Summer in Ohio is sticky, heavy. The sky hangs low and sulking clouds blanket the sky. Somewhere down the road, a truck starts, grumbles, crunches down the gravel driveway and then wails down into Sonnenburg valley. A train whistles down at the station, and winds its way through the settling fog after the evening’s rain. The roads were steaming at sunset. The moon is nearly full tonight, but silvery clouds tease in front of the moon’s cratered face, and the night is still and dark.
I’m lonely, I think. Small towns are funny like that—although the waitresses down at the Kidron Town and Country store know my order even before I’ve slipped onto the bar stool, and the police officers know me by name and wave as I speed past, and the local paper publishes write-ups about my adventures abroad, I feel distant, alone. My return home causes a stir. I can see it rippling through concerned faces as neighbors, or teachers, or old friends ask with consternation: “Are ya thinking ‘bout moving over there to Paris for good?” (Paris, in the opinion of small town America, is synonymous to the entire country of France, by the way.)
I myself was a relatively compliant small town American, in my day. I marched in the marching band and thus faithfully attended four solid years of high school football games, and I knew all the words to the fight song. I sang in the choir and sat second chair in the flute section in concert band and I held roles in the spring musicals. I destroyed my body (with all the school spirit in the world) in my 11.5 months a year of training for cross-country, and more importantly, for pole vault. I spoke kindly and even fondly of Dalton High School in my valedictorian speech, and I threw my graduation cap with cheers and tears after a heartfelt singing of the alma mater with my classmates and peers. But I was not happy.
In France, in 2009, I was riding in the backseat of my friend Levy’s car. I was squashed in between Katie and Shawna, two of my best American friends, and Laurent and Levy were up front, singing to the radio and flying down the road. We were on our way to Apt, where were going to spend the night before heading to Mediterranean the next day for an afternoon at the beach. As we wound through Les Alpilles mountains, the sun was setting, and I found myself suddenly smiling, for absolutely no reason. The grin felt foreign on my face. With a start, I realized that I was content, happy even. I had forgotten what it felt like.
I tell this story often. It’s a bit silly, perhaps even sappy, but it’s the only way I have to explain what it’s like to cross that Atlantic Ocean and arrive in a place that inexplicably feels like home. After years of depression, anxiety, panic attacks, anger, bitterness, and the lethargic but encumbering weight of dysthymia, I found myself smiling in the backseat of a car, zooming across a country bathed in the colors of a Cezanne painting. It’s a powerful and singular sensation.
The night before I left the de Lannoy house, Constance wept and wept and wept. She clung onto my waist and gripped my fingers and trembled. At 6:50 the next morning, after an estimated 2 hours of fitful sleep, Eric and Godefoy stood sniffling on the platform as my train screeched and puffed and whisked me away. Eric had made Godefoy, his best friend from childhood, accompany him to the train station because he wasn’t sure he would be able to drive home alone without his beloved Rachel, l’américaine adorable.
On the train, I shamelessly wept. As the world was waking up, I was traveling backwards, facing south while the train swept me north. I watched the sun rise over Mont Ventoux, but as we hurtled past, the mountain itself shrunk into the horizon. Distance melted the mightiest peak. Speed strung landscape after landscape onto a moving reel to a soundtrack of grinding wheels. I wanted to sleep, to let the train cradle me into a slumber of homesick exhaustion, but I was afraid to close my eyes, to let the countryside slip through my fingers while I selfishly slept.
I have fallen in love with a country, like one falls in love with a man or a woman. I want to feel the curves of her mountains beneath my palms, I want to nestle my nose in her waving tresses of lavender, I want to rest my head in the bosom of her fragrant earth. My heart aches for the gentle caresses of her salty, Mediterranean shores, and for the sweet tongue of her language, dripping in honey and romance. She is a feisty lover—when she is angry, the Mistral shrieks outside of windows and slams shutters and shatters glass. But eventually she’ll blow herself out, and smug and satisfied, she’ll settle back into her complacent calm. Her hot summer days melt in golden hues into sultry nights, and to a symphony of cicadas, I allow myself to be seduced.
It’s been cloudy in Ohio since my return, and uncharacteristically chilly, although the stifling humidity hasn’t lifted despite the mild temperatures. Not much has changed here. My room was how I left it, although the posters are a bit more faded and my bookshelf sags a bit more under the weight of its dusty books. My parents have been doing their best to make me feel comfortable and at home; they’ll let me talk when I need to, and they’ll let me sit in silence and stare at the cornfield in our backyard when I need to. We had wine with dinner tonight—a somewhat fruity chardonnay from the Languedoc-Roussillon region that had been bottled in California and put in the “French wine” section at the supermarket. My mom let me by Brie from the specialty foods aisle at the grocery store yesterday, although I was disappointed by it. It was bland. In an attempt to emulate my morning coffee in France, I ordered a double espresso at a coffee shop a few days ago. When the barista tried to put it in a Styrofoam cup, I loudly protested and refused to accept it until a more suitable cup had been found. French wine is not bottled in California, Brie is anything but bland, and espresso certainly does not belong in a Styrofoam cup, goddamnit.
I’ve been trying to make the most of my loneliness in Ohio before I’m cast back into the roaring river of academia and swept away by my studies. I am appreciative of the fact that for dinner, I can go out to my garden and pick a zucchini, some tomatoes, and a pepper or two, and stop by the produce stand by the Dalton Dariette to buy a melon from an Amish neighbor named Henry. It’s comforting to know that my eggs come from my neighbor Glen’s chickens, and that my sweet corn is of none other than the Witmer variety. Under the full moon last night, Jared and I climbed to the top of the Witmer silo and sat and watched the clouds dance in front of the moon, and looked out over the farm where we’ve both spent so many summers picking corn. Tonight, as I write, I can hear the cowbells down from the Neuenschwander’s pastures and sounds of crickets and owls fill the dark void outside my window.
I come from a special place, I must admit. The valley in the morning, when rolling clouds of heavy fog lumber across Sugar Creek and the dawn light glistens on dewy cattails, truly is beautiful. However, nestled in my sheets that smell like clover from having been hung out on the line to dry, I’m still not at home. The Atlantic Ocean bellows between.
One day, I’ll go back. Et jusqu’à là, au revoir.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
5 août 2010 jeudi
In two weeks, I’ll be back on a plane, flying out of Paris on August 19th to return, once again, to the land where I was born. Instead of flying into the dawn over Paris, as upon my arrival two months ago in France, I’ll be flying into the sunset over Cleveland. It’s just not quite the same.
At the breakfast table this morning, I exclaimed with disbelief: “Tomorrow’s FRIDAY?” Constance laughed at me a bit. “But, yesterday was Monday, I swear.” Time goes by without my consent, it slips through my open fingers, it escapes my desperate grasp. Last night, I said goodbye for God knows how long to my friend Thomas, who saved me from destitute loneliness in the month of July. We stood face to face in the parking lot, neither willing to say the word, to articulate “goodbye,” to turn away, to return home alone.
I begin my preliminary mourning now.
***
I’ll miss the coffee, or espresso, rather—strong, dark, necessarily powerful—with one pure cane sugar cube and served with a tiny café spoon to eat the foam off of the top. And my four-o-clock coffee break, with a Speculoos dipping cookie, to caffeinate myself enough to make it through the rest of the day.
I’ll miss mornings when I wake up before the children, when the air is still cool and the house is refreshingly quiet. And likewise, mornings when Eric wakes up even before me to go to the bakery, and brings back fresh pain au chocolat and croissants for breakfast. And my daily petit déjeuner of croustillants choco (granola bits with dark chocolate chips) and a fresh nectarine (organic of course, since that’s how the de Lannoys rock it).
I’ll miss the cicadas—those obnoxious insects that fill my ears with incessant ringing until the racket tips me to the point of insanity . . . but without them, when a storm approaches and the cicadas fall suddenly silent, the air feels void, lonely. And the eerie whisper of the Mistral, telling secrets to the treetops.
I’ll miss Courgette, my fickle Jeep, and the adventures we take in French traffic, zipping through roundabouts and navigating France’s horrifically marked streets. And the grumble of her engine, and the trembling of the iron pedals and floor boards under my feet. And the whip of wind in my face as we zoom down the road.
I’ll miss the pool, and the sudden silence that gushes into my ears when I plunge in the pool. And the instant relief of cool water after a long, sticky run in the evening.
I’ll miss Eric’s favorite Côtes du Rhône rosé served with dinner, and Activia Nature, and chocolat liégois (or café liégois, if Cosette buys the wrong flavor), and brie and chèvre and conté cheese, and double caramel Mini Magnum ice cream treats that threaten to destroy any moderate diet. And fresh melon and apricots, at the peak of perfection. And the utter importance of dessert in general in this country.
I’ll miss Montaine’s toothless smile, genuine though infantile, and her outstretched arms, begging to be held after a long afternoon nap. And the gentle pressure of her tiny, blonde head on my shoulder as she falls asleep in my arms.
I’ll miss Rodrigue’s begging, beautiful, blue eyes as he looks up at me, tugging at my fingers, asking if we can play Uno. And the quiet satisfaction it gives me when he asks to help to set the table, declaring that he’ll bring the cups if I take the plates.
I’ll miss Gauthier’s laugh, and the adorable grimaces he makes when he struggles over the conjugation of an irregular verb in our daily French grammar lessons. And the calm, encouraging voice he uses when he plays with Rodrigue, patient with his little brother’s childish games in a way unlike any of his siblings.
I’ll miss Constance’s hugs in the morning, and the sad, pleading voice she uses when she learns that I’ll be going out for the evening. And her genuine excitement when I let her help plan family activities, or ask for her help to bake bread or set up scavenger hunts.
I’ll miss Alban’s sometimes ditzy demeanor, and his glorious moments of realization when he figures out a new technique to do a front flip or volleyball serve. And his questions, those silly, half-baked, whimsical inquiries that pop up in his mind, sometimes insightful, sometimes not, but amusing nonetheless.
I’ll miss cooking with Cosette, and her patient explanations of how to make ratatouille, mashed potatoes, pommes de terre sautés, mustard vinaigrette, fillet mignon, escalops pannés, and anything else to fill the little hungry bellies of the de Lannoys, young and old. And the conversations we have while peeling zucchini or chopping potatoes—anything from family matters to political drama, and everything in between.
I’ll miss Sylvaine’s soft voice, and her warm greeting every morning and every evening when she comes home from work. And Eric’s well meaning teasing, and his daily offering of un petit verre de rosé to cap off a long day of Uno, pool games, trampoline flips, dishes, and games with his children.
I’ll miss family runs in Montfavet, winding through quaint residential neighborhoods—Alban next to me, Rodrigue racing ahead on his bike, Constance in stride on her roller blades, and Gauthier keeping up a steady pace behind. And the glorious exhaustion that overcomes the children afterwards, affording me some much-needed tranquility.
I’ll miss chats with Sylvaine, when she takes me into confidence about her own childhood, and about her doubts and worries and fears and aspirations for her own children. And the French vocabulary lessons she gives me, always patient, never reproachful for mispronunciation or grammar slip-ups.
I’ll miss my rare moments of solitude, when I take a picnic and a book and watch the sunset over the Rhône. And the color of Avignon at night—a liquid gold luminescence that teases down empty streets but never quite makes it to the dark corners of the alleys.
I already miss le Festival d’Avignon, spilling out of over 100 theaters and into the streets, with costumed players parading the streets as a animated advertisement for their theater production. And street performers, from live statues, to hip hop artists, to folk bands, to DJs, to magicians, to traditional dancers. And the atmosphere that ensues—lively, surreal, and punctuated by discussions of theater on café terraces and bar stools.
I’ll miss the colors: the burnt blue of the cloudless, afternoon sky, profound and still; the transparent turquoise of the pool, illuminated at night; the pastel palette of Provençal towns; the weary beige of a wheat field; the liquid coral pink of the Rhône, flowing lazily under the setting sun; the sweeping azure of the Mediterranean Sea on a sultry, summer day; the luscious green leaves of the poplars lining the route to Chateâurenard, gilded in the evening sun; the sandy gold of the façade of le palais des papes. And the striking photographs that are captured in my mind’s eye at every turn, every moment in Provence.
I’ll miss taking walks through Avignon, alone although surrounded by people, watching, wondering, coming up with stories about the pedestrians as they pass by. And the weary, lonely sound of my heels clicking down an empty sidewalk, the echo of my footsteps my only companion.
I’ll miss the French language, for goodness sakes, and the way it slips sweetly from my mouth, soft, fluid, romantic. And the small daily pleasure of self-expression in a foreign tongue, or the joy of learning a new word, a new expression, a new nuance of language never taught in grammar books.
I’ll miss the South of France, for all its worth, for its relaxed atmosphere, and welcoming people, and sizzling afternoons, and good wine, and olive oil, and picturesque towns, and nestled castles, and sunflower-lined routes, and stark sun, and blazing colors. And even its Mistral, and immigration problems, and sometimes dirty streets, for I am home here, and that’s what counts.
***
Someone, send me a bottle big enough to fit in the taste of perfectly aged Brie, and the odor of a freshly opened bottle of wine, and the sound of cicadas, and the grasp of an eight-month-old baby pulling at my fingers, and the expanse of Provence, spreading out before my eyes. And a cork, strong enough to contain the ferocious Mistral wind, and the beating of a heart bursting with affection, and the Atlantic Ocean that seems to constantly be separating me from home, no matter what continent I’m on. I cannot bear to let this beautiful life that I lead here escape.
In two weeks, I’ll be back on a plane, flying out of Paris on August 19th to return, once again, to the land where I was born. Instead of flying into the dawn over Paris, as upon my arrival two months ago in France, I’ll be flying into the sunset over Cleveland. It’s just not quite the same.
At the breakfast table this morning, I exclaimed with disbelief: “Tomorrow’s FRIDAY?” Constance laughed at me a bit. “But, yesterday was Monday, I swear.” Time goes by without my consent, it slips through my open fingers, it escapes my desperate grasp. Last night, I said goodbye for God knows how long to my friend Thomas, who saved me from destitute loneliness in the month of July. We stood face to face in the parking lot, neither willing to say the word, to articulate “goodbye,” to turn away, to return home alone.
I begin my preliminary mourning now.
***
I’ll miss the coffee, or espresso, rather—strong, dark, necessarily powerful—with one pure cane sugar cube and served with a tiny café spoon to eat the foam off of the top. And my four-o-clock coffee break, with a Speculoos dipping cookie, to caffeinate myself enough to make it through the rest of the day.
I’ll miss mornings when I wake up before the children, when the air is still cool and the house is refreshingly quiet. And likewise, mornings when Eric wakes up even before me to go to the bakery, and brings back fresh pain au chocolat and croissants for breakfast. And my daily petit déjeuner of croustillants choco (granola bits with dark chocolate chips) and a fresh nectarine (organic of course, since that’s how the de Lannoys rock it).
I’ll miss the cicadas—those obnoxious insects that fill my ears with incessant ringing until the racket tips me to the point of insanity . . . but without them, when a storm approaches and the cicadas fall suddenly silent, the air feels void, lonely. And the eerie whisper of the Mistral, telling secrets to the treetops.
I’ll miss Courgette, my fickle Jeep, and the adventures we take in French traffic, zipping through roundabouts and navigating France’s horrifically marked streets. And the grumble of her engine, and the trembling of the iron pedals and floor boards under my feet. And the whip of wind in my face as we zoom down the road.
I’ll miss the pool, and the sudden silence that gushes into my ears when I plunge in the pool. And the instant relief of cool water after a long, sticky run in the evening.
I’ll miss Eric’s favorite Côtes du Rhône rosé served with dinner, and Activia Nature, and chocolat liégois (or café liégois, if Cosette buys the wrong flavor), and brie and chèvre and conté cheese, and double caramel Mini Magnum ice cream treats that threaten to destroy any moderate diet. And fresh melon and apricots, at the peak of perfection. And the utter importance of dessert in general in this country.
I’ll miss Montaine’s toothless smile, genuine though infantile, and her outstretched arms, begging to be held after a long afternoon nap. And the gentle pressure of her tiny, blonde head on my shoulder as she falls asleep in my arms.
I’ll miss Rodrigue’s begging, beautiful, blue eyes as he looks up at me, tugging at my fingers, asking if we can play Uno. And the quiet satisfaction it gives me when he asks to help to set the table, declaring that he’ll bring the cups if I take the plates.
I’ll miss Gauthier’s laugh, and the adorable grimaces he makes when he struggles over the conjugation of an irregular verb in our daily French grammar lessons. And the calm, encouraging voice he uses when he plays with Rodrigue, patient with his little brother’s childish games in a way unlike any of his siblings.
I’ll miss Constance’s hugs in the morning, and the sad, pleading voice she uses when she learns that I’ll be going out for the evening. And her genuine excitement when I let her help plan family activities, or ask for her help to bake bread or set up scavenger hunts.
I’ll miss Alban’s sometimes ditzy demeanor, and his glorious moments of realization when he figures out a new technique to do a front flip or volleyball serve. And his questions, those silly, half-baked, whimsical inquiries that pop up in his mind, sometimes insightful, sometimes not, but amusing nonetheless.
I’ll miss cooking with Cosette, and her patient explanations of how to make ratatouille, mashed potatoes, pommes de terre sautés, mustard vinaigrette, fillet mignon, escalops pannés, and anything else to fill the little hungry bellies of the de Lannoys, young and old. And the conversations we have while peeling zucchini or chopping potatoes—anything from family matters to political drama, and everything in between.
I’ll miss Sylvaine’s soft voice, and her warm greeting every morning and every evening when she comes home from work. And Eric’s well meaning teasing, and his daily offering of un petit verre de rosé to cap off a long day of Uno, pool games, trampoline flips, dishes, and games with his children.
I’ll miss family runs in Montfavet, winding through quaint residential neighborhoods—Alban next to me, Rodrigue racing ahead on his bike, Constance in stride on her roller blades, and Gauthier keeping up a steady pace behind. And the glorious exhaustion that overcomes the children afterwards, affording me some much-needed tranquility.
I’ll miss chats with Sylvaine, when she takes me into confidence about her own childhood, and about her doubts and worries and fears and aspirations for her own children. And the French vocabulary lessons she gives me, always patient, never reproachful for mispronunciation or grammar slip-ups.
I’ll miss my rare moments of solitude, when I take a picnic and a book and watch the sunset over the Rhône. And the color of Avignon at night—a liquid gold luminescence that teases down empty streets but never quite makes it to the dark corners of the alleys.
I already miss le Festival d’Avignon, spilling out of over 100 theaters and into the streets, with costumed players parading the streets as a animated advertisement for their theater production. And street performers, from live statues, to hip hop artists, to folk bands, to DJs, to magicians, to traditional dancers. And the atmosphere that ensues—lively, surreal, and punctuated by discussions of theater on café terraces and bar stools.
I’ll miss the colors: the burnt blue of the cloudless, afternoon sky, profound and still; the transparent turquoise of the pool, illuminated at night; the pastel palette of Provençal towns; the weary beige of a wheat field; the liquid coral pink of the Rhône, flowing lazily under the setting sun; the sweeping azure of the Mediterranean Sea on a sultry, summer day; the luscious green leaves of the poplars lining the route to Chateâurenard, gilded in the evening sun; the sandy gold of the façade of le palais des papes. And the striking photographs that are captured in my mind’s eye at every turn, every moment in Provence.
I’ll miss taking walks through Avignon, alone although surrounded by people, watching, wondering, coming up with stories about the pedestrians as they pass by. And the weary, lonely sound of my heels clicking down an empty sidewalk, the echo of my footsteps my only companion.
I’ll miss the French language, for goodness sakes, and the way it slips sweetly from my mouth, soft, fluid, romantic. And the small daily pleasure of self-expression in a foreign tongue, or the joy of learning a new word, a new expression, a new nuance of language never taught in grammar books.
I’ll miss the South of France, for all its worth, for its relaxed atmosphere, and welcoming people, and sizzling afternoons, and good wine, and olive oil, and picturesque towns, and nestled castles, and sunflower-lined routes, and stark sun, and blazing colors. And even its Mistral, and immigration problems, and sometimes dirty streets, for I am home here, and that’s what counts.
***
Someone, send me a bottle big enough to fit in the taste of perfectly aged Brie, and the odor of a freshly opened bottle of wine, and the sound of cicadas, and the grasp of an eight-month-old baby pulling at my fingers, and the expanse of Provence, spreading out before my eyes. And a cork, strong enough to contain the ferocious Mistral wind, and the beating of a heart bursting with affection, and the Atlantic Ocean that seems to constantly be separating me from home, no matter what continent I’m on. I cannot bear to let this beautiful life that I lead here escape.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Mother Tongue
3 août 2010 mardi
Language is a fickle friend, and jealous beyond reason. Having ignored my mother tongue for a solid two months, imagine the bastardized English that came out of my mouth at my first opportunity to use it extensively this weekend. English, like most small children, pets, and family members, does not respond well to neglect. It shrivels down, vocabulary words go missing, and grammatical structures tumble out backwards. I suppose this is the price I pay for plunging into the French language sea; after a few weeks of gulping water and nearly drowning, I grow gills. And when I come back up to the surface, I’ve forgotten how to breathe air. It’s no longer language acquisition, but rather language adaptation.
It is thanks to language adaptation that such gems as “keep looking for a couch comfy” (instead of “comfy couch”) or “you have the chance” (instead of “you’re lucky”) have appeared in my mouth. It’s barely worth mentioning the number of times construction such as “the car of” or “the house of” (instead of the regular possessive construction “Eric’s car” or “Kevin’s house”) have popped up in my conversation while talking with my parents or friends on Skype. And of course, classic flubs such as: “what day are we?” or “we are how many?” or “I have 20 years” or “I have hungry” are practically unavoidable at this point.
In the words of Nicky Re, my English is broken. This weekend, I had the chance to have live interaction with someone who truly speaks my own language (ie: English) for the first time in nearly a month and a half. Franglais bubbled up from my days at the fac in Avignon 2009, when I spent all of my time with French speaking Americans. “I feel like mange-ing” for when I’d like a bite to eat, or “what a piece of merde” for when I find something particularly disagreeable. At the caisse (cash register . . . no, check-out is better) at Auchan, when Nicky was buying a new maillot (er, swimsuit), we dissolved into giggles because we honestly couldn’t remember in what language Nicky had responded to the cashier. Broken English it truly is.
That being said, a few words about my tremendous weekend. As mentioned above, I had the chance to practice my English a bit this weekend with Nicky Re, who had come down from Paris to the Avignon area to visit her friends and family, who live in Miramas, a small town near Marseille. It wasn’t until leaving Avignon that I understood to what degree I had been quietly suffering from cabin fever. Apart from my brief adventures in Arles a few weekends ago, I have for the most part stayed in the Avignon area. My idea of “getting out” had been taking Courgette and heading into town for the theater festival or a soirée with friends in town. But good heavens, the countryside did me good.
Regardless of the impressive size of the de Lannoy estate, where I spend the majority of my time, it nevertheless has four (massive) walls. I walk in circles around the pool, transporting dishes from the kitchen to the dishwasher across the courtyard, or pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room and the library. There are only so many geometric shapes one can make before going crazy, or feeling like a tiger in a cage.
There’s no remedy quite like poplar and sunflower lined streets, watermelon and a barbeque, hearty laughs and new friends, and drives through the mountains at sunset. I was wholeheartedly welcomed both among Nicky’s group of friends and at her family’s table. Leftover taboulee, homemade orange wine, and good Brie never tasted quite so good. I was reminded that a table, no matter how well stocked with wine and cheese and meat and bread, is never complete without laughter. And laugh we did.
Michel, Nicky’s French cousin, was more than delighted to act the tour guide and take us around to all of the hidden corners of la Côte Bleue region. Nicky and I were quite literally cradled to sleep like little children who fall asleep on car rides on a late night tour of l’Etang, an expansive inland bay, just inshore from the Mediterranean Sea. Saturday, we tried out a bit of geocaching, one of Michel’s favorite hobbies. In Miramas-le-Vieux, we followed the directions given on the geocaching website and deduced small riddles to find clues here and there in the tiny village. The clues combined to form a GPS point, where a treasure was supposedly hidden. Nicky and I were delighted to find not only the treasure (a logbook of former geocachers and little nonsensical gifts left behind), but a fruit tree lined route that lead from the final destination back to the car. There’s something fundamentally satisfying about plucking fruit directly off a tree and eating it, warm and juicy.
Our second geocaching of the day took us to Martigues, a town justly nicknamed the Venice of Provence. The town spans the two banks of a river and the tiny island crisscrossed with canals that splits the river in two. With its boats, canals, winding alleys, and bright blue bridges, I am compelled to put the town of Martigues in a glass bottle and display it on my mantelpiece.
Nicky and I would not be content until we made it to the beach, so we headed to the Mediterranean just as the sun was setting. We swum upstream against a crowd of sun weary beach-goers and installed ourselves on the beach to watch the sunset (which was magnificent, but that could just be my France/Mediterranean-lust speaking). Despite the frigid (I exaggerate) temperature of the water, we took a quick swim. Summer simply isn’t complete without a dip in the sea, and I always sleep better when I close my eyes and feel as though I’m still in the water, being rocked by waves.
In short, I rediscovered two things this weekend: the English language, thanks to the first American I have seen in person for a month and a half, and the French countryside that I truly do love, that rests just on the other side of the courtyard walls. And one thing is for sure: we live in a beautiful world, regardless of the language we employ to describe it.
Language is a fickle friend, and jealous beyond reason. Having ignored my mother tongue for a solid two months, imagine the bastardized English that came out of my mouth at my first opportunity to use it extensively this weekend. English, like most small children, pets, and family members, does not respond well to neglect. It shrivels down, vocabulary words go missing, and grammatical structures tumble out backwards. I suppose this is the price I pay for plunging into the French language sea; after a few weeks of gulping water and nearly drowning, I grow gills. And when I come back up to the surface, I’ve forgotten how to breathe air. It’s no longer language acquisition, but rather language adaptation.
It is thanks to language adaptation that such gems as “keep looking for a couch comfy” (instead of “comfy couch”) or “you have the chance” (instead of “you’re lucky”) have appeared in my mouth. It’s barely worth mentioning the number of times construction such as “the car of” or “the house of” (instead of the regular possessive construction “Eric’s car” or “Kevin’s house”) have popped up in my conversation while talking with my parents or friends on Skype. And of course, classic flubs such as: “what day are we?” or “we are how many?” or “I have 20 years” or “I have hungry” are practically unavoidable at this point.
In the words of Nicky Re, my English is broken. This weekend, I had the chance to have live interaction with someone who truly speaks my own language (ie: English) for the first time in nearly a month and a half. Franglais bubbled up from my days at the fac in Avignon 2009, when I spent all of my time with French speaking Americans. “I feel like mange-ing” for when I’d like a bite to eat, or “what a piece of merde” for when I find something particularly disagreeable. At the caisse (cash register . . . no, check-out is better) at Auchan, when Nicky was buying a new maillot (er, swimsuit), we dissolved into giggles because we honestly couldn’t remember in what language Nicky had responded to the cashier. Broken English it truly is.
That being said, a few words about my tremendous weekend. As mentioned above, I had the chance to practice my English a bit this weekend with Nicky Re, who had come down from Paris to the Avignon area to visit her friends and family, who live in Miramas, a small town near Marseille. It wasn’t until leaving Avignon that I understood to what degree I had been quietly suffering from cabin fever. Apart from my brief adventures in Arles a few weekends ago, I have for the most part stayed in the Avignon area. My idea of “getting out” had been taking Courgette and heading into town for the theater festival or a soirée with friends in town. But good heavens, the countryside did me good.
Regardless of the impressive size of the de Lannoy estate, where I spend the majority of my time, it nevertheless has four (massive) walls. I walk in circles around the pool, transporting dishes from the kitchen to the dishwasher across the courtyard, or pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room and the library. There are only so many geometric shapes one can make before going crazy, or feeling like a tiger in a cage.
There’s no remedy quite like poplar and sunflower lined streets, watermelon and a barbeque, hearty laughs and new friends, and drives through the mountains at sunset. I was wholeheartedly welcomed both among Nicky’s group of friends and at her family’s table. Leftover taboulee, homemade orange wine, and good Brie never tasted quite so good. I was reminded that a table, no matter how well stocked with wine and cheese and meat and bread, is never complete without laughter. And laugh we did.
Michel, Nicky’s French cousin, was more than delighted to act the tour guide and take us around to all of the hidden corners of la Côte Bleue region. Nicky and I were quite literally cradled to sleep like little children who fall asleep on car rides on a late night tour of l’Etang, an expansive inland bay, just inshore from the Mediterranean Sea. Saturday, we tried out a bit of geocaching, one of Michel’s favorite hobbies. In Miramas-le-Vieux, we followed the directions given on the geocaching website and deduced small riddles to find clues here and there in the tiny village. The clues combined to form a GPS point, where a treasure was supposedly hidden. Nicky and I were delighted to find not only the treasure (a logbook of former geocachers and little nonsensical gifts left behind), but a fruit tree lined route that lead from the final destination back to the car. There’s something fundamentally satisfying about plucking fruit directly off a tree and eating it, warm and juicy.
Our second geocaching of the day took us to Martigues, a town justly nicknamed the Venice of Provence. The town spans the two banks of a river and the tiny island crisscrossed with canals that splits the river in two. With its boats, canals, winding alleys, and bright blue bridges, I am compelled to put the town of Martigues in a glass bottle and display it on my mantelpiece.
Nicky and I would not be content until we made it to the beach, so we headed to the Mediterranean just as the sun was setting. We swum upstream against a crowd of sun weary beach-goers and installed ourselves on the beach to watch the sunset (which was magnificent, but that could just be my France/Mediterranean-lust speaking). Despite the frigid (I exaggerate) temperature of the water, we took a quick swim. Summer simply isn’t complete without a dip in the sea, and I always sleep better when I close my eyes and feel as though I’m still in the water, being rocked by waves.
In short, I rediscovered two things this weekend: the English language, thanks to the first American I have seen in person for a month and a half, and the French countryside that I truly do love, that rests just on the other side of the courtyard walls. And one thing is for sure: we live in a beautiful world, regardless of the language we employ to describe it.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Midterm Reevaluations
24 juillet 2010 samedi
The last time I wrote expressly of the children, I had barely known them for 72 hours. Today marks the halfway point of my employment Chez les de Lannoys—27 days down, 26 to go before I return to the United States. A few notes regarding my ever-growing familiarity with ces petits monstres adorables.
Alban (still 12)
Alban is in a crisis of pre-pubescence that, for some hormonal reason, leads him to make every possible situation into a competition. Ping-pong, pool volleyball, Uno, Monopoly, flips on the trampoline, and even sickness. When his younger brother, Gauthier, came down with a throat illness a few weeks ago, Alban insisted upon asserting at least twice a meal that the last time he was sick, he was much more gravely ill than Gauthier, and he didn’t even go to the doctor. At Acrobranche, Alban chose to disregard Gauthier’s successful completion of la piste noire (the hardest high ropes course), and instead focused on the failure of his sister, Constance, to complete the course. It is, in short, an adolescent superiority complex. As of late, he doesn’t like ice cream very much, nor meat. Tomatoes are only delicious when they come from the supermarket, not the garden. He’ll eat chicken wings, but not the actual wings . . . only the drumsticks. Last week, he was fascinated by extreme body builders and smack down wrestling (he refuses to believe that it’s not real). This week, he’s been obsessed with Percy Jackson films, and he has a newfound love for the Belgian accent, following the visit of some of Eric’s (who was born in Belgium) friends from medicine school. Most of Alban’s energy as of late has been invested in perfecting his trampoline flips, and I must admit, they have significantly improved since the addition of the trampoline to the children’s palace that the house truly is. Next step . . . back flips. You can imagine my fear for his precious skull and neck . . . and my horror that something terrible should happen during the day while I’m responsible for the entertainment and protection of the children.
Constance (actually 10, but since her birthday is in September, she told me she was 11)
Constance is writing a book of animals to give as a gift to Montaine, her baby sister. Or at least she was . . . she may have lost interest when she realized the work involved. Constance likes to please people—she especially helps to set or clear the table after one of her brothers has just been reprimanded for laziness or disobedience, or when there are guests at the house. Constance is the most likely of all of the children to help me with little gifts. For example, when Cosette, the housekeeper, couldn’t come in to work because a swollen, broken toe prevented her from walking, Constance helped me make “Bon Retablissement” and “Rétablis-toi vite” cards. With Montaine, Constance immediately reverts into motherly mode. She arranges piles of pillows around Montaine’s tiny body to ensure complete safety and comfort, and she focuses all of her energy in keeping Montaine and her baby’s attention span occupied, interested, and happy. Above all, I maintain that Constance longs for female companionship. When Ambre, her best friend, is at the house, Constance is an entirely different girl. She is lively, energetic, and laughs incessantly—quite a change from the slightly perturbed attitude that she tends to adopt when she’s with her brothers.
Gauthier (9)
If I’m allowed to say it, I think Gauthier is my favorite. He truly is exceptional. He helps me set the table without me having to ask him, he takes care of his plate after he has finished eating, he sits with me at the table while I’m finishing my post-dinner yogurt long after the other children have abandoned the un-cleared table, and he reminds his siblings to clear their plates and cups after they have finished. He enforces his parents’ trampoline rules, and unlike his siblings, he is willing to compromise. In all honesty, I forget that he is 9 years old. He has a level of maturity that is not displayed in his siblings, nor in most children of his age for that matter. He adores Monopoly, and especially loves to play chess, because it is a game for two. He recognizes the potentially dangerously competitive nature of his brother, and he prefers games where Alban can’t interfere. At Acrobranche, when Constance was terrified to do la grande saute, or the Tarzan jump, he stayed with her on the treetop platform, giving her words of advice and encouragement until she worked up enough nerve to leap. Whereas Alban simply asserts his strength and superiority, Gauthier is willing to actually work to improve himself. Last week, we went on a family run around the neighborhood (Rodrigue joined on his bike). Gauthier fell behind a bit at the end (a fact that Alban constantly reminded him of afterwards), but for the next few days, he asked me every evening to go out on a run with him, making a conscious effort to improve his endurance running skills. He has a self-awareness and sense of determination that I truly admire in him.
Rodrigue (7)
Rodrigue may or may not have ADHD. He tends to repeat the expressions and actions of his siblings incessantly, without comprehension of the meaning of the words or repercussions of his behaviors. Sometimes, he’ll be inexplicably destructive—I discovered my bathroom in a disastrous state one evening, with a bucket on the floor, with piss in and around it, and Rodrigue’s shoes next to it—a signature of his infantile crime. Today at lunch, he threw the hot pad for the chicken under the trampoline and refused to go get it, simply because he apparently doesn’t like hot pads (or so he says). When he feels neglected, for example, when I’m playing Milleborne or Monopoly with the older children, he’ll tear through the game, throw the cards on the ground or in the pool, steal game pieces, and run away with them. When he feels threatened by a reprimand, he entirely shuts down, repeating “non” over and over, and will often wiggle away from punishment (if any is imposed at all), and escape. Yet when he’s in an agreeable mood, he is adorable. His current fixation is Uno—it is something that he understands and can do without too much guidance. Yesterday, while the older boys were occupied elsewhere and Constance was at Ambre’s house, I dedicated the afternoon to Rodrigue. I let him outline our schedule. In about 30 or 40 minutes, we played Uno, Milleborne, volleyball, hide and seek, freeze tag, regular tag, rearranged the courtyard furniture, and even set the table. His attention span is over in a blink, which can be exhausting. Also, he doesn’t eat meat, or vegetables, which makes satisfying his appetite and his nutritional needs extraordinarily difficult. We recently discovered that he has an enormous taste for baked potatoes, and he adores caramel flan, which, if nothing else, has calcium. I’ve been making baby steps with Rodrigue—at Acrobranche, he asked to hold my hand, and now, when I give him his packet of Uno cards, he says thank you. And sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly agreeable, he’ll apologize when he plays a +4 wild card.
Montaine (7 months)
Montaine is growing by the week. As of last week, she takes the bottle, and this week, she sits up by herself in her playpen. When she wakes up from a nap, I’ll often find her, tiny fists clutched, upright in her crib. She screams louder than any of the children, which is significant, considering the caliber of their conversations. Vanilla Haagen Daas ice cream, which she loves almost as much as her dad does, tends to calm her down. She still doesn't like peas, but zucchini is a success. And she settles down when I sing Regina, which makes me happy on many, many levels.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sois Heureuse
18 juillet 2010 dimanche
I was happy again last night. Macbett, Eugène Ionesco’s absurd, grotesque, tragicomedic defiance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth had just come to its unsettling, yet perfectly appropriate end. It was 9:30, evening spectacles spattered across the city were coming to an end, and from invisible theaters hidden behind walls of stone and posters, faint cheering could be heard. Another curtain falling, another evening’s success.
It was refreshingly cool, if not chilly after another burning summer day in the south of France. The street was sparsely populated with pedestrians, and the couples clutching each other’s arms spoke softly in whispers as they made their way down the sidewalks, as though in reverence to the falling dusk. I was feeling confident, literary, and lovely, and I let the wind wrap around me like a lover who knows all of my curves and my crevices.
Walking down the sidewalk, I contemplated feeling lonely. I thought of the deep, black expanse of the Atlantic, yawning between my friends and family and me, of the bronzing wheat fields of Ohio, of the waving stalks of sweet corn pushing tassels and saluting the hazy afternoon sky while night was already imminent in France. I had no lover, no partner with which I could saunter down the street arm in arm, or watch the sunset as the sun dipped into the Rhône, or sip a glass of wine and discuss lofty, intellectual subjects. No one would kiss me good night, and I would sleep alone in a bed big enough for two.
Blinking in the imposing darkness, trying to assure oneself of existence with the simple affirmation of sight, it is easy to feel alone, lonely, melancholy. But last night wasn’t a night for disparaging sentiments. The street smelled like lavender and Provençal spices, and when I turned the corner, the great ferris wheel emerged from behind the ramparts, gleaming in metallic shades of white gold and silver as the sun coquettishly donned its colors to the west. No, melancholy had no place in an evening such as this.
Happiness cannot be held and kept like sorrow can, which like a heavy stone wears holes in our pockets as soon as we pick it up. Happiness slips through our fingers as we cup it to our parched lips to drink. And that, perhaps, is the most painful of all: watching happiness slither away. A half-melted ice cream cone splattered on the sidewalk. A brightly colored balloon stuck in the highest branches of a tree. We’re left with sticky fingers and outstretched hands, and we can do nothing but remember. And in that remembering, smile.
I was happy again last night. Macbett, Eugène Ionesco’s absurd, grotesque, tragicomedic defiance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth had just come to its unsettling, yet perfectly appropriate end. It was 9:30, evening spectacles spattered across the city were coming to an end, and from invisible theaters hidden behind walls of stone and posters, faint cheering could be heard. Another curtain falling, another evening’s success.
It was refreshingly cool, if not chilly after another burning summer day in the south of France. The street was sparsely populated with pedestrians, and the couples clutching each other’s arms spoke softly in whispers as they made their way down the sidewalks, as though in reverence to the falling dusk. I was feeling confident, literary, and lovely, and I let the wind wrap around me like a lover who knows all of my curves and my crevices.
Walking down the sidewalk, I contemplated feeling lonely. I thought of the deep, black expanse of the Atlantic, yawning between my friends and family and me, of the bronzing wheat fields of Ohio, of the waving stalks of sweet corn pushing tassels and saluting the hazy afternoon sky while night was already imminent in France. I had no lover, no partner with which I could saunter down the street arm in arm, or watch the sunset as the sun dipped into the Rhône, or sip a glass of wine and discuss lofty, intellectual subjects. No one would kiss me good night, and I would sleep alone in a bed big enough for two.
Blinking in the imposing darkness, trying to assure oneself of existence with the simple affirmation of sight, it is easy to feel alone, lonely, melancholy. But last night wasn’t a night for disparaging sentiments. The street smelled like lavender and Provençal spices, and when I turned the corner, the great ferris wheel emerged from behind the ramparts, gleaming in metallic shades of white gold and silver as the sun coquettishly donned its colors to the west. No, melancholy had no place in an evening such as this.
Happiness cannot be held and kept like sorrow can, which like a heavy stone wears holes in our pockets as soon as we pick it up. Happiness slips through our fingers as we cup it to our parched lips to drink. And that, perhaps, is the most painful of all: watching happiness slither away. A half-melted ice cream cone splattered on the sidewalk. A brightly colored balloon stuck in the highest branches of a tree. We’re left with sticky fingers and outstretched hands, and we can do nothing but remember. And in that remembering, smile.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Anecdotal
16 juillet 2010 jeudi
Adventures with Courgette
• On the opening day of the festival, Eric and Sylvaine asked that I take the kids into town to watch the parade. I was delighted to do so, of course, except for the small matter of parking, which I find difficult in any country, with any car, manual or automatic. Imagine my horror when not ONE parking space was open in the parking lots surrounding the ramparts. With Alban and Constance sweating in the backseat and my nerves quickly fraying, I did something I never thought I’d do: I parked on a sidewalk. Yes, Shawna, I was one of the crazy people that turned the Avignon Trottoir into my own personal parking lot. I do not regret it. It just makes me all the more French for having done it.
• When I learned to drive in the United States, I learned roads by getting lost on them. Why should it be any different in France? After an evening out with Thomas in Avignon, I attempted to head back to Montfavet. I was completely sober, mind you (as the operation of a motor vehicle requires), but this did not stop me from mistakenly thinking that I could get back to my house on Rue de Montfavet. In short, a series of unfortunate turns happened, and I found myself whisked away in the direction of Orange—the last place I could possibly want to be on earth. And, to top it all off, my cell phone had about a 1,6€ of credit left: enough for 1 text, or about 3 minutes of calls. At about two in the morning, I managed to get myself turned back around in the right direction by following every sign that spoke of Avignon, and by doing so, hoping to run into the ramparts that surround the city. Finally, success, after an hour of absolute horror. I picked up a map at the office of tourism the next day, just in case, to keep in the glove compartment.
• Due to the horrific parking situation in Avignon during festival season, Eric and Sylvaine suggested that I park in the garage next to le palais des papes, right down town. It costs a bit, but it’s better than circling the ramparts in 95 degree heat, searching for a parking spot like a vulture. What I was not prepared for was the steep, spiraling hill at the garage entrance that Eric and Sylvaine had failed to mention. I overestimated Courgette’s ability to climb hills, and mistakenly put her in second gear, thinking that she would have enough power to make it to the top. I stalled about 80% of the way up the hill. Although there had been no one behind me as I embarked upon the hill, in true form to Murphy’s Law, three impatient cars zoomed up behind me as soon as I stalled. It. Was. Horrific. Eventually a nice (and probably irritated) French man came up and helped me get Courgette to the top of the hill. I vowed to never park there again (or, at least not before I do some serious hill practice).
Life as a Mihuta
• My grandpa Mihuta is the kind of person who will go up to a person on the street, strike up a conversation, and in a good fifteen minutes, will end up with a life-long friend, an offer for dinner, and an open invitation for a place to stay. My mama Mihuta takes after her dad; in fact, one of her hobbies is finding couples where the husband is taking a picture of the wife, or vice versa, and asking if she can take a picture for them both. I’ve found that I’ve developed as a Mihuta true to form; one of my new favorite things to do is to spot lost Americans, and help them out. Of course, if they try to order without even trying to speak in French, or insult/ignore tourist etiquette, or are wearing Michigan colors (that’s for you, Benny), I won’t always go out of my way to help them. But if I find a nice family of four, standing perplexed under the palais des papes, or an elderly couple speaking asking for directions in broken French, I spring into American-in-Avignon rescue mode. I was having a solitary dinner at Croque au Pain the other day, taking a break from my festival-going, when I heard what could only be a North American accent speaking French. A lone woman, about 28 or 30 had just walked in, and had pretty successfully ordered a Lyonnais salad with olive oil dressing. I was curious, and so I asked if she was American. It turns out that Jen was Canadian, and was on her way back to Canada after having lived in Australia for the last 10 years with a boyfriend. They had broken up a few months back, and so Jen had decided to press the reset button on her life, and do something a little crazy before trying to reestablish life in her homeland—travel for three months around Europe before returning to Canada to go to teacher school. It was a lovely conversation—she came and sat at the table next to mine, and we chatted for at least a half an hour before we went on our separate ways. Mihuta blood, you’ve done me well.
Montaine’s Mama
• About 36 hours before I was entrusted with all five children for an evening as Eric and Sylvaine went into Avignon to celebrate their good friend’s birthday, Montaine (the 7 month old) learned how to say maman. It was the first time since her birth that Eric and Sylvaine had entrusted Montaine to the care of someone else for an evening—the pressure was on. All was well for a while—Montaine was content in her playpen, Constance was at a friend’s house for the night, and the boys were playing Uno outside. And then the wailing started, and the heart wrenching sound of a red-faced baby appealing for her mamamamamaman over and over again, a pitiful mantra. I tried to put her down—she screamed even louder. I changed her diaper. I gave her toys. I tried to give her a bottle of her mother’s breast milk. I sang Regina Spektor songs. This latter technique seemed to work, surprisingly (thanks, Regina), but I couldn’t get Montaine to sleep. In desperation, I sent the boys to the library to watch Star Wars, and I took Montaine out to the garden. Softly singing, we circled the garden, said hello to the horse and the donkey and the dog and the cat and the stars. She fell asleep in my arms. Oh what a relief is a sleeping baby.
Adventures with Courgette
• On the opening day of the festival, Eric and Sylvaine asked that I take the kids into town to watch the parade. I was delighted to do so, of course, except for the small matter of parking, which I find difficult in any country, with any car, manual or automatic. Imagine my horror when not ONE parking space was open in the parking lots surrounding the ramparts. With Alban and Constance sweating in the backseat and my nerves quickly fraying, I did something I never thought I’d do: I parked on a sidewalk. Yes, Shawna, I was one of the crazy people that turned the Avignon Trottoir into my own personal parking lot. I do not regret it. It just makes me all the more French for having done it.
• When I learned to drive in the United States, I learned roads by getting lost on them. Why should it be any different in France? After an evening out with Thomas in Avignon, I attempted to head back to Montfavet. I was completely sober, mind you (as the operation of a motor vehicle requires), but this did not stop me from mistakenly thinking that I could get back to my house on Rue de Montfavet. In short, a series of unfortunate turns happened, and I found myself whisked away in the direction of Orange—the last place I could possibly want to be on earth. And, to top it all off, my cell phone had about a 1,6€ of credit left: enough for 1 text, or about 3 minutes of calls. At about two in the morning, I managed to get myself turned back around in the right direction by following every sign that spoke of Avignon, and by doing so, hoping to run into the ramparts that surround the city. Finally, success, after an hour of absolute horror. I picked up a map at the office of tourism the next day, just in case, to keep in the glove compartment.
• Due to the horrific parking situation in Avignon during festival season, Eric and Sylvaine suggested that I park in the garage next to le palais des papes, right down town. It costs a bit, but it’s better than circling the ramparts in 95 degree heat, searching for a parking spot like a vulture. What I was not prepared for was the steep, spiraling hill at the garage entrance that Eric and Sylvaine had failed to mention. I overestimated Courgette’s ability to climb hills, and mistakenly put her in second gear, thinking that she would have enough power to make it to the top. I stalled about 80% of the way up the hill. Although there had been no one behind me as I embarked upon the hill, in true form to Murphy’s Law, three impatient cars zoomed up behind me as soon as I stalled. It. Was. Horrific. Eventually a nice (and probably irritated) French man came up and helped me get Courgette to the top of the hill. I vowed to never park there again (or, at least not before I do some serious hill practice).
Life as a Mihuta
• My grandpa Mihuta is the kind of person who will go up to a person on the street, strike up a conversation, and in a good fifteen minutes, will end up with a life-long friend, an offer for dinner, and an open invitation for a place to stay. My mama Mihuta takes after her dad; in fact, one of her hobbies is finding couples where the husband is taking a picture of the wife, or vice versa, and asking if she can take a picture for them both. I’ve found that I’ve developed as a Mihuta true to form; one of my new favorite things to do is to spot lost Americans, and help them out. Of course, if they try to order without even trying to speak in French, or insult/ignore tourist etiquette, or are wearing Michigan colors (that’s for you, Benny), I won’t always go out of my way to help them. But if I find a nice family of four, standing perplexed under the palais des papes, or an elderly couple speaking asking for directions in broken French, I spring into American-in-Avignon rescue mode. I was having a solitary dinner at Croque au Pain the other day, taking a break from my festival-going, when I heard what could only be a North American accent speaking French. A lone woman, about 28 or 30 had just walked in, and had pretty successfully ordered a Lyonnais salad with olive oil dressing. I was curious, and so I asked if she was American. It turns out that Jen was Canadian, and was on her way back to Canada after having lived in Australia for the last 10 years with a boyfriend. They had broken up a few months back, and so Jen had decided to press the reset button on her life, and do something a little crazy before trying to reestablish life in her homeland—travel for three months around Europe before returning to Canada to go to teacher school. It was a lovely conversation—she came and sat at the table next to mine, and we chatted for at least a half an hour before we went on our separate ways. Mihuta blood, you’ve done me well.
Montaine’s Mama
• About 36 hours before I was entrusted with all five children for an evening as Eric and Sylvaine went into Avignon to celebrate their good friend’s birthday, Montaine (the 7 month old) learned how to say maman. It was the first time since her birth that Eric and Sylvaine had entrusted Montaine to the care of someone else for an evening—the pressure was on. All was well for a while—Montaine was content in her playpen, Constance was at a friend’s house for the night, and the boys were playing Uno outside. And then the wailing started, and the heart wrenching sound of a red-faced baby appealing for her mamamamamaman over and over again, a pitiful mantra. I tried to put her down—she screamed even louder. I changed her diaper. I gave her toys. I tried to give her a bottle of her mother’s breast milk. I sang Regina Spektor songs. This latter technique seemed to work, surprisingly (thanks, Regina), but I couldn’t get Montaine to sleep. In desperation, I sent the boys to the library to watch Star Wars, and I took Montaine out to the garden. Softly singing, we circled the garden, said hello to the horse and the donkey and the dog and the cat and the stars. She fell asleep in my arms. Oh what a relief is a sleeping baby.
Don't Look Down
15 juillet 2010 jeudi
A few crucial words for when one is attached to a rope, 20–25 feet above the ground:
1: PASSERELLES DES CIMES = Treetop Pathways
Today, the Delannoy family treated the children to a trip to Acrobranche, a high ropes course nestled in the quaintly Provençal Luberon valley, near Fontaine de Vaucluse. Acrobranche has 6 treetop courses of varying difficulty, and I must say, I myself was challenged. As my parents can testify, I’ve been a fanatic of heights from a very young age. My mother had to rush out of the house with a laundry basket full of pillows when she found me hanging from my knees from the top of our story-and-a-half tall swing set. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, and hadn’t quite developed a sense of practical danger yet. As a child, I would walk the perimeter of our barn on the rafters, and even now, if you give me a boulder big enough, I will probably climb it. However, the high ropes courses at Acrobranche still gave me a thrill and got adrenaline pumping though my veins.
2: UN MOUSQUETON = Climbing Caribbeaner
One thing that is refreshing about Europe is that business liability seems to be much more lax than in the United States. Before being let loose like monkeys out of their cages, we had no papers to sign, no fitness tests to pass, no security deposits to pay. A short, required “training” session taught all visitors how to properly secure the two caribbeaners attached to our belts, and how to safely attach ourselves to a zipline. Thus “trained,” off we went. Of course, if all security measures were correctly followed, there was no real danger, and staff members surveyed the course from the ground, but it’s nice to be trusted with one’s own common sense and inherent ability to detect when one is truly in danger.
3: UNE ECHELLE A BRAS = Rope Ladder
To start off easily, we began our parcours on la piste verte—the green course. It served mostly to get land lubbers accustomed to being off the ground, and to practice walking across hanging rope ladders, or slack wires, or dangling logs. Although it was the beginners’ course, I must say, climbing backwards through a suspended barrel and then balancing on a treetop platform is certainly no walk in the park.
4: UNE TYROLIENNE = Zip Line
Travel by zip line should be established in mass. I can just see it now: businessmen in suits and leather gloves, grasping a zip line with one hand and a briefcase with the other, zipping across the open spaces between skyscrapers, sliding into an open window just in time for the 2:00 meeting across the way. After ascending une echelle à bras made of rope and logs to a platform about 30 feet up in a tree, I started the parcours aux tyroliennes. There’s something primordially satisfying about whooshing through treetops, suspended on a wire. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane.
5: ACCROCHE-TOI! = Hang on!
La liane à Tarzan (Tarzan Swing), located at the highest point of la piste rouge, the second most difficult course, briefly made my heart stop. I kid you not. After climbing up une echelle à bras, scuttling across a vertically suspended rope net, swinging across un pont de singes (monkey bars) at least twenty feet above the ground, and making my way across a slack wire, I finally found myself on a platform in a tree. Across a clearing at least 15 wide, was a giant spider web made of thick rope. Mousquetons securely attached, I was given a rope, and told to jump. Yes, jump. Across the clearing and onto the spider web that certainly wouldn’t do the catching for me. Standing on the platform, I thought of my brother Ben, and his bungee jumping adventures, and my Dad, and his experiences leaping out of airplanes, and I refused to be shown up by the Grimm men. Trois, deux, UN, came the voices of the staff members and the Delannoy family watching below . . . and I leapt. And, contrary to my the little voice inside that tells most reasonable people that jumping off of high places is a bad idea, I survived, feeling quite like a fly once I made it across the clearing to the spider web of rope on the other side.
But wait, there’s more. Alban was absolutely determined to do la piste noire, the most difficult course at Acrobranche. Gauthier came along, not to be shown up by his big brother. The boys beseeched that I join. This time, once reaching the highest platform, we were told to leap across a 10 foot clearing . . . sans rope. What, no rope? This time, I jumped at about deux et demi (two and a half), knowing that if I waited any longer I would realize the absurdity of jumping across a clearing without a rope. Of course, I was safely attached to a security wire with my two mousquetons, but hey, a human being who spends most of her time on the ground, and not in trees, is allowed to be a bit skeptical. Hesitation does absolutely nothing for skepticism in this case. Off I went.
6: UN BLEU = Bruise
By the look of my legs and forearms, one would suspect that I am violently maltreated in the Delannoy household. There is une bosse sanglante (bloody bump) on my forehead from where I fwapped myself with un mousqueton, and on la piste noire I turned my arms into sand paper, leaving thick wire-shaped scrapes in parallel red lines across my forearms and wrists from when I mistakenly used the security wire to balance myself on a parcours of logs dangling from stretchy, supple ropes. Upon arriving home, I discovered that my legs are a battlefield of bruises. And yet, I must thank the Delannoys full heartedly for my bruises, and scrapes, and scratches. It’s good to be a kid sometimes. Thank goodness I’m not afraid of heights.
A few crucial words for when one is attached to a rope, 20–25 feet above the ground:
1: PASSERELLES DES CIMES = Treetop Pathways
Today, the Delannoy family treated the children to a trip to Acrobranche, a high ropes course nestled in the quaintly Provençal Luberon valley, near Fontaine de Vaucluse. Acrobranche has 6 treetop courses of varying difficulty, and I must say, I myself was challenged. As my parents can testify, I’ve been a fanatic of heights from a very young age. My mother had to rush out of the house with a laundry basket full of pillows when she found me hanging from my knees from the top of our story-and-a-half tall swing set. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, and hadn’t quite developed a sense of practical danger yet. As a child, I would walk the perimeter of our barn on the rafters, and even now, if you give me a boulder big enough, I will probably climb it. However, the high ropes courses at Acrobranche still gave me a thrill and got adrenaline pumping though my veins.
2: UN MOUSQUETON = Climbing Caribbeaner
One thing that is refreshing about Europe is that business liability seems to be much more lax than in the United States. Before being let loose like monkeys out of their cages, we had no papers to sign, no fitness tests to pass, no security deposits to pay. A short, required “training” session taught all visitors how to properly secure the two caribbeaners attached to our belts, and how to safely attach ourselves to a zipline. Thus “trained,” off we went. Of course, if all security measures were correctly followed, there was no real danger, and staff members surveyed the course from the ground, but it’s nice to be trusted with one’s own common sense and inherent ability to detect when one is truly in danger.
3: UNE ECHELLE A BRAS = Rope Ladder
To start off easily, we began our parcours on la piste verte—the green course. It served mostly to get land lubbers accustomed to being off the ground, and to practice walking across hanging rope ladders, or slack wires, or dangling logs. Although it was the beginners’ course, I must say, climbing backwards through a suspended barrel and then balancing on a treetop platform is certainly no walk in the park.
4: UNE TYROLIENNE = Zip Line
Travel by zip line should be established in mass. I can just see it now: businessmen in suits and leather gloves, grasping a zip line with one hand and a briefcase with the other, zipping across the open spaces between skyscrapers, sliding into an open window just in time for the 2:00 meeting across the way. After ascending une echelle à bras made of rope and logs to a platform about 30 feet up in a tree, I started the parcours aux tyroliennes. There’s something primordially satisfying about whooshing through treetops, suspended on a wire. Me, Tarzan. You, Jane.
5: ACCROCHE-TOI! = Hang on!
La liane à Tarzan (Tarzan Swing), located at the highest point of la piste rouge, the second most difficult course, briefly made my heart stop. I kid you not. After climbing up une echelle à bras, scuttling across a vertically suspended rope net, swinging across un pont de singes (monkey bars) at least twenty feet above the ground, and making my way across a slack wire, I finally found myself on a platform in a tree. Across a clearing at least 15 wide, was a giant spider web made of thick rope. Mousquetons securely attached, I was given a rope, and told to jump. Yes, jump. Across the clearing and onto the spider web that certainly wouldn’t do the catching for me. Standing on the platform, I thought of my brother Ben, and his bungee jumping adventures, and my Dad, and his experiences leaping out of airplanes, and I refused to be shown up by the Grimm men. Trois, deux, UN, came the voices of the staff members and the Delannoy family watching below . . . and I leapt. And, contrary to my the little voice inside that tells most reasonable people that jumping off of high places is a bad idea, I survived, feeling quite like a fly once I made it across the clearing to the spider web of rope on the other side.
But wait, there’s more. Alban was absolutely determined to do la piste noire, the most difficult course at Acrobranche. Gauthier came along, not to be shown up by his big brother. The boys beseeched that I join. This time, once reaching the highest platform, we were told to leap across a 10 foot clearing . . . sans rope. What, no rope? This time, I jumped at about deux et demi (two and a half), knowing that if I waited any longer I would realize the absurdity of jumping across a clearing without a rope. Of course, I was safely attached to a security wire with my two mousquetons, but hey, a human being who spends most of her time on the ground, and not in trees, is allowed to be a bit skeptical. Hesitation does absolutely nothing for skepticism in this case. Off I went.
6: UN BLEU = Bruise
By the look of my legs and forearms, one would suspect that I am violently maltreated in the Delannoy household. There is une bosse sanglante (bloody bump) on my forehead from where I fwapped myself with un mousqueton, and on la piste noire I turned my arms into sand paper, leaving thick wire-shaped scrapes in parallel red lines across my forearms and wrists from when I mistakenly used the security wire to balance myself on a parcours of logs dangling from stretchy, supple ropes. Upon arriving home, I discovered that my legs are a battlefield of bruises. And yet, I must thank the Delannoys full heartedly for my bruises, and scrapes, and scratches. It’s good to be a kid sometimes. Thank goodness I’m not afraid of heights.
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