Sometimes when you find yourself shivering in the bitter cold in the middle of a cemetery nestled in the misty hills of the Lorraine countryside in an unknown village on a Sunday morning, surrounded by people that you don't know, it's good to take a step back and ask yourself, "Now how did I get here again?"
The explanation was simple, or rather would have been simple if I were either fluent in French, or learned to stop nodding my head and responding, "Oui, oui," every time someone spoke to me in this unintelligible, rapid-fire language, and I actually just asked them to slow down and repeat themselves. The problem with not understanding a good amount of the language is that I end up agreeing to things without realizing it and the next thing I know, I'm developing hypothermia in a cemetery.
I'm in a choir here, the youngest member by at least fifteen years, and the only foreigner. While my French skills are frequently lauded in comparison to "the Previous American," as she's disdainfully referred to, I'm still clearly at a disadvantage. Information takes awhile for me to process when it's verbally conveyed, so I was a good week behind everyone else in terms of finding out about an upcoming concert mass. And after that, it came to my attention that it was a mass somewhere not in Bar-le-Duc. Where? I couldn't tell you because all the surrounding villages are equally incomprehensibly named. How was I to get there? I just hoped that someone would think to offer me a ride. I'd like to think that in some ways I could be compared to a salmon swimming upstream, because I usually don't give into the path of least resistance, but for the past couple of months, I've definitely been enjoying thumbing a ride downstream and letting it carry me wherever it ends up going. Which is how I ended up in Sampigny, or Saint Puni, as I thought it was called before I saw it written out. "Saint Punish."
It was 8:05am on Sunday morning, and I was waiting in front of the McDonalds, desperately hoping that my ride had forgotten me so I'd have an excuse not to go. An hour earlier, I had woken up, desperately hoping that my minor cold had turned into the flu, or I had lost my voice. No such luck. So as the minutes ticked by in front of McDonalds, I grew more and more excited. 8:10am. If my ride doesn't show up in five minutes, I'm going home. But of course, as soon as I thought that, a white Renault pulled up in front of me, with two of my fellow choir members waving from inside. Merde.
On the way to Sampigny, I gazed out the window at the fog-covered countryside, and my stomach clenched as we drove beneath a large, white, spinning windmill, whose vanes sliced threateningly through the air and down towards our little car. The windmills dotted the countryside, their presence disturbing when juxtaposed against the rolling green hills and herds of cows and sheep grazing underneath. Unnatural. When we arrived in the village, I tagged along behind my fellow choristers like an eager but bashful puppy, afraid of being left behind.
The church was cold. A kind of coldness that crept up through your shoes, into your feet, then up your legs and infected the rest of your body. A kind of coldness that buried itself somewhere deep inside of you that you couldn't shake off. This is why I thought that, in conjunction with my head cold, I might be hallucinating when I looked up from where the choir sat in the nave and saw a woman dressed in a full-out renaissance gown, complete with thick, black ringlets crowning her face. She sat wedged in the front pew, next to modernly dressed people, and it was the discomfort she so clearly exuded that gave her away as a real person and not a figment of my imagination. Renaissance characters from my fantasies always hold themselves with poise.
As I slowly came to realize (once again, a little slow on the uptake), this mass we were singing at was a celebration of the 300th birthday (or was it the anniversary of her death?) of Henriette de Lorraine, a duchess whose castle had been built in Sampigny but destroyed during the First World War. And some poor woman had been given the task of dressing up as Henriette de Lorraine so we could celebrate her in person. She had obviously been chosen, not for her acting skills, but for her girth, so that she would match the portrait of the real Henriette that now stood propped on an easel next to the pulpit. I found it a little odd that her portrait should be so situated in a place of worship, and that the priest kept comparing Henriette's kingdom to the day's Gospel reading and its famous line, "Remember me when you come into Your Kingdom." Then again, maybe I misunderstood, because I was also sure that the priest said, "Bling-bling." I was jerked out of my reverie by these words, only to hear him follow up with, "As the young people say today." So did he really just say that? We'll never know...
The next thing I knew, I was standing in a cemetery. After mass was over, everyone had gotten in their cars and in funeral procession fashion, we had driven slowly out of town and made our way up, up, up a narrow little road until we found ourselves outside a cemetery flanked on one side by pure nature as far as the eye could see, and, on the other, an ancient farmhouse with smoke pouring doggedly out of the chimney as if to prove it was still inhabited, despite its ramshackled appearance. Everyone pushed their way through the cemetery's gates and crowded around a shiny new plaque that the wind had prematurely unveiled. I pushed to get a look but was shut-out by others more eager than me. I never did get to read what it said. When the priest and Henriette incarnate arrived, they futilely recovered the plaque with the maroon cloth that lay on the ground, and then re-unveiled it officially. Meanwhile, I was standing behind the crowds of people pushing to get a view, staring out at the surrounding hills, themselves veiled in fog and a mist which stung my eyes with its bitter bite. The view was majestic and I mentally kicked myself for not bringing my camera. But how was I supposed to know where I would end up today? Perhaps some day I'll make it back to Sampigny, Saint Puni. I'll visit the castle ruins and the old mansion of the former French president Poincaré who once made his home here. I'll revisit the history of this tiny town, once so important-- the seat of the duchy, the home of the president-- but now boarded up against the biting cold, as the windmills turn and turn and the chimneys spew out an ancient-smelling smoke.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
In France, we are always on strike or on holiday.
As you can see, I've changed my blog layout. It's probably the most exciting thing that's happened to me all day.
I had two afternoon classes today and the first one was one that I was going to for the first time. Between mix-ups, scheduling issues and the like, I've somehow managed to go six weeks without ending up in this class. If all goes according to plan, there will be another class this Thursday that I'll also be visiting for the first time. Keeps me on my toes, that school does. Anyway, since it was my first day in this class of eight and nine year olds, I ran through my well-practiced routine of introducing myself, telling them where I'm from, pointing to Chicago on a map, then New York, miming a large distance, and then answering the question, "Do you live close to New York?" ten times after that.
The teacher then allowed the children to ask me questions in French. Always a bad idea because then the kids can actually ask whatever pops into their head and I suddenly have twenty-three hyper French children spewing out questions so fast that even the teacher herself doesn't understand what they're saying. Here are some highlights:
Are you married?
Do you have any children?
How old are you? (When I respond, one kid falls off his chair in mock surprise. Am I that old?)
Do you know any children our age?
Follow up question: What are their names?
What's your job? (No, I just teach English to snotty-nosed kids in France as a hobby.)
Do you speak French? (I've been responding to all of their questions in French up until this point...)
Do you live in England?
Do you live in New York?
Do you know Obama?
Next, the teacher asked the kids to tell me what they thought Americans ate for breakfast. Most said bacon, eggs, omlettes, pancakes, and then one girl raised her hand and said du blé.
"You think that Americans eat flour for breakfast?" the teacher demanded increduously.
The girl nodded her head.
"How do they eat it? Like this?" She mimed eating handfuls of flour.
The girl nodded again.
The teacher turned to me. "I don't know where they get these ideas. Maybe she means cereal."
After Q&A was over, I passed around my Illinois driver's license which caused everyone to squeal in delight, including the teacher. I hadn't done this before, but clearly I should have because it was a hit.
In my second class, we were still on the subject of Halloween. Christ. At this point, as long as we finish Halloween by Christmas, I'll be happy. Yet again, I was subjected to the unending French spew of questions. Do you dress up? Do you eat candy? How much candy? Can you tell us how many pieces? Do you ever play tricks on people? Do kids all dress up like witches and skeletons? At this point, I felt it necessary to point out that most kids don't dress up in scary costumes (it's an assumption that all my students have made about Halloween).
I said, "A lot of kids dress up like characters from movies or books. Like Harry Potter."
"Qui?!" the students shouted in unison.
They must know who Harry Potter is, I thought, panicked.
"Uh, you know, Harry Potter." Blank stares. "'Arry Pohter?" I tried, putting on my best French accent.
"Ohhhh! 'Arry Pohter!" the kids screamed in delight.
Welcome to my life.
On the Thanksgiving front: I had to clarify to a teacher today that no, not all immigrants who come to America are called Pilgrims. Then this perplexing conversation in French:
"So are pumpkin pies tartes?" the teacher asked.
"Yes," I responded.
"And tartes aux pommes... that's a pie?"
"Yeah, we'd say apple pie."
"So it's not a cake?" she asked.
"Apple pie? No, tarte means pie."
At this, the teacher knitted her brows. "Are there any tartes that are actually cakes?"
I was utterly confused. "Uh, no, I don't think so."
"Hmm..." she didn't seem satisfied.
"Oh wait! Boston Cream pie is actually a cake!" I exclaimed.
"What's that?" she asked, gleeful that she had been vindicated.
"Uhh... it's, I don't know." How do I explain in French? "It's... good. It's so, so good."
She smiled. "I'm sure I would like it then."
I'm still totally confused about what she meant about pies and cakes. And now I just want Boston Cream pie.
In celebration of me finally learning how to embed videos, please enjoy this gem. All of it is true.
I had two afternoon classes today and the first one was one that I was going to for the first time. Between mix-ups, scheduling issues and the like, I've somehow managed to go six weeks without ending up in this class. If all goes according to plan, there will be another class this Thursday that I'll also be visiting for the first time. Keeps me on my toes, that school does. Anyway, since it was my first day in this class of eight and nine year olds, I ran through my well-practiced routine of introducing myself, telling them where I'm from, pointing to Chicago on a map, then New York, miming a large distance, and then answering the question, "Do you live close to New York?" ten times after that.
The teacher then allowed the children to ask me questions in French. Always a bad idea because then the kids can actually ask whatever pops into their head and I suddenly have twenty-three hyper French children spewing out questions so fast that even the teacher herself doesn't understand what they're saying. Here are some highlights:
Are you married?
Do you have any children?
How old are you? (When I respond, one kid falls off his chair in mock surprise. Am I that old?)
Do you know any children our age?
Follow up question: What are their names?
What's your job? (No, I just teach English to snotty-nosed kids in France as a hobby.)
Do you speak French? (I've been responding to all of their questions in French up until this point...)
Do you live in England?
Do you live in New York?
Do you know Obama?
Next, the teacher asked the kids to tell me what they thought Americans ate for breakfast. Most said bacon, eggs, omlettes, pancakes, and then one girl raised her hand and said du blé.
"You think that Americans eat flour for breakfast?" the teacher demanded increduously.
The girl nodded her head.
"How do they eat it? Like this?" She mimed eating handfuls of flour.
The girl nodded again.
The teacher turned to me. "I don't know where they get these ideas. Maybe she means cereal."
After Q&A was over, I passed around my Illinois driver's license which caused everyone to squeal in delight, including the teacher. I hadn't done this before, but clearly I should have because it was a hit.
In my second class, we were still on the subject of Halloween. Christ. At this point, as long as we finish Halloween by Christmas, I'll be happy. Yet again, I was subjected to the unending French spew of questions. Do you dress up? Do you eat candy? How much candy? Can you tell us how many pieces? Do you ever play tricks on people? Do kids all dress up like witches and skeletons? At this point, I felt it necessary to point out that most kids don't dress up in scary costumes (it's an assumption that all my students have made about Halloween).
I said, "A lot of kids dress up like characters from movies or books. Like Harry Potter."
"Qui?!" the students shouted in unison.
They must know who Harry Potter is, I thought, panicked.
"Uh, you know, Harry Potter." Blank stares. "'Arry Pohter?" I tried, putting on my best French accent.
"Ohhhh! 'Arry Pohter!" the kids screamed in delight.
Welcome to my life.
On the Thanksgiving front: I had to clarify to a teacher today that no, not all immigrants who come to America are called Pilgrims. Then this perplexing conversation in French:
"So are pumpkin pies tartes?" the teacher asked.
"Yes," I responded.
"And tartes aux pommes... that's a pie?"
"Yeah, we'd say apple pie."
"So it's not a cake?" she asked.
"Apple pie? No, tarte means pie."
At this, the teacher knitted her brows. "Are there any tartes that are actually cakes?"
I was utterly confused. "Uh, no, I don't think so."
"Hmm..." she didn't seem satisfied.
"Oh wait! Boston Cream pie is actually a cake!" I exclaimed.
"What's that?" she asked, gleeful that she had been vindicated.
"Uhh... it's, I don't know." How do I explain in French? "It's... good. It's so, so good."
She smiled. "I'm sure I would like it then."
I'm still totally confused about what she meant about pies and cakes. And now I just want Boston Cream pie.
In celebration of me finally learning how to embed videos, please enjoy this gem. All of it is true.
Monday, November 15, 2010
All mimsy were the borogoves and the mome wraths outgrabe
I've noticed that I write most of my posts on Mondays and Thursdays, which happen to be my two busiest days of the week. Inversely, most posts don't get written on Saturdays or Sundays when I have nothing to do but change from my pajamas into my sweatpants, catch up on my American television, and then lie on the floor and stare at my ceiling in boredom. Ah, the mysteries of life. So to continue with this tradition, here is your Monday post. However, I write this not because I'm on a roll from my busy day, but because I just went to my afternoon school and was in the middle of printing out the worksheets that I spent two hours creating last night, when one of the teachers casually mentions to me, "Oh, there's no English today. The teacher's not here." Let me stop and explain something here: I love not working just as much as the next lazy American. But when I only have 12 hours of work per week (the other 156 hours being spent either sleeping, eating or sitting in my room slack-jawed and lost in deep reverie), I tend to really look forward to those 12 hours. I look forward to them even more after I've put a lot of time and effort into planning lessons. But as is wont to happen, I've found, yet another class has been canceled on me and it's really starting to get under my skin. Oh well. This is when I resort to reciting my canon of favorite French phrases: Laisse tomber, c'est pas grave, tant pis, il n'y a pas de souci... in other words, fuhgeddaboudit. But if this keeps up, I'm gonna have to coax out my inner Patrick Swayze. Cause nobody puts baby in a corner.
"So what DO you do with all your spare time?" That's a great question, man in the back with the ten-gallon hat. I still listen to my favorite podcasts like Prairie Home, This American Life and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me; watch a lot of American television; make the most exciting meals possible considering I have only two hotplates and a fridge at my disposal and let my room get really messy so then I can spend a good hour cleaning it. I've also been reading a lot (currently reading The Best American Short Stories of 1998), journaling every day and writing some short fiction when I'm feeling very motivated, and memorizing poetry. Yes, you read that right, memorizing poetry. Like I said, I have a lot of spare time. Whip me out at parties when there's a lull and I'll recite Jabberwocky or Kubla Khan, or maybe Shakespeare and Yeats is more your style! I've got something for everyone! I run for hours on battery and come with a convenient retractable cord for charging for your all-night poetry slams! I have a faulty mute button but locking me in a closet works just as well!
Boredom does strange things to people, but don't be fooled! I still have all my mental faculties and I'm enjoying life up in my little artist's garret. Here's something to leave you with: If iterate already means to "perform or utter repeatedly" then is reiterate an unnecessary reiteration of iterate? Think about it....
"So what DO you do with all your spare time?" That's a great question, man in the back with the ten-gallon hat. I still listen to my favorite podcasts like Prairie Home, This American Life and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me; watch a lot of American television; make the most exciting meals possible considering I have only two hotplates and a fridge at my disposal and let my room get really messy so then I can spend a good hour cleaning it. I've also been reading a lot (currently reading The Best American Short Stories of 1998), journaling every day and writing some short fiction when I'm feeling very motivated, and memorizing poetry. Yes, you read that right, memorizing poetry. Like I said, I have a lot of spare time. Whip me out at parties when there's a lull and I'll recite Jabberwocky or Kubla Khan, or maybe Shakespeare and Yeats is more your style! I've got something for everyone! I run for hours on battery and come with a convenient retractable cord for charging for your all-night poetry slams! I have a faulty mute button but locking me in a closet works just as well!
Boredom does strange things to people, but don't be fooled! I still have all my mental faculties and I'm enjoying life up in my little artist's garret. Here's something to leave you with: If iterate already means to "perform or utter repeatedly" then is reiterate an unnecessary reiteration of iterate? Think about it....
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tut, tut, it looks like rain!
It seems that winter has swept across and engulfed the French hinterland over the course of today. While there's no snow yet, the temperature has plummeted over just a few hours and now it's pouring those little hard pellets of rain that could almost be snow but instead are only just frozen enough so that they hurt like hell as they pelt your face and the back of your neck as you run for cover. My poor umbrella has been flipped inside out so many times today that now when I open it, it automatically flips itself inside out before the wind grasps the opportunity. And naturally, I clomped around in my rainboots all morning because the weather report said it would rain, but at lunchtime, when the sun was still briskly shining as it had been all morning, I changed into my non-rain friendly flats. Needless to say, the skies blackened and turned on the faucet shortly after I left my house again. Mondays are so vindictive.
There are some wonderful moments in school that are so small, and perhaps meaningless in the long run, but they make my day anyway. Like today when a stern teacher was quizzing his students on the four seasons, and one girl raised her hand and said, "Sprinter?" I thought it was hilarious. The teacher didn't.
Or when I was asking a class what the weather was like today, and instead of saying "It's cloudy," a student said, "I'm cloudy." Why isn't that a real emotion? It should be.
In one of my last classes of the day today, a beautiful little red-haired girl came up to me to give me a picture she had drawn of a dog, clearly labeled in English- "DOG." It warmed my heart.
Classes ended fifteen minutes early today so that all the kids in the school could sing "Ode to Joy" and "La Marseillaise" together. Not really sure why, but the two songs almost brought me to tears as I stood listening to them with the other teachers. As soon as the choir teacher gave them the cut-off after the big finale of the national anthem, the school bell rang, perfectly timed, and everyone cheered.
I've found that some of my favorite students are the ones who misbehave. I can't really put my finger on why that is, but perhaps it's because these kids are so, so good inside but for whatever reason just can't keep their mouths shut or their butts in their chairs or their hands to themselves. One kid who drives me up the wall came up to me at recess and gave me a piece of candy and smiled shyly at me before running away. And the so-called "bad" kids are always the ones who make sure to say hello to me in the hallways. Also, with few exceptions, they're generally the brightest and quickest students in the class. But let's not forget, these kids are also little devils and I told one boy today that he was a little rat and I felt like I was speaking to a dog because of all the times I had to yell at him to sit. Of course, I said this all in English so he didn't understand and therefore couldn't get upset, and speaking in my native language always makes me feel better so: Win/win.
And then there's the know-it-alls. Oh god, how I hate the know-it-alls. One girl in particular, who (to be fair) is very clearly one of the smartest students in the class, drives me insane with her quest to become teacher's pet. She thinks so highly of herself that she even talks to me like I'm an idiot. I kid you not, this eight-year old girl talks down to me. I've told the kids that I can speak French, but not very well, so they should speak slowly with me. So this girl has taken it to heart and will speak to me one word at a time, which is very confusing, and our conversations are as follows:
Girl: Laura?
Me: Oui?
Girl: Comment.... [trails off and looks at me]
Me: Huh?
Girl: Comment dit.... [stares very hard at me]
Me: Comment?
[She clucks her tongue at me and sighs]
Girl: Comment... [Makes some frustrated gestures] Tu comprends?
Me: Uh, oui?
Girl: Comment dit-on? ("How do you say?")
Me: Comment dit-on quoi?
Girl: Comment dit-on en anglais... [Checks back in with me to make sure I'm still following] Comment dit-on en anglais la récréation?
Me: Oh, uh, recess.
[Girl stares at me like she doesn't believe me.]
I tell her, in French, that she doesn't have to speak that slowly to me. She seems unconvinced.
Well, I must don my raingear and head out to the train station. I'm going to Nancy for my official medical exam for immigration, then spending a few days in Strasbourg with my lovely friends from Kalamazoo!
There are some wonderful moments in school that are so small, and perhaps meaningless in the long run, but they make my day anyway. Like today when a stern teacher was quizzing his students on the four seasons, and one girl raised her hand and said, "Sprinter?" I thought it was hilarious. The teacher didn't.
Or when I was asking a class what the weather was like today, and instead of saying "It's cloudy," a student said, "I'm cloudy." Why isn't that a real emotion? It should be.
In one of my last classes of the day today, a beautiful little red-haired girl came up to me to give me a picture she had drawn of a dog, clearly labeled in English- "DOG." It warmed my heart.
Classes ended fifteen minutes early today so that all the kids in the school could sing "Ode to Joy" and "La Marseillaise" together. Not really sure why, but the two songs almost brought me to tears as I stood listening to them with the other teachers. As soon as the choir teacher gave them the cut-off after the big finale of the national anthem, the school bell rang, perfectly timed, and everyone cheered.
I've found that some of my favorite students are the ones who misbehave. I can't really put my finger on why that is, but perhaps it's because these kids are so, so good inside but for whatever reason just can't keep their mouths shut or their butts in their chairs or their hands to themselves. One kid who drives me up the wall came up to me at recess and gave me a piece of candy and smiled shyly at me before running away. And the so-called "bad" kids are always the ones who make sure to say hello to me in the hallways. Also, with few exceptions, they're generally the brightest and quickest students in the class. But let's not forget, these kids are also little devils and I told one boy today that he was a little rat and I felt like I was speaking to a dog because of all the times I had to yell at him to sit. Of course, I said this all in English so he didn't understand and therefore couldn't get upset, and speaking in my native language always makes me feel better so: Win/win.
And then there's the know-it-alls. Oh god, how I hate the know-it-alls. One girl in particular, who (to be fair) is very clearly one of the smartest students in the class, drives me insane with her quest to become teacher's pet. She thinks so highly of herself that she even talks to me like I'm an idiot. I kid you not, this eight-year old girl talks down to me. I've told the kids that I can speak French, but not very well, so they should speak slowly with me. So this girl has taken it to heart and will speak to me one word at a time, which is very confusing, and our conversations are as follows:
Girl: Laura?
Me: Oui?
Girl: Comment.... [trails off and looks at me]
Me: Huh?
Girl: Comment dit.... [stares very hard at me]
Me: Comment?
[She clucks her tongue at me and sighs]
Girl: Comment... [Makes some frustrated gestures] Tu comprends?
Me: Uh, oui?
Girl: Comment dit-on? ("How do you say?")
Me: Comment dit-on quoi?
Girl: Comment dit-on en anglais... [Checks back in with me to make sure I'm still following] Comment dit-on en anglais la récréation?
Me: Oh, uh, recess.
[Girl stares at me like she doesn't believe me.]
I tell her, in French, that she doesn't have to speak that slowly to me. She seems unconvinced.
Well, I must don my raingear and head out to the train station. I'm going to Nancy for my official medical exam for immigration, then spending a few days in Strasbourg with my lovely friends from Kalamazoo!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
I passed some good vacations and well-amused myself, thanks.
Hello all! A thousand apologies for the delay in updating. I've been romping around the country and just got back from Paris. Yes, I feel sorry for myself too.
I've been on vacation for the past two weeks for what is known as Toussaint. If you don't know what that is, that means you haven't religiously been reading my blog. Go pick up the dunce cap and sit in that corner. Yes, that one there. No, face the wall. I'll tell you when you can go back to your seat. So as I was saying, I've been on vacation. While other teachers at my schools went to Tunisia and Tuscany to soak up the sun for two weeks, I was confined to France because I'm not legally allowed to leave the country until the immigration process is officially complete. You can pick out all of the people who also stayed in France for vacation because we have a matching sun-deprived pallor. Except for those jerks who went to Nice and Marseille. We don't talk to them.
I spent my first week in Nancy with Claire and from there we took two day trips-- one to Metz and one to Strasbourg. Metz is a beautiful, charming city north of Nancy (you may remember my previous trip there to go to Ikea) and we spent the day walking around with two other assistants. One of the great things about European cities is the ability to walk everywhere. Urban sprawl hasn't really caught-on here, thankfully, so most cities are condensed into a center of town with residences surrounding it. Because of this, we were able to walk the length of the centre ville several times, taking lots of pictures and stopping to watch the swans.
Highlights of Metz: seeing the oldest church in France, built circa 380 AD; seeing the Metz cathedral, which was stunning in and of itself, but was worth it because of this English description of the Rose window (I've included all the spelling errors and bizarre placements of commas):
"When in the choir, let us turn around and, irresistibly, our eyes will look above the front porch, magnetized by the large window, Hermann of Munster's work (+1392). Unhappily, the lower level was, suppressed in 1795, thus depriving us partly of the procession of the prophets and the apostles. But what a marvellous catechise, what a sumptuous stone-kneaded preaching. When going near, gazing at this rose-window the symbol of the universe surrounded with quatrefoils and trefoils, peopled with angels, the sign of the 'New Heaven' promised to believers, we are plunged into a marvellous dream. Irradiated by the setting sun that seems to put life in it and recreate the motion of a world turned towards its creator, while, right up, the Christ on the Cross with his mother and John the beloved disciple near by, says again: 'It is accomplished' (Jn 19, 30)."
Watch out, that front porch is magnetized.
Our other day trip was our joyous return to Strasbourg! I had butterflies in my stomach on the train ride there, almost expecting the city to have changed beyond recognition or to just not be there at all. When Claire spotted the cathedral looming like a gray monolith over the city as our train approached, my heart pounded and my palms grew sweaty. However, once we walked out of the train station, I felt completely normal. I waited for some sort of emotional, cathartic outburst that would send me falling to my knees on the sweet Strasbourgeois pavement, weeping uncontrollable tears of joy as I kissed the ground I had missed so much these past two years. But nothing came. Instead, Claire and I set off towards centre ville, our inner compasses already reorientated and pointing the way as if we had never left the city. The closest I got to any emotional state was when we walked out into the open space of Place Kléber, a sight so familiar to both of us, and saw the cathedral spire reaching effortlessly to the clouds. I took a picture I have taken so many times before.
We wandered around to our favorite places-- Gallia, where we took pictures of the river; Café Brant for the obligatory espresso and internet binge; Orangerie, the beautiful park close to where both of us had lived two years ago; and finally Flam's, a tarte flambée restaurant where we ate ourselves sick. It was the perfect day. We took one last stroll through Petite France, the old section of the city, before catching our train back to Nancy. I was sad we couldn't spend more time there, but it was so good just to be there for a few hours. It felt like a homecoming.
The next day, Claire came back with me to Bar le Duc and after approximately one hour she had seen the whole city. I was surprised to find myself happy to be home and especially happy that Claire was able to see my humble little town. We ate a ton of food and watched Paris, Je T'Aime to psych ourselves up for our 6:14am train to Paris the next morning. Unfortunately, 6:14am is still 6:14am no matter how excited you might be to get to your destination and suddenly my dorm mattress felt like the warmest, most comfortable place on earth when I awoke the next day. Somehow, and I have little recollection as to how, I managed to install myself on the train with a cup of coffee and my travel mates, which now included two other assistants from Bar le Duc, Amelia and Julia.
Paris. Paris. How can I describe thee? I had been so many times before and I was beginning to think that the magic of the city had worn off for me. After all, I'd seen the Eiffel Tower, Sacré Coeur, the Louvre, the Seine and Notre Dame numerous times. They were still beautiful and enigmatic, but they didn't evoke the same emotions that they once used to. Paris was becoming (dare I say it?) blasé. However, this time around I managed to see so many new places:
The Catacombs (an underground ossuary):
The Luxembourg Gardens:
Versailles:
And Sacré Coeur at night:
In addition, I was joined by a high school friend, Aaron, and we went on a free three hour walking tour of Paris and did a tour of Montmartre (the bohemian district that Sacré Coeur is located in. Think Amélie) later that evening, seeing all of the hang-outs and studios of Picasso, Van Gogh and the other Montmartre artists.
So in the end, I found myself feeling a renewed enchantment with the city of lights, the city of love. Part of me wished I was staying, but I was still happy when I got back home to Bar le Duc. I can't quite wrap my mind around it, but I guess I was feeling a little homesick for my tiny French town.
In other news, my French and English seem to be rapidly deteriorating at the same pace. The new thing my brain seems to be doing is substituting similar French words for their literal English counterparts, so I end up with awkward phrases like the "I passed some good vacations and well-amused myself, thanks." J'ai passé des bonnes vacances et je me suis bien amusée, merci. I suppose it's a good sign, and I remember this phase during study abroad. Unfortunately, the next thing to happen will be the loss of command of any languages at all. In which case, look forward to deciphering those hilarious blog posts to come.
Okay, you in the corner, you can take off the dunce cap and go back to your seat. And don't let this happen again.
I've been on vacation for the past two weeks for what is known as Toussaint. If you don't know what that is, that means you haven't religiously been reading my blog. Go pick up the dunce cap and sit in that corner. Yes, that one there. No, face the wall. I'll tell you when you can go back to your seat. So as I was saying, I've been on vacation. While other teachers at my schools went to Tunisia and Tuscany to soak up the sun for two weeks, I was confined to France because I'm not legally allowed to leave the country until the immigration process is officially complete. You can pick out all of the people who also stayed in France for vacation because we have a matching sun-deprived pallor. Except for those jerks who went to Nice and Marseille. We don't talk to them.
I spent my first week in Nancy with Claire and from there we took two day trips-- one to Metz and one to Strasbourg. Metz is a beautiful, charming city north of Nancy (you may remember my previous trip there to go to Ikea) and we spent the day walking around with two other assistants. One of the great things about European cities is the ability to walk everywhere. Urban sprawl hasn't really caught-on here, thankfully, so most cities are condensed into a center of town with residences surrounding it. Because of this, we were able to walk the length of the centre ville several times, taking lots of pictures and stopping to watch the swans.
"When in the choir, let us turn around and, irresistibly, our eyes will look above the front porch, magnetized by the large window, Hermann of Munster's work (+1392). Unhappily, the lower level was, suppressed in 1795, thus depriving us partly of the procession of the prophets and the apostles. But what a marvellous catechise, what a sumptuous stone-kneaded preaching. When going near, gazing at this rose-window the symbol of the universe surrounded with quatrefoils and trefoils, peopled with angels, the sign of the 'New Heaven' promised to believers, we are plunged into a marvellous dream. Irradiated by the setting sun that seems to put life in it and recreate the motion of a world turned towards its creator, while, right up, the Christ on the Cross with his mother and John the beloved disciple near by, says again: 'It is accomplished' (Jn 19, 30)."
Watch out, that front porch is magnetized.
Our other day trip was our joyous return to Strasbourg! I had butterflies in my stomach on the train ride there, almost expecting the city to have changed beyond recognition or to just not be there at all. When Claire spotted the cathedral looming like a gray monolith over the city as our train approached, my heart pounded and my palms grew sweaty. However, once we walked out of the train station, I felt completely normal. I waited for some sort of emotional, cathartic outburst that would send me falling to my knees on the sweet Strasbourgeois pavement, weeping uncontrollable tears of joy as I kissed the ground I had missed so much these past two years. But nothing came. Instead, Claire and I set off towards centre ville, our inner compasses already reorientated and pointing the way as if we had never left the city. The closest I got to any emotional state was when we walked out into the open space of Place Kléber, a sight so familiar to both of us, and saw the cathedral spire reaching effortlessly to the clouds. I took a picture I have taken so many times before.
The next day, Claire came back with me to Bar le Duc and after approximately one hour she had seen the whole city. I was surprised to find myself happy to be home and especially happy that Claire was able to see my humble little town. We ate a ton of food and watched Paris, Je T'Aime to psych ourselves up for our 6:14am train to Paris the next morning. Unfortunately, 6:14am is still 6:14am no matter how excited you might be to get to your destination and suddenly my dorm mattress felt like the warmest, most comfortable place on earth when I awoke the next day. Somehow, and I have little recollection as to how, I managed to install myself on the train with a cup of coffee and my travel mates, which now included two other assistants from Bar le Duc, Amelia and Julia.
Paris. Paris. How can I describe thee? I had been so many times before and I was beginning to think that the magic of the city had worn off for me. After all, I'd seen the Eiffel Tower, Sacré Coeur, the Louvre, the Seine and Notre Dame numerous times. They were still beautiful and enigmatic, but they didn't evoke the same emotions that they once used to. Paris was becoming (dare I say it?) blasé. However, this time around I managed to see so many new places:
The Catacombs (an underground ossuary):
The Luxembourg Gardens:
Versailles:
In addition, I was joined by a high school friend, Aaron, and we went on a free three hour walking tour of Paris and did a tour of Montmartre (the bohemian district that Sacré Coeur is located in. Think Amélie) later that evening, seeing all of the hang-outs and studios of Picasso, Van Gogh and the other Montmartre artists.
So in the end, I found myself feeling a renewed enchantment with the city of lights, the city of love. Part of me wished I was staying, but I was still happy when I got back home to Bar le Duc. I can't quite wrap my mind around it, but I guess I was feeling a little homesick for my tiny French town.
In other news, my French and English seem to be rapidly deteriorating at the same pace. The new thing my brain seems to be doing is substituting similar French words for their literal English counterparts, so I end up with awkward phrases like the "I passed some good vacations and well-amused myself, thanks." J'ai passé des bonnes vacances et je me suis bien amusée, merci. I suppose it's a good sign, and I remember this phase during study abroad. Unfortunately, the next thing to happen will be the loss of command of any languages at all. In which case, look forward to deciphering those hilarious blog posts to come.
Okay, you in the corner, you can take off the dunce cap and go back to your seat. And don't let this happen again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)