped on civilian populations (the only two in history), our well-documented support of death squads in Central America in the 1980's, and the continued assault on America's economy and moral decency in Iraq and Afghanistan.

On the one year anniversary of our arrival here in France, I'd like to send a word of encouragement to every sensible American crushed daily under the insane rhetoric and political stasis under which our nation labors painfully on. While there is much to prefer in the European political and social structure, America alone can lay claim to its unique species of genius and rugged intellectual rigor. This still-young democracy, inspired by the best elements of the Enlightenment, offers much to the earnest seeker. May you all still find the courage to go forth in its pursuit, in the hopes of a brighter, saner tomorrow.

Ode to the Lorraine

2009-08-24T09:54:00.000-07:00

We recently had the good fortune to be invited to spend five days in the Lorraine region of eastern France. At times denigrated by partisans of snob French culture, this wooded, rural region was to become for Ruth and I one of the truly enchanting regions of France.

After a trip across the rolling plains of central France on the legendary TGV high-speed train, we were greeted by our hosts André and Catherine who welcomed us with a delicious lunch on their backyard terrace. Long-time residents of the regions their hospitality and unique insight into the region and its long history were much appreciated. Their warmth and kindness during our stay offered these two Americans a glimpse into the rich banquet of cuisine, culture and calm by which we'll forever remember this lovely region.

The turbulent history of the region lends itself to a present-day calm that had a bewitching effect on these two visitors. Metz proved to be a gorgeous, green, compact city. The ideal size to marry culture and quiet harmoniously.

The medieval arcade of Metz in December is site of one of the reputedly-epic Christmas markets of eastern France. It being summer and France, music was not in short supply. Just grab and chair at your café of preference, sit back and enjoy.

Ruth admires one of the numerous canals constructed along the lovely but often times unnavigable Moselle River.

St. Etienne, patron saint of Metz's cathedral, who rid the city of the terrible dragon, Graoully (pictured subdued at his feet).

Like Rouen, Paris and Reims, Metz possesses one of the true jewels of French Gothic architecture. The unlikely harmony of imposing size and delicate detail are the characteristic trademarks of the period. Metz's cathedral was constructed of Pierre de Jaumont, an earthen-hued limestone unique to the surrounding area. The unusual coloring, as in the case of the rose-colored sandstone of the Strasbourg Cathedral, lends a unique personality to each of these superb cathedrals.

One of the numerous stained glass windows designed and executed by Marc Chagall. Metz 's cathedral boasts the largest square footage of stained glass of any cathedral in France. No small feat in this the birthplace of soaring gothic arches and the luminous quest for celestial interior lighting. The Chagall series adds a special quality to Metz's cathedral, a unique juxtaposition of 20th century master working in a medium and discourse that predates the modern period.

The other beating heart of Metz, the covered market with its own host of otherwordly colors and forms, provided a sampling of Italian, Polish and other cuisines representative of immigrant contribution to this blue-collar region.

L'église St. Pierre aux Nonnains alone can lay claim to being the oldest church in France. The building dates to the year 387 A.D. and stands as a rare survivor of the pillaging and destruction of the early medieval period. At its feet, the new center and place of assembly for secular French society: the ubiquitous cafe.

Matthew takes advantage of the calm and quiet of the countryside after a superb first day in lovely Lorraine.

Our second day started with an hour and a half drive to the eastern region of Alsace. After a picnic on the German side of the Rhine, we crossed back into France and spent the day in the charming Alsacian capital of Strasbourg. With its lace-stonework cathedral and Venetian-style canal system, the city forms a pleasant bridge between the finest points of French and German cultures. Along with Brussels, the city is also the principal seat of European politics and business.

The medieval maison à colombage style of architecture in the city surprisingly recalls the Normandy region and our own city of Rouen.

The Germanic influence is readily apparent in the architecture of eastern France.

After a tour of the historic Petite France portion of the city, we headed south along the German border into the breathtaking Alsace wine region, home to sparkling whites, delicious Rieslings and aromatic Gewürztraminers. A short stop-over in the picturesque village of Kaysersburg, birthplace of Albert Schwietzer, left us plotting ways to return to this jewel of the Alsacian wine route.

Day three saw us up early to embark upon a tour of the Meuse department with its numerous battlefields, cemetaries and monuments to the horrific trench warfare of WWI. Verdun lies smack on the frontier between Germanic and Gallic cultures. From Charlemagne to Hitler, the city, as with the Lorraine region in general, has been for centuries at the frontlines of dispute and tension between these august and often bellicose rivals.

The story of Verdun is one of the shocking feats of barbarity and violence in our collective modern history. Fighting over a few square miles of symbolic terrain, the French and German war machines succeeded in killing over a half-million men in nine short months, the majority of them blown to pieces by the constant artillery fire that pinned them in their trenches. In the nearby Douaumont ossuary, the remains of some 130,000 unidentified French and German young men provide evidence of the human cost of this insane warfare, piles of femurs, skulls and ribs lining the windowed alcoves along the perimeter of the building.

In the process of battle the surrounding hillsides of wooded terrain were turned into a lunar landscape where villages were razed to the ground, residents never to return or rebuild. The eternal murmur of pines and the odd plaque indicating the one-time location of a bakery or post-office are all that remains of the era.

This new nature of violence and physical disembodiment gave birth to the modern idea of a tomb commemorating an unknown solider. The remains laid to rest under Paris' Arc de Triomphe were taken from the battlefields of Verdun and testify to a new era of human barbarity in which the mutilation of the human body and the final frontier of human decency were now transgressed.

After Verdun, we visited the American WWI monument at Monsec. This impressive neoclassical work commemorating the American capture of the Saint Mihiel salient in 1918 dominates the quiet plains of the Meuse department in the Lorraine region. It was at the time a crucial German vantage point offering views far behind French lines.

The history of the region would not be complete without some word to explain the currently-established peace between the once bitter enemies of France and Germany. Part of the origins of that peace can be traced to the humble figure of one Robert Schuman. One of the fascinating figures in the construction of the modern-day European Union, Schuman used the leading industries of the time, the coal and steel trade, to create a stable framework for economic and political cooperation between longtime enemies France and Germany as well as the greater part of Europe. His house and garden in Scy-Chazelles are a testament to a life that melded secular and spiritual, Gallic and Prussian, thought and action in an admirable harmony.

Any summary of our journey would not be complete without one final word of thanks to our hosts Andre and Catherine. Your generosity and patient willingness to show us the very best of this complex and fascinating region will not soon be forgotten. The historical and cultural context you provided were truly priceless and enriched our experience immeasurably.

Merci beaucoup et à bientôt.

A Call to Arms

2009-08-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

The people of “the cutting edge” in science, business, education, and politics have no patience with the local love, local loyalty, and local knowledge that make people truly native to their places and therefore good caretakers of their places. This is why one of the primary principles in industrialism has always been to get the worker away from home. From the beginning it has been destructive of home employment and home economies.

--Wendell Berry
"The Agrarian Dilemma"

"A free life cannot acquire many possessions...without servility to mobs or monarchs."

--Epicurus

"The revolution will not be televised."

--Gil Scott-Heron

Summer vacation has arrived here in Normandy. To what use have we put this time? The abridged version:

Increased daily consumption of delicious local produce from the numerous open-air markets throughout town.

Numerous outings with friends in the surrounding countryside invariably punctuated with lingering picnics, replete with smelly cheeses and glasses of robust Bordeaux, next to the odd 12th century monastery one's bound to come across in the region.

Bleary-eyed exercise outings each morning to prime the body and keep the spirit sharp for all the richness each day has to offer. Bravo, chérie!

Chatting with neighbors from the balcony window of our new second story apartment. Coucou Murielle!

Lazy days parked on the sidewalk curb watching the world go by.

Live daily feeds of the Tour de France, recounting the latest adventures of Alberto Contador and Lance Armstrong across the evershifting French landscape.

Long hours spent together talking, thinking, sitting in the half-a-dozen cafés we frequent each week.

It's a demanding life (in all earnesty!) but someone's got to live it.

In more detailed news, about a month ago we were able to spend the weekend near Fontainebleau, a very pretty forest region just south of Paris. Our rowing club here in Rouen participated in a two day event that mixed equal parts sport, culture and entertainment. We started with 12 miles of rowing the first day on a very pretty branch of the Seine River that winds through the forest and countryside near the Chateau de Fontainebleau, former royal residence of François I and Napoleon amongst others. After a delicious French picnic (complete with wine, cheese and dessert) we set up camp with the other members of our club in a nearby gymnasium.

But there was little rest for the weary that day, for no sooner did we roll out our sleeping bags for a little nap than we were off to the Django Reinhardt Jazz festival. Amongst the superb lineup that evening was Avashi Cohen and his swinging quintet. Highly recommended.

We finally got back to our little gymnasium campsite shortly after midnight for some much needed sleep before finishing off the weekend with 15 miles of rowing the second day, complete with another picnic lunch on the banks of the river just outside the lovely medieval city of Morêt-sur-Loing. It was a wonderful weekend but probably one of the most tiring little vacation getaways we've ever been on.

Thankfully we had the following few days to recover.

The second week of August we have the good fortune to be invited to the eastern part of France near Germany to spend 5 days with some very nice people we've recently met here in Rouen. We're excited to see another corner of this fascinating and diverse country. Each day is equal parts rich and humbling for us and we would be remiss to not mention the outstanding hospitality and generosity of the many wonderful, kind people who've taken time to welcome us into their homes and their lives. Merci encore!

We're hoping to do some grape harvesting at the end of summer in one of the numerous wine regions here in France but it may interfere with the start of classes at the university. In any case, we've got plenty to keep us busy as there's never a dull moment.

Stay tuned. Love--Matthew et Ruth

One

2009-06-09T09:56:00.001-07:00

After the "I do's" and the dizzying depart...

After the pomp and the fuss and the goodbyes...

After the Parisian honeymoon...

After the frenzied heights of a new culture and land...

After the blinding moments of incomprehension...

After the meltdowns and muddled explanations...

After all the bits and pieces lost in translation...

After the numerous oddities and loose-ends...

After all the dirt and the mud (or the clay)...

After the sleet and the snow...

After the long, cold Normandy winter...

It just keeps getting better and better. Here's to one year going on a lifetime...

Merci, chouchou. Je t'aime à la folie.

A Modern American Tragedy

2009-04-22T07:53:00.001-07:00

"If America's soul becomes totally poisoned, part of the autopsy must read 'Vietnam.'"

--Martin Luther King, Jr.

"What is human warfare but just this; an effort to make the laws of God and nature take sides with one party."

-- Henry David Thoreau

"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?"

--Mahatma Gandhi

We have our first black president, but when it comes to war he doesn't look much different than the 43 white men who preceded him. Oh, Mr. President, I had so hoped your promise of change was sincere. That it wouldn't be like so many other promises before it: stale political jargon, that lethal mix of insincerity and hidden agenda that is choking off hope in America.

For you told us, Mr. President, to believe in change and then turned around and told us to believe in the war on terror. Oh, Mr. President, please don't pour out on us those same tired lies. We expected so much more than the fear--mongering of your predecessors.

Is truly non-violent commitment to global human rights too much to ask for in the America of 2009? Or is a simply redefined war on terror your definition of change? Perhaps we the American people have not demanded more than this ping-pong electorate exercise masquerading as a democracy.

Where is the plurality of voices? Where is the outrage from the religious community? Christians, is not war anathema to your Christ? And humanitarians of every bent, what trust have any of you in this mad, convoluted logic that says to have peace at home we must kill abroad? America, are you not outraged by the horrific status quo that your latest and hippest president refuses to challenge honestly? Or have we forgotten what a truly high price our liberty, safety and comfort demand of us here in the West.

Mr. President, you promised to end our war in Iraq, it turns out only to substitute it for another in Afghanistan. Nevermind that Palestine, Sri Lanka and Sudan are crushed daily under the weight of genocide, rape and famine. You call for more troops in Afghanistan. You promise dialogue and openness to the world and then prattle on about missile defense systems and killing terrorists like so many other great American heroes. In place of change you feed the American public evermore cliches, perhaps knowing we're too sleepy and distracted to demand more.

Save us, Mr. President, your elegant war speak. Any literate American is well indoctrinated with the virtues of killing. From our death penalty to our atomic bombs, this one nation under God has always seemed to prefer the Old to the New Testament. What we don't ever learn much about in school is how 1/3 of our nation's homeless citizens are veterans. Please tell me, Mr. President, that these Americans are a part of your change, or will you have them hidden away under bridges and shelters as they've come to be. Are you ready to discuss openly, Mr. President, the real price of war for our nation?

Oh, Mr. President, how so many believed you when on a cool November night in Chicago you told the American public that change had "come to America." But it seems you have poured sweet lies into our ear. You have chosen to follow the model of Truman, Nixon and Reagan, while turning your back on that of Thoreau, Gandhi and Dr. King. You claim to be a student of history and yet you tell us there is no other way. You tell us how you admire Dr. King, yet forget it was by non-violent means he overcame hatred, murder and injustice.

Mr. President, you have relegated change to the safe and comfortable realm of political speak. You have chosen rhetorical deceit over honest accounting with the American public, social decay over investment in our most fragile communities and civilian bloodshed over true humanitarian action abroad. This is no real change to me, Mr. President. This is a tragedy.

Mati

Bienvenue le Printemps, bienvenue.

2009-04-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

It's April 12th, 2009.
The taxes are filed on time.
It's been 8 months since we've set foot in Rouen.
It's takes this much time to get just beyond the introduction of a foreign place like this.
There are faces here that I look forward to seeing and they are kind.
And slowly, as the gentle courtships continue across cultural and language barriers,
we are becoming friends.

Voici, Simone et Reynald.
Matthew, Jean-Jacques, Catherine and Sophie
Katja, Nele, Eric and you know who : )
Belle Julie et Beau Fredéric

Murielle...Murielle.

The talented Murielle.
and her beautiful and playful mother, Marie-Claude...
Moi et Julie and my other very good friend, the chocolate gateau!

I'm In The Middle of Something

2009-03-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

I ran out of words along the way somewhere
so I picked up a paintbrush,
and thus beginning yet another language,
I continue to thrive
here in this city.
In this Rouen,
with its simple daily offerings.
I keep my eyes wide open
and hope they continue to set the example for my heart.
Love, Ruth

Autrefois...Ode to California

2009-03-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

Have we forgotten you warm haven? Turned to others more sober and chic? Lest you think it, we call attention now to your charm, oh wonder by the sea, oh proud land on which an awestruck world trains its gaze, its hope and its envy. And while a warbled oath to your glory might do little to convince you, it's thus we sing your graces.

A typical summer day in Long Beach. In this sun-kissed land, we the people place our faith in that timeless oath of glad souls each cloudless day: thou shalt be tanned.

Home is where the heart is. Rejoice and be glad for the afternoon siesta after a long morning at the beach.

What better way than sport to stress the body and test the soul. Perhaps no finer education to encourage us to know the depths and limits of our being. In this land of temperate beauty, we happy Californians have an embarrassing array of choice the whole year long.

Space and time they tell us have been vanquished by technology. And yet we moderns so routinely lament the disconnect that haunts our busy lives. Living in Southern California seems only to heighten our exposure to this potential malaise. All the more reason to take pride in the friendships we've built there. For they have been the cornerstone of a life of rich purpose.

And yet more hours of relaxation in the beanbag. It is difficult to build a home in the modern world, but without doubt the most noble occupation we know. A life of study, work and daily communion with the arts has been the fruit of our efforts.

Joyous days: eve of our wedding. Surprise dinner party with friends to announce our imminent union. Two days later, 33 friends and family members joined us at the Norwalk Justice of the Peace for our exchange of vows.

And with such family to root one, we have gone forth in the cultivation of such hopes and dreams that only the most truly blessed might ever entertain. To know such a bounty gives strength to us here, so far from those we love.

Home Thoughts

The sea rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.

Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.

Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.

I know hours empty as a beggar's tin cup on a rainy day,
empty as a soldier's sleeve with an arm lost.

Speak to me...

--Carl Sandburg

Our homeland and our muse, may you ever call to us your children, wandering afar in foreign lands. For your song calls us to the long and difficult path home.

A Moveable Feast

2009-03-06T01:19:00.000-08:00

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

--Ernest Hemingway

As warmer days return and we move into our seventh month here in Normandy we'd like to consider the theme of richness in all its forms. And much in the tradition of Hemingway, we go forth as Americans under the charm of old-world ways. For here simply to wander the streets and know their history is a pleasure unto itself.

The excellence of French cuisine is much better experienced than related. But what bears description is the place this art-form occupies in the cultural heritage. France remains a nation with strong emotional and agricultural ties to its landscape. To tour the Normand countryside is to know an endless expanse of field with its speckled silhouettes of livestock and farmhouses. It's a landscape that's changed seemingly little since the birth of Impressionism in the late 19th century.

Over four hundred different cheeses originate from a country the size of Texas. Normandy is famous too for it's apples which show up in everything from pastries to Calvados, a delicious fermented cider. Consistently good wines are available for $5 at any market in town. With such an embarrassment of culinary riches, it's no surprise cafés seem to outnumber actual French citizens two-to-one. Make no mistakes, the French have no misgivings about idling away a good hour or two over a couple glasses of wine at a sunny sidewalk café. With the work-week firmly set at 35 hours, their seems little reason to fault them.

Despite the usual preponderance of cellphones and other gadgets, conversation remains overwhelmingly a face-to-face proposition here thanks in large part to the flourishing café culture. Most appropriate when you consider that the European literary salons that helped to spawn the Enlightenment originated in Paris. And so we raise a glass to this most French of social institutions.

With it's rich medieval history and long-strategic location on the Seine River, Rouen is home to a spectacular array of cultural and artistic diversity. Dubbed La Ville aux Cent Clochers (The City of A Hundred Belltowers) by Victor Hugo, the city functions as a living testimony to the superb architectural history of continental Europe. Within blocks, at times even within the same structure, one can trace the unfolding of technical and artistic progress from Romanesque to Gothic to Renaissance and beyond. One of our favorite buildings is l'Abbatiale St. Ouen (right).

It's vaulted arches and original 14th century stained glass set the scene for a celestial display of color and light in this masterpiece of late Gothic architectural design. To spend a few moments amongst it's luminous quiet is to know a very different conception of the sacred than the polluted and uninspiring notion with which we're too often confronted.

And one can hardly consider the imposing Cathédrale de Notre Dame without recalling Monet's multiple renderings, two of which hang in our own National Gallery in Washington D.C.

Several blocks away, a new church constructed on the site where Joan of Arc was burned cuts a flame-patterned outline against the city skyline. The mystery behind the improbable saga of La Pucelle d'Orleans continues to inspire debate amongst historians just as much as it fires the imagination of the public at large. Just how did an uneducated peasant girl from a rural area of eastern France manage to rise to a place of such historical significance? Whatever the case, her arrival on the scene corresponded with a major turn in fortunes for the English army during the Hundred Years War. The French would go on to consolidate their power on the continent while Joan of Arc was martyred at the hands of the English in Rouen's Vieux Marché in 1431.

To wind amongst this maze of medieval alleys fashioned into chic new shopping districts, one can't help but feel the pull of former times and worlds. It is a most formidable backdrop for anyone inclined to ponder the long and winding path that leads unfailingly home to you and I.

The city is no less blessed in the arts than it is architecturally or historically. Flaubert, Corneille, and Monet are just a few of the towering figures to have once cast their long shadows across the city's pavement. What a sublime treat to slip into one of the numerous bookshops or excellent museums on a lazy afternoon and slip under the spell of these great artists.

And lest you should think the city hopelessly lost in its past, know that a consistent cycle of traveling exhibitions never fails to bring new life to the city's museums. The ideas of each new exhibition are charged with an even greater weight given the context in which they emerge for public viewing. A society that values the arts does so by creating room for its liberal expansion into the daily life of its citizens. This is the very opposite of elitism. It's this necessity of space and time which encourages a more sustained and deep relationship between the work and the artist, between art and you. In the most broad terms, I tend to think the most basic notion of Art has a greater currency here because of the space it occupies. As the majority of our social institutions move toward an increasingly impersonal level of concern for the individual, this conception of art continues to strike me as entirely vital and necessary for the survival of sanity and pleasure in our modern world.

A piece from a recent exhibition of Tunisian artist Georges Koskas' work at Rouen's Musée des Beaux Arts. Highly recommended.

Photo from the Titouan Lamazou exhibition "Les Femmes du Monde" currently on view here in Rouen. Inspiring evidence for the role of art as alternative to the sterility of current international political solutions (or lack there of). Another artist we recommend highly.

"L'artise a besoin du regard des autres." (The artist needs the regard/concern of others.)

--Entrace of local gallery here in Rouen

"The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge. And if they have to take sides in this world, they can perhaps side only with that society in which, according to Nietzsche's great words, not the judge but the creator will rule, whether he be a worker or an intellectual."

--Albert Camus

In a time of such drastic uncertainty we do well to recall the richness that lies all about us. Let it be our duty to take up this richness not to possess and keep but to bring forth to a more radiant place amongst the society of family and friends. It is a feast to which all are invited.

Le fric--life for two in France on $1500/month

2009-02-17T09:57:00.001-08:00

My cross!

Your cross?
The real cross
Is made of pounds,
Dollars or francs.
Here I bear my palms for the silly nails
To teach the lack
—The great pain of lack—
Of coin.

--Stephen Crane

Consider the lilies of the field and learn thoroughly how they grow; they neither toil nor spin. Yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his magnificence was not arrayed like one of these.

--Gospel of Matthew

Il faut cultiver notre jardin.
We must cultivate our garden.

--Voltaire

Ruth and I have been now in France for six months. With rare exceptions we have passed this time in Rouen, our little Normand city located one and a half hours outside Paris. Regular followers of the blog will know by now which activities constitute the bulk of our weekly routine. But what of the rest of this country so rich and diverse in landscape and culture?

Alas, despite a deep interest in seeing more of France, we've chosen a life more modest in accord with all we value deeply. One of the most convenient symbols for this accord is money. For those interested, what follows in an account of our monthly expenses here in France and the manner in which we have organized our time and efforts as a result.

Rent and utilities: $550
Groceries: $600-$700
Transportation: $50
Recreation: $200-$300

Rent is relatively expensive as we live in the city. We have a one-bedroom/studio apartment with separate kitchen and a shower I can stand up in. Embarking upon our initial search for apartments, we found this to be no small luxury.

Groceries are of course only what we buy at the store. Having switched to an almost exclusively vegan whole-food diet over a year ago, we were initially worried about both the availability of certain high-nutrient staples as well as the temptation to stray from our diet given all the delicious sweet treats, baked goods and savory dishes that make up French cuisine.

In this regard, it has been doubly challenging. The abundance of open-air markets and the high quality of French produce makes vegetable and fruit shopping a pleasure. But, where to find organic nut butters, whole-grain rice, flaxseed and other little treats that make up such an important part of our diet? Luckily, we've found a store here in town with a good supply of all things organic.

The only drawback as many fellow organic consumers know is the price. How to fork over for that $25 jar of organic almond purée or the $15 for a bag of delicious organic prunes and still make rent? Here it's really an all-or-nothing proposition as regular peanut and other nut butters don't really exist here, the closest thing being Nutella, the tasty but palm-oil-laden French substitute.

And in regards to restaurants, we allot only so much each month to entertainment. Thus, each outing is a truly dynamic experience, both in the sense of difference to our regular routine but also in the fact of it being generally the only time we partake of the rich and delicious bounty of French cuisine. Additionally, we have been blessed to receive numerous invitations from French friends to dine in home, experiences which have been as rich and fulfilling as any in a restaurant. Often times, the atmosphere is far more conducive to really appreciating the delicious, new offerings.

In truth, even sticking to our valued nutritional principles we are never so hard up as to come close to missing rent. However, it has begged the question of certain priorities in our life. Such as whether to forgo the weekly organic almond butter purchase in the name of saving for a few days travel. But I must say this has been a most joyous opportunity to examine many of the principal impulses in our lives.

Having our income cut in half in comparison to back home has been an opportunity to confront many of the most pressing concerns in modern life. How to negotiate such difficult balances as those between time and money, leisure and work, peace and activity. As Ruth has no work permit, we have been forced to reconsider not only our budget but our relationship as well. Reduction in funds has translated to an increase in time spent together. This largely means more fun for both of us, but intuits certain key attentions paid to the maintenance of the relationship and each person's needs.

Fundamental questions of desire and gratitude have become apparent as well. Travel is a key example. Despite living only 50 miles from the coast, we have yet to visit it. Nor have we seen other key areas or visited Paris more than two or three times. Often times I dream of all the areas I've read and studied so much about and that we've yet to visit, and find a certain melancholy affecting my mood. And yet by all standards I, and Ruth, are doing exactly what we've set out to do. We are hardly lacking in blessings either here or at home. And yet the push for more must constantly be negotiated.

Perhaps it's upbringing or just human nature, but even amidst such keen abundance, I find gratitude to be a most difficult proposition, slipping in and out of the flow of days and months. Here as at home, a balance between quiet and dynamic meditation continues to be the surest means to invite this gratitude into our life. In this light, certain activities rendered necessary by our lifestyle choices take on an even greater importance in terms of appreciation. My two feet serve not just as a chief means of transportation, but as a way to reflect upon and understand some of the most basic aspects of our shared humanity.

Thus, daily exposure to the sun and rain, the beauty and hardship that each hill and crowded street presents are a means to digest the newness of each day and the considerable influence we wield as denizens of a relatively privileged western world, both as consumers and human beings. I am able to consider how best to make use of my time, passion and dollars (or euros for the time being). Distance, effort and achievement come to stand for something again as I reappropriate so much of our basic human nature lost to technology.

Would this gratitude be possible for us with a different relationship to money? Assuredly. But would it be as likely? I can't answer. If we had traveled more we would not have built the strong bonds we now enjoy with our new friends. Necessity has pushed Ruth and I to pursue this adventure in France and I hope that certain small details as offered here might help our readers to appreciate more fully the life and challenges there within.

Winter wanes

2009-02-17T09:09:00.000-08:00

Hello All,

Things have been well here in our little city. The cold weather was something, boy. We're sure not used to that type of thing in southern California. But we did have a couple of days when it snowed and then it was very pretty. Lately, it's been a little more mild and it seems we're inching our way slowly towards spring now.

Ruth and I have been busy as ever with work and hobbies. We participated in a rowing competition in the city of Caen this past weekend. That was a very interesting experience for both of us. For Ruth it was her first time in a competition here or at home and it turns out she was in a boat without me to help her with the French. Needless to say, she was a bit nervous. But she did really well and came out of it with a big smile upon her face. We also got to see some different areas of Normandy as well.

We have some exciting plans for the next month or so. In the first week of March we are going to the coast for the first time to spend a couple days with a family we met here in Rouen. And then in mid-March we are planning to go to the eastern part of France for the weekend to do some cross-country skiing. The trip is being organized by the rowing club so we will be accompanied by many of our new friends on this trip.

Since our arrival in France, Ruth and I have been the fortunate guests of several different French families who have invited us over for dinner at their homes. It's been a veritable tour of classic French cuisine: boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, lapin aux pruneaux, canard rôti and more smelly French cheeses than you ever thought possible. And then there's the wine which I must say has been my favorite part. Despite the fact, we can afford to dine out only occasionally I really can't say we've missed out much in the way of delicious food and drink.

In a sense we have been adopted by our rowing club which has become a sort of home away from home. They refer to us as "our Americans" and really enjoy helping us feel at home in this new culture and language.

When we first arrived here, we were searching for ways to fit in and truly experience a new way of life. Our efforts have been richly rewarded as we are often invited to go for walks to discuss the rich history and architecture of the city or simply to meet at a nearby cafe to discuss life in general. The French are also very curious and interested about life in America, and we often talk about the differences and similarities between our two cultures.

Ruth is getting better and better at French as the old adage proves once again true. Necessity really is the mother of invention. She volunteers her time Wednesday afternoons to go down to the boathouse and help the teenagers with their English homework and conversation skills. I teach seven classes at the university this semester, but it is by all accounts a job I enjoy and learn much from.

Ruth and I are looking forward to the end of winter and the return to warmer days. We miss everyone back home and send our love and best wishes for the difficult times our nation is facing. Indeed, being abroad has helped us to appreciate the numerous blessings we have in our lives.

Love Matthew and Ruth

February Love From Far Away France

2009-02-07T02:37:00.000-08:00

Much of December felt like this. It was cold and beautiful but I couldn't bring myself to get up and get after the ball. So, I sat, much like Eliot and watched my breath.

We continued our immersion process into French life with our boathouse friends, however, participating in the yearly erg competition. It was my first time and Mati won a prize :)! He came in second place in the Loisirs category, earning love and respect from the Frenchies. America represented :)

The Frenchies continue to extend surprising and delightful social lifelines to us, inviting us into their homes for meals and to share cultural and endearing experiences. The French seem to like us very much- even before Obama was in office. ; )

Christmas, the day itself, was quiet and rather strange feeling without family and friends and familiarity. I chopped my hair with kitchen scissors during the discomfort of it all. We drank a bottle of champagne and that helped immensely. : )

We drank another bottle of champagne to ring in the new year, the new president and then the temperature dropped and so we continued our hibernation.

At the end of January, we made our way to Paris and visited the Eiffel Tower and picked up some very precious cargo for a very short but much needed week of visiting.

The week with our dear friends ended far too soon and we were sad to see them go away .

And then it snowed to renew our spirits.

Its Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

2008-12-10T02:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-07T13:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-07T12:51:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-02T02:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Giving Thanks From Rouen ~ 11.27.08

2008-11-28T03:37:00.000-08:00

We are here in Rouen and thinking of everyone we love on Thanksgiving.
We are thankful and we miss you.

LOVE IS IN THE MUNDANE DETAILS

The Rouen sky has a crush on me and shows off each time I look up. I'm grateful and empty handedly humbled. The sky wants nothing from you here. Just your attention. I can PAY attention. It's the best kind of currency, don't you think? - and I am thankful.

SEE WHAT I MEAN??

When I call across the world, to chirp with some of my favorite people in the whole world, it sounds like we're right next door to each other. - Thank you technology brainiacs for making it all possible, despite my skepticism, I love the phone and the computer.

We live on 1300 euros a month and I still feel like a feasting velvety queen every day of my modest life - Thank you for the good life despite the challenges.

My ears stick out like little satellite dishes and the frigid Normandy air bites them if I am without a hat, but when I walk inside our apartment and all three electric heaters are cranking, I could not be happier - Thank you heater people who give electricity to us.

I married my best friend on the planet and I'm madly in love. He is the funniest, smartest, most gentle, brilliant, forgiving, patient, complimentary, athletic, graceful, well rounded, artistic, sincere person I have ever met in my life. - I am beyond grateful everyday to share a life with him. - Thank you Italian Mati.

Every Saturday and Sunday morning, we have the strangely masochistic pleasure of rowing on the Seine River in France! The boathouse is the second oldest in France but I bet its the most beautiful and afterwards we eat Pan au chocolate and Quiche Lorraine -Thank you Mr. Bakery Man and the nice toothless girl who helps me every time I go in - Bon Soir et Merci, Merci beaucoup.

Our French Press, The Bright Red Soup Pot that always beggs for veggies and The Yellow Water Carafe I found at the Sunday Market - I give thanks for the good belly filling assistants in my world.

The Butter Tower beacons and beckons day and night wherever you are, whoever you may be. - Thank you for landmarking my journey here, beautiful Monet painted Cathedral.

To the man who plays the accordion from the depth of his big heart with frigid fingers and a big love and who plays the most quintessentially French music. He has passed his love for his city to me through his music in the Cathedral Square. He makes eye contact with me and we both smile a thankful smile....me for him and his being the best French outdoor city host and he for me, emptying my pockets of everything I have to show my thanks...Thank you, Mr. accordion, man..thank you for making my day beautiful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

La Folie Obama

2008-11-26T08:36:00.000-08:00

Mati is back with his impressions on life in France and beyond.

Culturally, the past few weeks here in Rouen have been fascinating. Interest in the American politics has been and continues to be very high in France. Everyone is of course ecstatic about Obama's victory, having now settled into a pattern of firm and continuous debate about the future implications of his presidency for the US and our planet. TV, newspaper, magazine--it is literally Obama mania.

I've even noticed that Segolene Royal, the Socialist Party candidate who finished second to Sarkozy in last year's presidential election, has latched onto Obama's coattails so to speak in her message to French voters as she prepares her future candidacy. The tone and call for change in her speeches has been eerily similar to the Obama style, which is especially surprising given the more reserved nature of French political discourse. She's an interesting figure in France who seems to represent, much like Obama, new segments of the population so-long excluded from the political process.

Indeed, the whole experience of being abroad at a time like this has been unique. It's a fascinating time to be a citizen of the world and it's nations. I learned with dismay that Prop 8 passed in California, which called into question my own non-participation in the political process. In fact, it was the first time I really considered voting in an election. I'm half sorry I didn't. It's especially ironic when you hear of how some two-thirds or more of the African-American vote was in favor of this discriminatory legislation. One barrier falls and another goes up it seems, fashioned expressly by the newly enfranchised.

I'd love to know how the past few months have shaped your, our reader's, relationship to politics. Personally, I know it's changed my idea of what politicians represent. Years prior in Boston, I was struck when visiting the Kennedy museum by the difference in language and tone between the black and white newsreel images of JFK and the simplistic black and white world-view of the Bush presidency. The eloquence and inspiration of Camelot was so keenly lacking in the banal drone of terror level pronouncements. If Obama does nothing else than reintroduce the notion of civic duty into the American vernacular, he will have delivered the revolution in which this nation is of such need.

On a more personal level, I don't know if this election has much changed how I see myself fitting into that massive patchwork of American society. My work visa allows me to work in France for one-year. At this point, I'm really not sure though if I'll want to return right away to finish my degree at Long Beach or look to extend my visa for another year. I've enjoyed teaching here at the university. The students are good, the classes small and I have a pleasant variety of subjects from literature to history. And teaching in my native language once again invests me with a new respect and pride for my culture. It's been an interesting experience to say the least.

we ride the bus

2008-11-19T02:07:00.000-08:00

the eight rounded the turn, inched up hill
the Butter Tower stable
poking through the affectionate mist
a beacon to all moving about the city below
or anywhere.

I saw a man today with twinkling eyes
of someone who has been happy here forever.

2008-11-19T00:09:00.000-08:00

That's the train station behind me.
We walked to that train station from our flat in 5 minutes.
To get on a train.
In the morning.
In the dark.
I love that.

We got off the train an hour later.
In Paris.
To spend the weekend watching master's tennis.
And found a Starbucks.
Remember back in the day 3 months ago when I so desperately craved a venti brew?
Well, there it was in all its forest green sign glory.
The motherlode of American coffee bars .
We stopped in front of it and I stared in disbelief.
And then the Italian looked at me and asked, "Well, do you want to go in, baby?"
I hesitated. I didn't think so. I didn't Think SO?? What??
I had been wishing for this very moment for over two months and I didn't THINK SO??
But it was weird.
I haven't seen a chain coffee bar in what seems like forever.
It was cold that day, though and I really wished I had wanted to go in.
So we did. Because it was what I had, after all, been wishing for.
Walked right up to the counter. I looked in the glass case and recognized the names of all those Starbuck's pastries I never ate but felt comfortable knowing were there:
Carrot Passion Cake
Marshmello Twizzle
Starbucks trademarked granola bar packed with papaya, raisins, pecan nuts, heavy corn syrup....etc.
Tazo Teas
and the one thing I'd been asking for since I'd arrived here in France.
The Choice
- small, medium, or large
- tall, grande, or venti
- meaning: big, bigger or biggest.
That's how we Americans like to roll.
All big like.
Aaah Starbucks
Everything so uniform.
So familiar.
As I gazed over the counter, though, the venti suddenly appeared like the most giant vat-like container I'd ever seen.
Ridiculously large.
Could I seriously drink all that?
I felt myself freaking out inside a little, noticing it appeared that I'd had a change of heart.
Had I changed my mind? Was I fickle?
I Finally got the one coffee thing I'd asked for and I was rejecting it.
Weren't my 20's over?
I mean, the Venti was always a little much, admittedely,even in the states, but now even the grande looked gigantic.
I wasn't ready to admit anything yet, however.
We ordered a tall house brew.
and paid.
and walked outside with the awkward feeling "to go" cup in hand.
Now, understand that, "to go" coffee is not really part of cafe' culture here.
Cafe' culture - by the way - which I'd previously been giggling at the absurdities of - I accidentally wholeheartedly find myself participating in.
Anyway, the "to go" cups aren't common here as they are in our neck of the Starbucks infested woods and when you see them you really do have to laugh because they're just so damn tiny. (see for yourself-and its only half full, BTW)
It doesn't make any kind of sense to drink from them, since by the time you leave the coffee bar, with your miniture "to go" cup, you've either tossed the shot back or it's cold.

Not to mention that I've become fond of sitting with the Italian in the cafe' and the espresso in the porcelain cup and sip sip sipping, after watching the barista pack the grounds just so and the crema just ever so perfectly dense atop the delicious noir nectar.
mmm mmmm mmmm. deelish

So I was paralyzed standing outside the Paris Starbucks with my grande brew. I should have been ready "to go". It was pretty early still, I hadn't had a coffee yet that day. I wasn't fully awake for the day, either. It should have been the perfect coffee scenario. To go cup in hand, will walk.
"Let's Go. On y Va!"
I couldn't move. I was paralyzed.
It was all wrong.
Why were we going to "walk" with the coffee?
Why weren't we going to sit and sip, again?
Out of a real cup?
So we stood outside Starbucks and tried to drink the slightly bittered brew.
And it wasn't the same.
I'm not the same.

Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?

2008-11-06T03:37:00.000-08:00

He's too damn cute, I think.

Oh, Reaally.

Seriously, those are leather.
And the strut, I am happy to say, actually translates to photo. Thank God.
Notice, it is daytime - business hours, no less. I love it. I do.

They both had cigarettes. Just kidding. Only mom.

She has fresh flowers hanging out of her purse.
How can you not feel happy when you see this?

November 5, 2008

2008-11-05T11:11:00.000-08:00

“Yes we can.”
And I believe him.
In a sea of analysis, prediction and recollection of the night, the campaign, the meaning and the man, I am without words to describe the affection and hope I feel for a country I was never soulfully connected to before this election.
And today, I wish I were home.

2008-10-10T12:52:00.001-07:00

I’m not sure if the acoustics are bad in France or if having 2 people in the household now teetering between two languages is taking a toll. Either way or both, Mati and I are having a trouble understanding one another in our native English language.

Monday, we were walking home from a successful and efficient trip to the Lavomatic where we laundered our clothes – for the first time in a month and a half.
Mati is 6’5”, as you know, which means his head is higher towards the clouds, obviously, and if he happens to turn his mouth away from my auditory receptors, it becomes increasingly difficult to hear him. Add to that, his propensity towards mumbling lately, since he’s always translating between the 2 languages and what you have, my friends, are the veritable ingredients for an impressive communication breakdown.

Yes, we were strolling home when Mati speaks to me but turns his head towards the subject he’s speaking about, a woman with a dog on leash, walking on the other side of the street.
I think I hear, “That dog is cross eyed. You don’t see that much in France.”
I look toward the dog and can’t understand quite how Mati was able to get that close of a look so I ask him to clarify, “Say it again baby, what did you say?”
He says, “That girl's got a cross on.”
Now I’m confused and a bit flustered at the significant effort I’m having to make in order to understand my best friend in my native language.
I’m used to this feeling in French but certainly not in English. The feeling is rather unnerving.
I say, “Baby, I’m not sure if it’s the acoustics, your mumbling or my ears are plugged, but please, what did you say?”
He bends down slightly and looks directly at me.
“That Girl’s Got Crocks On. You Don’t See That Much in France.”
We belly laugh in the streets of Rouen for 5 minutes.

Updates, Notes and Observations from the Quirky and Charming Rouen

2008-09-25T00:50:00.000-07:00

.....With Her Many Moods and Personalities.
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.

2008-09-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

We purchased our first digital camera on August 13th.
We've been here, in France, since August 16th.
And Since then?
We've managed to shoot over 900 photos?? Huh?

This is along a walk in the country side in Ry. Our sweet hostess, Chantelle, who didn't even know us, took us for a ride so we could see some of the surrounding area.
I am consistently surprised and delighted by the kindness of strangers.

I took this one from the back seat of Chantelle's tiny little car...everyone drives a tiny little car.
I was astonished by the landscapes and could see why so many artists and writers were/are enamored with this country.
The skyscapes are surreal.

This one is at the top of a hill in an area called Bonsecours where our initial hosts, Chantelle and her husband Norbert live.
We stayed with them for 4 nights. Initially, we were only invited to stay two nights as the previous teaching assistant did not endear herself to her French hosts.

They were a little skeptical that we would run up the phone bill and overstay our welcome.
After a daily showing of gratitude, champagne, flower bouquets, chocolate and contributing a meal of steaming hot tomato soup from scratch made with herbs de Provence and goat cheese, scalloped potatoes, and a signature California salad , they invited us to stay a few days longer. A little American love goes a long way : )

Each day we would descend some 500 wooden stairs through a wooded area into the city of Rouen to search for a flat/apartment.

At the end of each day, we would not ascend the stairs. We took the bus with a baguette.

Observation: Each person carries his or her baguette like either a weapon or a musical instrument. I think its like Baguette Body Language or something. Probably you can tell a lot about a person by the way he carries his baguette. Huh?

Here are a few photos that give you an idea about the sky here, which changes its mood frequently.
Sometimes words are limiting when I look up and see the clarity and distinct colors.
And no air traffic anywhere.
This observation dawned on me suddenly around the third week we were here that I hadn't heard an airplane, helicopter or seen any type of aircraft whatsoever interfering with my view of the fast moving clouds.
Pretty cool, indeed.

For the next portion of this post: Reader Discretion is Advised - Toilet Humor to Follow.

This is a subject about which I've neglected to write.
There are a few of our friends to whom it might cause a fright.
But its been on my mind.
We've been discussing it with wine.
I thought it may be.
better to address it in a poem, you see.
It's the subject of poo.
Yes. We'll be discussing the doo.
So if the subject of doo,
makes you fret or feel blue,
perhaps we can suggest a more classical text for you.

But if you don't happen to reject
this oh-so-natural subject.
Then without further adieu,
Lemmee break it down for you.

(Read this next part with a avante garde jazz fusion rhythm or in the Gil Scott Heron tone)
(Maybe snap your fingers like the musical poet that you are.)
there's this city outside
with narrow sidewalks
an the people in the city
they're a hustlin' anna bustlin'
an there ain't much room
'tween the street an the sidewalk
an even less damn room 'tween the cafe tables
an the sidewalks
an justa wee bit bit 'o room 'tween the tables an the cars
drivin' down the sidewalks an the streets
an they parkin' their tiny little cars on the sidewalks on those narrow streets
and you can't walk with yo' baby 2 by 2
'cuz outside on the narrow city sidewalks
those frenchie speakin' people
are a hustlin' and bustlin' and they're doin' their thing - its the city life, man.
and its hard, man.
Cuz, there's doo-doo in France
Everywhere that you glance.
See you know you're in France
because you're scared as each foot plants
outside on the ground
when you walk around
and you narrowly escape
having to scrape
a pile of doo
from the bottom of your shoe
'cuz there's poo-poo in France
everywhere that you glance.
pile after smushed pile.
with a smell that can be vile
you're on a mission
to avoid the sound "gliissh" and
you're so lucky
that you missed that yucky
yucky
pile 'o poo.

outside outside
yes, you'll find
that avoidin' the poo will be on your mind
oh no, and it doesn't stop there - I'm afraid to declare
that inside our french flats too.
we must continue to address the poo
Let's see. How should I say this?
Well. You know you're in France
when the successful flush makes you dance.

Since when there's a 2
1 flush just won't do.
You must try again and again
cursing the fiber of your diet.....vegetarian.
You begin to understand
why they eat so little in this land.
The baguette, I regret,
and the cigarette
are the nutritional foundation
of this fashionable nation.
It's smart, I presume
to avoid the perfume
of the Reluctant evacuation
of the 2 on vacation
and its hangin' around
your flat's porcelain town.
Well, I think you understand
the subject at hand.
So, thank you for reading.
Upon visiting us, you'll be heeding,
the advice from your friends here.
Decrease your fiber
and dance if the water runs clear!

2008-09-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

I heard the apartments were small and I did believe it. But after living in the cottage in Long Beach, I was sure we wouldn’t be surprised by the sizes and was confident we would find something we would be delighted with. Armed with a newspaper and the instructions given to us, we went to work pounding the pavement in search of a flat. After 32 phone calls with only 3 resulting in meetings to view apartments, we were getting discouraged. And of the 3 meetings we did have, we began to realize that if we found an apartment above ground with a small window without bars and a shower Mati could actually stand up straight in, we had better take it. Evidently, apartment hunting is very different here than in the U.S and doesn’t apply just to foreigners.

The fact that once someone is an occupant of an apartment, it is very difficult to evict them means the landlords, understandably, want to be certain the tenants are on the up and up. What the up and up includes is that you make 3 to 4 times the amount of rent per month and be able to show proof of that, pay 2 to 3 months rent in advance and in most cases, have a guarantor – someone to vouch for you and sign papers saying they will be responsible for the rent in the event that you can’t pay.

Mati would open the phone booth doors and come out like the oracle and speak to say the news of the Land Lords. No good. Rented. Rented. Rented.

Until Eric, that is. The last call of the Wednesday resulted in us meeting with Eric the landlord on the very same day we spoke to him. To our surprise, the space was big – ger and the kitchen was separate and the bathroom could be walked in and the shower could be stood up in and Eric wasn’t concerned that we didn’t make a million a year and he didn’t ask for a guarantor and we could afford it so we Took it.

Side note: that’s what you do here: you try to secure a series of appointments to See flats and if you make 10 appointments and the first one is “livable”, whatever that means to you and the land Lord will accept you – you Take it. No messin’ around with “Oh, I have a couple of other appointments today and I’ll see which one I like best”. We ditched that approach immediately.

So, after an exhausting search which didn’t seem to have an end in sight, it ended just as quickly…like in 10 minutes, we secured our apartment, paid a deposit and were scheduled to move in the next day. And now we have a space that is ours to sleep and eat in and play cards too. Its lovely and white walled and has a bit of light, not much, but enough, its clean with the exception of a bit of mold which we seem to be solving and accepting and the same time. The kitchen is big – ger without an oven but enough room to put a table and chairs and it actually has counter space with a two electric plate type stovetop.

Since Then…
We bought the bed.
Then the sheets, the pillows, the comforter.
The table and chairs were next.
And while we sat on the bench on our busy cross street awaiting the table and chair delivery from our new favorite store – Intermarche – I walked 2 blocks down to the kitchen store and bought the much awaited French Press coffee maker.
Now we’re seriously in business.

But can we discuss the coffee situation for a moment before I go on??
First, I’m not sure why they call it a French Press in that they’re hard to find and nobody in France seems to use them. I’ll report more as I collect the details.
Second, I don’t think I expected a coffee situation but I had one.
See, I was startled when I found the coffee only served in the baby espresso cups. I knew these espressos existed and have always been charmed by them and even intended to spend time drinking them myself. But I thought I would also have access to a small, medium or large cup of brew when I wanted one. No, this is not the case. I went in search of a Venti with absolutely no luck. Just endless cafes with copious quantities of the one size Thumbelina espressos.
Delicious, indeed. I just always found myself wanting more. Mati tried to help me by asking about getting a larger size and found out that I could order a café allonge or un grand café.
My hopes returned. But un grand café consisted of a Dixie size coffee with an inch more or so more than the original. Like a double espresso, essentially. I love the espresso and am definitely not complaining about the quality. But wiith our new French press in hand, I decided to end the venti search party and make bowl after bowl of delicious French pressed coffee at home.

We’ve been in our apartment for a couple of weeks and settling into the idea that we live here.
We sleep like babies after long days of figuring out how things work and doing so on foot.
We eat like bears after long days of figuring out how things work around here and doing so on foot.
We drink coffee now, out of regular sized coffee bowls instead of the Dixie cup size cups everyone fashionably sips espresso from.
What more do you need for a good life, I ask?

Since Then….
We found Carrefour.
A bus ride up the hill.
To the mother ship of all stores - like a combo of Costco, Target, Wallmart, Food 4 Less, Best Buy and Bev Mo'
The biggest.
More stuff we love and need.
We bought some drawers to store stuff in, a book shelf and our most recent aquistion, which will be delivered on Friday, is the armoir for our clothes. We can unpack our duffle bags.

We’ve been eating really good since the kitchen has been equipped. I’m learning to cook on the two electric plates and still come up with pretty tasty meals and we’re staying pretty close to the diet we’ve become accustomed to. I ventured to the market by myself and was able to get our greens for the week.

We’ve designated Sunday as feast day. On Sundays here, the city is quiet. Most businesses are closed and there few people on the streets at all really. The market is jammed packed with everything good and French. The flowers, the cheese, the meats, the moon-sized pans of couscous, paella, the bread, the fruit, the antiques, the fashion, the vegetables, the people, the surrounding cafes. The market is the place to be on Sunday around noon – evidently to be social and to get your goods. Then people go home and eat and relax. I like the market earlier though. That’s when all the older people are shopping the markets and the walkways are clear and you can pick anything you like without a line. And you can take your time if you’re a beginning French speaker as I am and make your order with clarity. Though I thought I asked for a bunch of bananas but came home with one. I still have my linguistic work cut out for me.

So, yes, we’ve designated Sunday as feast day. On Sundays, I will cook with butter if I like and we’ll cook a rabbit Frenchie style or buy a delicious chicken off the rotisserie like we had this past Sunday. An appetizer, the main meal with wine, salad, cheese and dessert with coffee. And that’s how we did it this past Sunday. Then we rested. And then we went to mass at the mass – ive church with the really loud acoustics and Mati got asked to take the basket around and I couldn’t understand the sermon. Its just such a grand and beautiful church and I was happy to be there.

Speaking of Church.....
I wouldn’t be honest if I said that everything has been perfect here while getting settled in a new country and getting comfortable. So much of me that really embraces the newness of what we’re experiencing while unpacking emotionally, spiritually and physically and finding a home here in Rouen is also scared and uncertain.

I embrace the idea that we haven’t been exposed to television and we haven’t had a phone and because we’re so new to the area, our lives are not inundated with the modern comforts we had in Long Beach.
After living in a place like Los Angeles County for 18 years, one has resources she’s taken for granted.
If there were a loud thunder, I’d commiserate with the neighbors and they would understand that I have fears of the world ending too soon.
If I were lonely, I’d call and ask a friend to meet me at a local place where we could drink wine and talk smart of things we really know very little about.
If anything at all went wrong, I had resources within minutes regardless of the concern.
My chiropractor is a genius, my friends and family are brilliant and loving and helpful and accessible.
My neighbors are kind and neighborly and available to congregate for fire pit drinks,
bar–b-ques, mail gatherings and to feed the cat if needed.
We had a real and foundational network despite our not planning for it that way.

It is strange to give yourself over to a country and its people with whom you have no connection and no effectively rapid way of making connections.
By this, I mean, I have had to address some of my rather deep fears about emergencies and other existentialist type issues.
I go out to the market by myself, which I’ve become brave enough to do, despite the language barrier.
(This would be a good place to tell you that before we left, I heard many people say over and over again about how everyone speaks English here)
No. They Don’t.
Like I was saying, if I go out alone, and something happened to me, how could Mati be notified? And visa versa.
If you take this topic and expand upon it again and again and go for all the questions you can extropolate from this topic, you will maybe work yourself into a frenzy similar to mine on a rainy but QUIET night with the Italian sleeping soundly next to me.
My dear friend gave me the most obvious and sound piece of advice once when I expressed some of my death ideas and fears like these at home. She said, in her Betty Boop voice,
“Well, don’t think about death, then.”
I ignored her in Long Beach too. : )
But here, these cerebral/spiritual voyages take on a whole new perspective.
I found myself praying.
Praying is an important subject to clarify because it has implications that may be religiously or politically confusing. I don’t belong to any official religion and don’t care to.
I don’t know what it is about being here.
It could be that the city is filled with churches. Old churches.
Churches made with powerful old stones.
It could be that I am here without any tangible safety net to speak of.
I don’t know exactly.
And I’m not going to try to figure it out.
So praying.
For much of my adult life, I’ve abandoned praying in the way I prayed when I was little.
I abandoned getting on my knees next to the couch bed my grandmother set up for me in her living room.
I abandoned the “our father"
I abandoned the “hail mary”
But not here.
One morning of few days ago, I woke up feeling very dizzy and got up anyway, headed out to the bakery to buy our favorite little loaf of bread chocked full ‘o nuts and seeds. As I headed out of the house, I became acutely aware of my physical discomfort. I had this weird type of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness like if you had low blood pressure type dizziness but more like if you had sea sickness type vertigo. See I teach human anatomy and know just enough about pathophysiology to make me nervous about every small variation away from homeostasis. So this vertigo type observation made me nervous. I did not feel right at all.
And as anyone who knows me will atest, I have a tendency to make a mountain out of a mole hill when it comes health issues. I admit, I am a bit of an alarmist. I’m sorry. I’m working on it. I thought I might be having a cerebral vascular accident and was worried.
So as I was walking, this fear set in. What if I passed out on the street? How would the Frenchies get in touch with Mati? Where would they take me? What would happen when I came to and couldn’t tell them where I live and how to get in touch with my loved ones? On and on…
I managed to buy bread from my favorite baker lady and get myself home where I crawled back in bed and spent the next 4 hours snoozing.
I think I was just overstimulated, overexhausted and overthinking everything because after the extra hours of rest, I was feeling much better.
But as I lay in my vertigo stupor while Mati went to his meeting at school, I began to pray.
My vertigo, real or not, encouraged me to reclaim my relationship with the universe, God and angels.
Please help me, God. Help me to accept what I cannot control.
I prayed for God take care of Mati and I while we were away from home without loved ones nearby. I prayed for my family and friends, each one, specifically.
God, please let everyone be healthy and happy and please take care of everyone so we can love bomb them when we get home.
On and on, individual prayers for each loved one.
Please let your light shine on all that is valuable to us and let them know through you, that we love them.
I never made my holy communion.
And I don’t belong to any particular religion.
But being here has encouraged me to be faithful and to be powerfully present in every little activity I participate in. Because I am grateful.
Mati and I went to Mass on Sunday. The acoustics were powerful.
I could hear the Priest loud and clear.
But I didn’t understand a word of the French sermon. I didn’t need to.
I’m allowing myself to get comfortable with the lack of control and the lack of resources and to sink into the uncertainty about the nature of life and the safety nets we set up.
I am faithful.
I guess what I am saying is that when I was a child I went to church and I prayed.
Because of the nature of my life as a child, I felt safe there.
As I grew older, confident, skeptical and prejudiced, I abandoned the church building and praying. Maybe I was angry with things that happened in my life. I don’t care to go back and figure it out too much. What I am amazed by being here is my openness to try again.
Whether it be the old stable trusty churches, our being here without a safety net; maybe the vertigo, I don’t know but I’ve abandoned my own critical political voice begging me to define the nature of my praying.
I just pray. Unadulterated wishing for goodness in the world, in the lives of those I love and in my own life here with Mati, in a foreign land, different than anything I’ve ever known.
Goodnight moon.

"Vous Etes Ici"

2008-09-06T03:32:00.000-07:00

The first 2 weeks of life in a new country.
"Vous Etes Ici"
You are here.
That's what the map said.

Phille to Charles De Gaulle, Paris

Paris to Hotel Batingnolles

Hotel Batingnolles to Chantelle's house.

Chantelle's House to Gerard's house.

Gerard's house to Eric's parent's house in the countryside.

Countryside heaven to Hotel Rebaucha freaking somethin or other.

Hotel blah blah french sounding R to our new Apartment on rue Des Bons Enfants.
The Street of Good children.

The following is an excerpt from my journal entry on one of the days we were travelling, giving a more visceral depiction of our experience.

From 8.19.08
“Did we die and go to heaven?”
“Are we alive?”
I’m not actually sure what time it is
Or what day it is for that matter. Although I know its linda’s birthday.
I think its Saturday.

We’re at Eric’s parents’ house in the countryside outside of Rouen.
Who’s Eric? That’s what I want to know.
And his panents? More questions I can’t really answer.
I do know who Eric is. He is the colleague of chantelle.
Chantelle is the mother of charlotte.
Charlotte is the classmate of Matthew.
Matthew is my husband.
Now that we have that straight.
Where is the countryside outside of Rouen?
I don’t know.

We woke up this morning at Gerard’s house. Who is Gerard? That’s what I want to know. No, really. I don’t know Gerard. Well I didn’t know Gerard, that is, until last night.

Gerard is the head of the police of Bonsecours? I don’t think that’s right. But he is rather an elected official and not much of what I’m going to say in the way of who’s who and what they do will be accurate because remember that I don’t speak French just yet and so many of the things I come up with may be direct from my own imagination.

Mati can’t translate for me every second. I nod my head A Lot. And I think even mati might think I understand more than I actually do.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned the fact that when I finally am able to come up with the words to ask a question, I can’t understand the answer I’m being given. Kind of a funny catch 22 don’t you think.

Needless to say, I can hardly wait to dive into studying French. I don’t think I realized how much I enjoy a good conversation and it seems like when the people I’m around are talking, they’re saying really really interesting things. It seems like really great banter I definitely want to be a part of but I can’t.

In any case, back to where we are tonight and where we were last night. Well, last night we were with Gerard. Like I mentioned, Gerard works with Chantelle, Charlotte’s mom – who by the way, has gone above and beyond helping us with our adjustments here. We happened to end up with Gerard last night because Norbert needs a break.

Yes, I know – who’s Norbert. Norbert is the husband of Chantelle and he can’t cope having company this weekend so we must leave. Charlotte, Mati’s classmate was so very kind when I was first introduced to her back in May. A banquet was held for the French students who excelled in their studies and Mati and I attended so he could give out awards to his beginning French students who were exceptional. When we were chatting with Charlotte, we discussed our being in Rouen for the year and Charlotte so charmingly and confidently informed us that we would be hosted by her parents in Rouen when we arrived and that they would love to have us and host us and this is the way it would be.

I was taken aback by her generosity and assumed she lived in the same house as her parents. We wouldn’t be in touch with Charlotte again, however, until just prior to our arriving in paris in August. Not because Mati hadn’t tried to be in touch. He had. But certainly life was very busy. Charlotte was moving from Long Beach back to France and tying up her own loose ends. We sent word that we were coming and Charlotte let us know that she and her family would be away the weekend we were arriving and so we would stay in Paris for the weekend before coming to Rouen.

Upon reflection, I am certain, this was a much needed time to adjust from being with lots and lots of people in California – especially when we’re used to spending a lot of time alone – to being with more people – this time one’s we don’t know – in France. We arrived in Paris on Saturday morning. Its so hard to even remember now. It seems we’ve been in the country much longer than we actually have.

So where am I right now? I’m sitting right now in the quietest place I think I’ve ever been. With the exception of my feverish typing and the soft breathing of the sleeping Italian mati next to me, it is the kind of silent that begs you to whisper and walk softly everywhere you go. We are in the country at Eric’s parents who are away on vacation. We can’t believe we are here in this indescribable beauty. Its almost insulting to begin to reach for words.The lighting is perfect. Every thing is perfect. Goodnight moon....."

Yes, so above is the retracing of our footsteps from the time we left the cozy cradle of loving
family and friends in California to the time I sit in here in a new and strangely lovely country where we have been
settin up a new life to live for one year while Mati teaches English at University.

In between the lines have been breathtaking sweet land and skyscapes, troubling observations of blatant nosepickers, dog draggers, toilet flushing and other other strange bathroom issues, whole grain bread finding adventures, vegetable buying, apartment finding triumphs and tribulations.

Every minute feels like a day.

Mati understands about 60% of what he hears and I understand about 1 out of every 2000 words.

But we are here.
"Vous Etes Ici"
Just like the map said.