Talking to Strangers

This morning I talked to a Communist for ten minutes on the street. He came up to me, his hands full of brochures and information pamphlets, as I was looking at the display window of a little bookshop next to the post office. In the beginning, I mostly followed: one bank in France, get rid of corrupt bankers, it is wrong to deny people small business loans which earn 5% because they can invest in the stock market and make 15%, but then he started talking about Russia and Karl Marx and I drifted off, concentrating on remembering my rhubarb cake recipe.

I think I am too young in some ways to know about this, and I sort of felt bad. But the dude was happy to talk and the least I could do was listen.

Up. Date.

Since the last time:

1. The USA junior soccer team came to Moulins to play "un match amicale" against the French team. The entire city went to watch, and the Stars & Stripes held up their own to finish with a 3-3 tie.

2. My friend P went back to the USA, which was strange and surreal, watching the back end of the train disappear, like a gust of wind sweeping up a leaf, thinking how different an experience is for everyone involved... for both the observers, and the actors, everything we see is different. She had an enormous suitcase plus two duffel bags and a backpack, defying physics, forging onward to her future.

Cover Letter Insight

I have been working on job applications, a process which feels to me both sort of impossible and arbitrary. Everything is limited, militantly organized (250 characters, no room for out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, out-of-the-country addresses) and pathetically impersonal. The genre rules of the cover letter dictate little personality, no humour, no color, just stiff and formal conventions. It seems disrespectful, maybe even purely rebellious, to traverse the boundary lines and do something different. (Elle Woods in "Legally Blonde" and her pink paper?)

French formats are different. Limiting, but different. Color is okay. A photo is required. No details or brief sentences lacking subjects. Cover letters are HAND WRITTEN, and white-out is not such a good idea... but after last year's experience of mailing out 30 of those bad boys, I can tell you, more than half of mine went out with a few little "whoopsie daisy" spots on them.

This feels suffocating. Teachers are supposed to come across as enthusiastic, optimistic, creative and patient... but we are not supposed to be too different, or too liberal. I want to say that I want motivated students. Because I do. But should I?

I want to be honest, and say that I want to teach them to learn from them -- but does that make me seem self-centered?

Is wanting to be a good teacher enough to eventually make you into one? I am struggling with the confines of this process.

French Voyage à Trois

Like a true maximum-efficiency traveler, having spent every second of available time visiting, exploring, admiring, photographing or consuming, I fell asleep on my train home, awaking suddenly to the sound of a violent snore on my right, to several disconcerting regards. As inconspicuously as possible, I wiped the little pool of saliva from the corner of my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket and hoped intensely that the stares were in honor of my white-bearded neighbor and not for my sake.

The night was short, and despite a nearly direct route to the train station (the RER A to the Gare de Lyon, and then just one stop on the metro line 14), when I arrived at 7h45 I felt like it was going to be a long ride.

Reflecting back on the week while chowing on an American trail mix bar and resting my feet on my battered blue duffel bag, I watched the station fill up with families of all kinds. Having spent a week alone with my parents for the first time ever, I wondered how our family looked to other people... I was taken for a student in Montmartre, a painter offering a "student discount" for a portrait I didn't want, and then was later charmed in the language of Moliere at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower, the waiter suggesting that I need not translate everything to my parents, as we twirled our tagliatelles on our forks and ate in the solitude of an empty basement room.

A journey in a different country, in a different language, in a place that has become home for me. My parents found their way to M, after a small detour following a bit of confusion concerning the A5 and the A6 (no one should ever ask me for directions here. Ever) and an apparently pleasant pizza lunch at a countryside restaurant owned by a fellow Harley fan. After a visit to see my goat and a good-bye to a good friend, my dad set to work on lighting the grill in the courtyard while my mom and I worked on preparing chicken & veggie skewers, while my already-prepared strawberry/rhubarb pie baked in the oven. Two of my American friends came over for dinner, bringing with them the makings for Mimosas, and we spent Easter evening enjoying good food and good company, in my little happy home in the heart of France.

The following morning, my parents got a tour of M by day -- a deserted city, thanks to the national holiday of Easter Monday. After breakfast, we headed deeper into Auvergne, following the GPS's every whim, testing the turning capabilities of our rented Ford Focus on the twisting, tortured rural roads, and eventually caught our train in St Etienne after a rapid parallel parking job, and a short run to the platform. Seated across from us were two retired hikers, one of whom spoke excellent English and engaged my parents in friendly conversation about bikes, America and Robert Louis Stevenson. The train wound its way around a myriad of sleeping volcanoes, alongside the Loire river, glittering in the midday sun, cutting through tunnels and traversing impressive bridges built to facilitate the journey. I remembered taking that train for the very first time, exhausted from jet lag, overwhelmed by the language barrier, and terrified to be heading to the unknown place that would become my new "home" for 9 months.

Upon arrival, we met up with my host family and wandered around the city before stopping to "boire un coup" at a café conveniently located at the base of the cathedral. My parents were delighted to speak English with the parents of the host family, learning about their work as journalists and Sarkozy's "American film" visit to their town a while back. At the same time, I delighted in the constant chatter of "les enfants" who caught me up on all the details of their lives, and handed me a thoughtful gift of chocolate, reminding me that they knew me well: "on sait que t'es très gourmande!" And it is so true :)

After the family headed off to return to their jobs and their moving preparations, we finished our visit of the little city, climbing up the steps to admire the black virgin and then ordering the country's absolute best nutella crêpes from the little stand in the middle of the park.

Finding the bed and breakfast proved to be a great challenge, and we finally arrived at a welcoming farm in the base of the Allier department, more exhausted than hungry, and decided to skip dinner to go straight to bed.

We attacked the day early on Tuesday morning, enjoying a hearty breakfast before heading off to the land of the French châteaux. We started with Chenonceau, a sprawling castle with an incredible view of the Cher River as it extends across with its impressive arches, and a rich history (given to Diane de Poitier's by her lovah Henri II, then taken back by his wife Catherine de Medeci upon his death), our initiation to the crazy lives of the super wealthy French royalty had officially begun. Planning it just right to see the feeding of the hunting dogs at 17h00, we sped over to the castle of Cheverny.

A massive throng of people was crowded around the oval kennel, in the middle of which lay a massive pile of small animal corpses and dog food pellets. My dad suggested that perhaps it was time that I watch a dog eat (this was definitely not his idea of fun) and let me get as close to the front as possible... only to see that the spectacle was entirely less interesting than the guidebook made it out to be. A few minutes later, the dynamic had completely changed, as a nauseating stench had filled the air, and my only desire was to FLEE. How foolish we tourists can be.

The castle itself was pretty interesting and we took a nice walk around the grounds before heading further east to our bed and breakfast for the night. Housed in an ancient mill, on the grounds of a working farm and fishery, we enjoyed the charm of its historical value, as well as the superb cuisine and kindness of the farmer and his wife.

After breakfast with a couple of very friendly retirees (one ex-teacher), we got back in our car and headed for a troglodyte farm near the city of Saumur. This was a superb example of how resourceful people could be; building homes is expensive, so these people decided to simply dig their houses out of the limestone in the ground. While we learned about what it was like to live somewhat underground, we also learned about pre-19th century farming techniques and toured the now-empty homes of two farming families.

In the afternoon, we headed to Villandry, which is rightfully famous for its incredible gardens. At the risk of being cliché, I found myself admiring the "love gardens" and appreciating the universality of this human experience. The gardens are divided into four different sections, each representing a different type or effect of love.

The "tender love" garden is symbolized by hearts which are separated by flames.
The "passionate love" garden features hearts which are broken by passion, sculpted in a form which suggests dancing.
The "fickle love" garden has four fans in the corners which represent the fleetingness of feelings.
And the "tragic love" garden has three knife blades which represent amorous rivalry.

For dinner, we drove to the town of Chinon, which boats a medieval castle which towers over the city. After a nice dinner and a perfect photo-op, we went back to the bed and breakfast for a night of restful sommeil.

In the morning, over a feast of home-made bread, jam and yogurt, coffee, brioche and orange juice, we enjoyed amicable conversation with the two hosts and the seven other guests. Our bellies full of nourishment, we headed to Chartres, the site of a magnificent cathedral which is fitted with magnificent stained glass. Currently, they are in the midst of cleaning the cathedral and the effect is truly night and day; the carbon residue left from the burning candles has darkened the inside so that some of the windows are barely visible, and the walls look as thought they are completely black. The section which has been meticulously cleaned using brushes, sponges and water, and vacuums, looks as though it is an entirely different cathedral, almost a peachy ivory color which reflects the light which filters through the brilliantly colored windows. I would love to return once the cleaning project is completed in a few years. I'm sure I wouldn't recognize it as the same.

The weather turned cold and rainy, and we headed for Giverny, hoping that it would change. Unfortunately, it didn't, and we marveled at his vibrant flowers, Japanese bridge, and lily ponds under a light drizzle. Despite this upset, we found ourselves extremely lucky to be there while they were setting up to film a made-for-TV-movie about Claude Monet -- and we saw him in the flesh!

We stayed in a bed and breakfast about 15 minutes from Giverny, in an enormous home with a fireplace large enough to roast an entire human being on a spit, and a two-story library which would make any bookworm envious. We had dinner in a mill-turned-fancy restaurant, and proved to be the only customers in the whole place. Needless to say, our server was attentive.

When the sun came up the next day, it was already Friday, and we were off to the Palace of Versailles. An enormous line snaked around the front of the courtyard, and we queued up to wait our hour-long turn before breezing through security, obtaining our audio guides, and beginning our visit of the over-the-top indulgences of Louis the XIV. In the afternoon, we visited the Petit Trianon and my favorite part of the grounds: the Queen's Hamlet. An afternoon of sunshine, fresh air, and history made me hungry for ice cream and so, following the style of the French monarchy, we indulged our craving from a cart just across from the canal.

Battling with the parking meter and then braving Parisian rush-hour traffic, we slowly made our way towards our hotel in La Defense, having ignored the insistent GPS who suggested over and over that we turn down one-way-streets, and finally giving in to the advice of the hotel concierge, who declared that backing up on one-way streets wasn't the least bit illegal... The car safely parked underneath the ten-story hotel, our bags stashed in our room and our stomachs grumbling, we jumped onto the RER to see Paris by night, and find something to eat.

Deciding to marvel at the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, which took 600 years to build, we took a few pictures and then ate at a restaurant just across the river, with a beautiful view of the massive structure. Absolutely exhausted, we went back to the hotel and I fell asleep listening to a play-by-play of the Royal Wedding, too tired to watch it, despite my curiosity.

On Saturday morning, we started with the symbol of Paris -- the lovely Eiffel Tower. After breakfast and a stroll around the Champs de Mars surrounding the base, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay and strolled through the Jardins des Tuiléries, before descending through the great glass pyramid into the Louvre. A visit to the Orangerie museum gave us a view of several original Monet water lily paintings, and we enjoyed the calm and quiet of Monet's personally-designed museum.

In a drastic change of scenery, we took the metro in the direction of Montmartre, the famous art district and site of the Basilique de Sacré Coeur. A short ride on the funicular and then three-hundred steps up into the dome, we got an incredible panoramic view of Paris, and watched as a rainstorm rolled in over the city, turning the sky a deep gray-blue. After descending the three-hundred stairs, and observing the artists, we decided to check out the Arc de Triomphe, and so, climbed back onto the metro.

Coming out of the underground station, the Arc de Triomphe loomed above us, located in the center of a gigantic round-about which unites 12 different streets. Three-hundred steps later, we were at the top of the arch, watching the cars -- and bicycles -- navigating the complex flow of traffic as the sun slunk down behind the horizon.

It seemed like a good time to eat, so we headed back towards the Eiffel Tower and went to my favorite pizza place just across from the metro station Bir-Hakeim. A chatty Armenian waiter and a delicious plate of pasta in a neon-lit, air-conditioned basement room in which we were the only customers made for a perfect evening meal at the conclusion of our trip.

Instead of dessert, we indulged on a boat trip along the Seine, delighting in two viewings of the sparkling Eiffel Tower, and excellent explanations of the historical significance of various bridges and buildings in the city. Returning to our hotel a little after midnight, we had certainly made the best of our day.

And then it was morning, my parents were heading back to the airport, reliant completely upon the GPS as the resistant concierge refused to give detailed directions, insisting that it was easy to find the way, and I was lugging my bag back down into the depths of the metro, happy for empty cars so early on a Sunday morning, ready to go home and go to sleep.