The Schilthorn

Au revoir, France.

Things I Will Miss: A Prematurely-Nostalgic List 

• playing with the kids.

• that lovely stick-shift Volkswagen. "You're an American driving a German car in France!" my host father laughs. 

• Rolling French countryside, wheat fields, the beauty of even utilitarian buildings...

• the cigarette-wizened, wild-hair proprietor of the bar who always seems simultaneously stunned and inconvenienced by my presence in her shop.

• receiving the gentle, maternal blessing on my forehead during the Eucharist. 

• a yogurt section that takes up a whole grocery-store aisle, both sides.

• being able to say "euhh" instead of "um;" the moue (that French thing were you stick your lips out and shrug your shoulders).

• perceived comfort level with self and body -- gender-less public bathrooms, less cosmetic dentistry, real people in advertisements...

• being able to laugh at my gullibility and my skill for spilling any sort of beverage on myself (oh WAIT, I can do this anywhere!)

• a good excuse to go heavy-handed on the butter, crème fraiche, wine, sugar... (when in Rome...)

• people wanting to talk with me so they can give their opinion on President Obama to a real, live, American.

• greeting people with a warm bisou.

Until next time, friends. BISOUS [xx]!

Snapshots from Chaon and Bourges

Good Ol' Character Building

It's been a rough couple of weeks.



I remind myself of the dad's wisdom from Calvin and Hobbes. Look at uncomfortable situations as CHARACTER BUILDING.

Similarly, I'm taking to heart just how much trials reveal your true person. C.S. Lewis described it well when he wrote on the topic -- provocation is not an excuse for wrong behavior.  What we do when pushed past our limits of patience reveals who we ARE, not just how we act in frustrating situations. As Lewis wrote, "If there are rats in a cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly.  But the suddenness does not create the rats: it only prevents them from hiding. (Mere Christianity)"

Living with three young kids who are, well, kids, has clarified a little more for me my pride, my impatience, and my anger.

When the crises pile up, whether between the kids or with me, I find myself doing things like driving angrily fast or being short with strangers.

Is it egotistical to spank children in your own anger? Are there times when words (even yelling) simply don't get the message across? Maybe it's mutually beneficial? (The kids got what they now call a fessee americaine this  week -- a stinging punishment with a wooden spoon. I've also threatened to pass on the mouth-washing-with-soap punishment that I recall so vividly from my childhood.  I hope it isn't necessary in the final week before I leave).

Oh King Solomon, maybe you were wrong. A gentle response does not necessarily turn away wrath!

Even experiences with well-meaning, but -- let's be real -- macho men get under my skin.  T and a neighbor coming over to "help" me replace the tube in a bike wheel, explaining the tools to me, despite the fact that I was 99% finished left me fuming all evening. Being teased about driving poorly because I'm a woman irks me too. Okay I can handle stick-shift a lot better now since when I was first learning thankyouverymuch! 

There is some serious macho-ism going on over here in France. Which is a cute way of saying sexism. For those of you who know me well, you know I take offense easily in this area.  Living in a country that often feels like The Boy's Club, I'm trying to figure out where  my internal sense of justice crosses the line to pride.

After this summer, I hope I can take away a stronger sense of confidence, a healthier channel for anger, a humbler spirit and leave behind some pride, unkindness, and callousness.

Normandy

Once again...

... leave your pride at home when travelling to a foreign country.

I'm such an easy target. My host parents -- especially my host father -- love to joke around.  They've duped me time and again. Ah, I'm too naive, I say.

But think about it: French is not my native language. France is not my native country or culture. And I must admit that I'm a city girl (a Parisienne, my host parents laugh). So, I'm an easy target.

I've gotten much better at recognizing my host father's plaisanteries. A good rule of thumb is to disbelieve everything he says until further notice. I don't want to judge, though, so when he says he wants eight boiled eggs for lunch, okay! Not my place to scorn your food choices, right? Duped again.

It's when S, the mother, tries to pull the wool over my eyes that I fall hard. The other day, at a meal outdoors, she remarked that a chicken had just crowed. "That means she just laid an egg!" she said. Ah, really? I responded, caught off guard by an attack from an unexpected foe. My host family's suppressed laughter quickly showed me my error.

I reassure myself that, were any of the above factors removed, I would not believe so readily. But that probably isn't actually true.

---

My host family says that I fit right in here in France -- as long as I don't open my mouth. People seem to enjoy trying to guess my nationality. No one's gotten it right yet, so I'm hoping that means my accent is vague/please-oh-please not obnoxiously strong? I've gotten English many times, German twice, and Polish once. (I walked into a family's antique shop and they immediately concurred among themselves that I was Polish. What?)

Today, I biked to another small town to explore a bit, and was perusing the city map when a couple pulled over to ask directions to an exposition taking place. No, I couldn't help them, but yesss.

Paris:

I had plans to meet up with a girl who is living in a Parisian banlieue for the weekend.  There were, however, some difficulties that caused us to miss each other (and she had no cell phone). After a stressful hour or so, I resigned myself to a weekend spent adventuring on my own. And that’s what I did.

---

Saturday I visited the Mosque of Paris, where a kind gentleman greeted me and then a snarky lady took my money for entry.  The atmosphere was incredibly peaceful.  The white walls of the courtyard and the blue mosaics gave the light a cool tone. Visitors are strictly forbidden from entering the prayer hall, so I peeked in at the door at the large, carpeted room that had a corner curtained off for the women and girls.  It made me sad to see this division of genders.

I took the metro to Montmartre, and found the church of Sacré-Cœur.  It was incredibly beautiful, inside and out, and built more in the style of a Byzantine or Eastern Church.  Finished in the 20^th century, the gold mosaics that coat the inner walls shine in the light of the votive stands.  The thought this is all for you, God, sounded in my head the whole time I was there.  I wonder what God thinks about buildings like this, and all the other cathedrals built in his or his saints’ honor? As a tourist, I sure enjoy them, but what a lot of resources spent on something not required!

In the grand picture, the history of this city is incredible.  From a tiny island in the Seine to the sprawling metropolis it is today -- ground walked by Parisii tribe members, Roman colonialists, the Merovingians, the Bourbons, Rousseau, Charles de Gaulle, revolutionaries, artists, musicians!  The buildings from ages past, the characteristic tall roofs, or carvings, are fascinating.  I could visit Paris and have a good time with entering a single building.

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Paris taught me that to be left alone while resting or eating, you have to not only stay in areas with lots of people, but have to pretty much pretend you’re part of a group. Sit really close. I had pepper spray and the use of choice French phrases to convey things like “f--- off,” but I believe if at all possible a low profile and curtness is the best policy.  Still, travelling alone as a woman seems to be an invitation for strangers to approach you and:

(a)    Harass you for no reason at all
(b)   Ask if you’re married/have a boyfriend
(c)    Approach you with a huge gold ring you “dropped” (do I look THAT stupid? Good grief).
(d)   Flatter you or bother into buying something

I had to pry my wrist back from four different vendors selling bracelets made on your wrist. No, no, and no! If you don’t say no from the start, when? Oh, let me knit this sweater on you. Only 15 euro. I’m truly sorry you have such a sucky job, but I have to draw the line here and now!

There was one truly horrible moment Sunday morning, as I was making my way to La Musée d’Art Moderne. I was in a safe part of the city, but Paris is pretty darn quiet on Sunday morning.  Let’s just say a disturbed individual was following me on the sidewalk.  I was so thankful for the pepper spray my brother urged me to buy for my trip. One step towards me and the bastard gets it in the face, I was thinking.  Happily, I reached to museum and was able to lose the man. 

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Overall, I had a lot of good fortune for my trip, or what I think of as God looking out for me. I happened on a group of capoeiristas playing to upbeat Brazilian music. God knows I find capoeira fascinating! I watched various duos spar.  The instructor cut in often to play with her students, clapping them on the head or gently knocking them over when they inevitably left themselves open to attack.  She swiveled on two arms, one arm, her head, seemingly effortlessly in the strategic dance of capoeira.

The youth hostel I booked at the last minute was in a shabbier part of town, but it was a great place to stay.  It was clean, there was coffee, the employees were helpful, and there was a computer available (really useful when your cell phone has no signal ANYWHERE. Might as well have brought a rock with me).  Two of my roommates were women from Croatia (have you heard of it, they asked?) and a man I didn’t meet because I was early - to- rise- and -leave.  The receptionist was playing Kid Cudi in the morning. Ah, a little taste of home.

It was nice to speak English with some students from Colorado at the hostel, but I find it difficult to switch between languages.  The language train is one-way for me, friends! My visit itself to Paris was great, but returning to the country side, where there’s enough room to think, was like a big sigh of relief. To continue the train metaphor: if life in Paris is a TGV (Train de Grand Vitesse), life in Chaon is more akin to a rickshaw.

I’m content to be back.