Grenoble, La Mure, Les Rives; Ferme de la Salamandre
Friday 17 June—Thursday 23 June
In Jean-Paul Sartre’s theatrical rendition of a Greek myth, Les Mouches, the condemned town Argos is punished for the sins of its adulterous queen (Clytemnestra) and treacherous king (Egithe) with endless swarms of flies. I now understand why Sartre chose flies as the eternal punishment of a corrupt and decaying kingdom. There are few mosquitoes at la Ferme de la Salamandre, but good god, there are certainly flies.
Some explanation is in order. Over a year ago, overcome by the winter blues in slushy Athens and determined to return to France, I invested all possible avenues that would make a return trip feasible and somewhat cost-efficient. Although I eventually found work as an au pair for the de Lannoy family in Montfavet (near Avignon), in my expansive search I discovered something called WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities for Organic Farmers). It is an international network of organic farms and farmers that welcome volunteers from all over the world. In exchange for a few hours of work a day, WWOOFers are fed and lodged and have the opportunity to participate in the hosts’ family and farm life. Since I didn’t get a chance to WWOOF last summer, I decided to investigate the system and get some pesticide-free soil under my fingernails before heading to Nice for my TEFL program. And as such I found the Gilles family and la Ferme de la Salamandre, deep in the rustic heart of the French Alps and on the periphery of the magnificent Trièves region and the Vercors mountains. It is stunning, even with the flies.
For two weeks (until the beginning of July, when I will go back up to Paris to meet my brother at the airport), my living situation is as such:
• I live in a caravan, complete with a double bed and candles (but no light or sink or electric plugs).
• My neighbors are very nice stoners (Joséphine and Daniel) that live in a yurt lined with bookshelves and decorated with creeping vines, tapestries, and hanging mobiles made out of driftwood, buttons, and pebbles.
• We have what is called une toilette sèche—a dry toilet. The toilet is situated on a platform built above a deep pit filled with sawdust. Toilet paper is disposed of and burned in a bin.
• Instead of an indoor shower, we have une douche solaire—a solar shower. We fill black solar-heated bags with water and then lay them out in the sun while we work in the fields in the morning. Believe it or not, by the end of the afternoon, they water is rather tolerably warm. The shower has a breathtaking view of le mont aiguille (google it—it is the most recognizable symbol of Trièves), and it is all-in-all rather agreeable. Shaving is completely other story. Thus far, my most efficient method of shaving involves standing in a basin in the yard and making a fool of myself. I might end this adventure with rather hairy legs, but I don’t think anyone here minds much.
Today is rainy, so we didn’t work in les champs, but an average day goes something like this:
• Work starts at 8:00am, and so we gather in the kitchen for tea and bread before heading out into the fields. Our work consists mostly of le désherbage (weeding). All of the hours and days spent weeding throughout my youth in Ohio certainly paid off, eh? Thus far, we have finished a field and a half of onions and a field and a half of carrots. If we’re lucky, the work varies a bit—the other day we spent a few hours picking des cassis (black current berries) and I’ve been promised a day in the bakery next week.
• Lunch is around noon, and all of the workers (including WWOOFers, family members, interns, employees, etc.) take turns cooking and doing dishes. Our lunches as a group have proved to be a wonderful opportunity for conversation and exchange. Today, we spent the better part of an hour talking about the nuclear disaster in Japan and France’s incongruous reaction, followed by a somewhat in depth discussion on the philosophy of art and its role in politics and society. Tuesday, it was Western neocolonialism in Africa. And it helps that we eat completely organically, and most of the fresh fruit and vegetables are raised here on the farm. Food miles = >1km. Our meal generally consist of some sort of grain or starch (rice, pasta, bulgur wheat, couscous, potatoes) with a fresh green salad (oftentimes with beets, carrots, radishes, and/or other vegetables from the farm), or sometimes homemade pizza or quiche.
• The afternoons are free. Usually, we spend them reading, writing, washing clothes, feeding the cats, taking hikes in the area, going on excursions to lakes, heading to La Mure or Mens for book-shopping or garage-saling or picnicking (if we find a car), etc. Our afternoon hikes have been a wonderful way to explore the nearby towns and mountains. Over the weekend, I walked up to St. Jean d’Hérans, a tiny village of about ~150 inhabitants just on the border of Trièves. This afternoon, Emilie and I hiked up a nearby ridge to an arboretum with a beautiful view of the Drac river below and La Mure across the ravine. We got somewhat lost, but our detour was hardly fruitless. We found a great spot for picnicking on top of the ravine with a magnificent view of the surrounding peaks, and we ended up in St. Sebastian, a charming little village about 10km from the farm. Yesterday, I had the chance to spend my afternoon with Stéph delivering vegetables, cheese, bread, and eggs to various organic grocery stores and AMAPs (food co-ops) in the Grenoble area. I was entirely impressed by the network of organic stores and their loyal customers.
• In the evenings, the WWOOFers take care of our own dinners (usually leftovers + salad) and then head to bed when the sun starts to set. There are some advantages of not having electricity—an early bedtime is certainly one of them when work starts at 8:00am.
Currently, the farm “family” includes:
• Benoit (the father), Stéphanie (the mother), Alice (15), and Nel (9). Benoit and Stéph moved to the Alps ~9 years ago, and they were fortunate enough to come into possession of the farm ~6 years ago. Before, they did a variety of things. Benoit studied fine art and Stéph was a guidance counselor at a junior high school. They also briefly lived in Guadeloupe and attempted to set up a commune of sorts. Let it suffice to say that they are a splendid, quirky, friendly family.
• Sylvie, Justine, and Sophie are all interns/employees of the farm. Sylvie and Justine often accompany the WWOOFers into the fields, and Sophie is responsible for the bakery, along with Stéph.
• Jo and Dani (the aforementioned inhabitants of the yurt).
• Three dogs: Bigs, Pioche, and Bodet; five(ish) cats/kittens: Fleur, Feu, and the baby-daddy of the two kittens (who are as of yet unnamed). There were originally four kittens, but two died of a brain disease. The two remaining are steadily recovering. When I arrived, the kittens still took milk only out of a bottle, but they have made continual progress over the week. Their eyes are no longer stuck shut with mucus and grime, one of the kittens is learning to chew, and they can both lap milk out of a spoon or bowl quite well now. Progress!
And of course, the WWOOFers:
• Adeline is a twenty-something speech therapist from Grenoble. She is busiest with her work during the academic year, so she is spending her summer WWOOFing and volunteering at a nearby commune (Emilie and I actually stumbled upon said commune while walking towards St. Sebastian today . . . quelle coincidence!) Her chocolate mousse and her homemade chantilly (whipped cream) are phenomenal.
• Brian (25) is taking a trip around Europe after two and a half years in Senegal, where he was volunteering with the Peace Corps. He studied architecture at the University of Virginia, and when he returns to the United States, he will go on to get his master’s in public politics at NYU.
• Emilie (21) was raised in Chicago but has been studying at the American University in Paris for the last three years. She finished her undergrad degree in international law in three years, and she will be moving to Holland to pursue her graduate degree in European Union law with a specialization in agricultural law. She is WWOOFing for two months this summer to get a hands-on experience on a farm. She is an avid hiker, prides herself on being quite a wine connoisseur, and speaks with an impeccable Parisian accent.
Bref, I have been thus far pleasantly surprised by my life her on la Ferme de la Salamandre. I can hardly complain about the flies (or the lizards in the shower, for that matter). Life is slower here, quieter. It gives me time to think. Exist. Sit down in the grass. Breathe.
More to come. I have a week left on the farm and a month’s worth of places I’d love to visit before I leave.
(P.S. You’ll excuse me for my extended silence, all. As you can imagine, there is no wireless connection here. The closest internet is about an hour and fifteen minute walk. It’s not for lack of love that I’ve been so absent from the interwebs, it’s for lack of wifi and motivation to carry
Friday, June 24, 2011
Adventureland
Athens, OH; West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York; Melville, NY; JFK airport; Reyjkavik, Iceland; Paris, France
Tuesday 14 June—Friday 17 June
We (Jess, Mary Brett, and I) followed a rainbow into New Jersey and a rainstorm into New York City, and we arrived on Long Island a bit after 10:00pm, exhausted. In short, the accommodations that we had arranged at Adam’s place were not as we had expected. We encountered a grumpy security guard who frowned at our sleeping bags and duffels and forbid us entrance into the building. Adam apparently lives in a high-security dorm where he is treated as a temporary “conference guest” and not a resident. We had no option but to sleep elsewhere. At 11:00 at night, that “elsewhere” ended up being the trunk/backseat of Adam’s car, where we quietly drank Yuengling, ducked every time we saw headlights pass, and distractedly watched late night construction and the immobile rides at Adventureland across the street. In the morning, we did saluted the sun that seemed so late in coming after a restless night and did yoga in the parking lot to loosen our stiff muscles and creaky joints. To continue our brief homeless adventure, we took adventure of the Target bathroom down the street to brush our teeth and hair and smooth out our baggy eyes with foundation and creative makeup techniques. I am only slightly ashamed to say that for the first time in my life, I ordered a vente latte at the Starbucks in Target. Yes, I was in desperate need of three shots of espresso, and yes, I was willing to spend my last American dollar bills for overpriced steamed milk, if only to add a bit of class to my night of homelessness.
We got to the JFK airport without any more problems, navigated the airport’s eight terminals to find Icelandair’s departure gate, and said goodbye. MB is off to Israel for the summer, and Jess will be working at a YMCA summer camp a couple hours outside of the city. And without further ado, I checked my bags, carefully removed all potentially dangerous objects that could peg me as a socialist or a terrorist from my person, and proceeded through security without a problem. While waiting for the plane, I met and chatted with a certain Alex(andra) Brown, who is working for a publishing house in L.A. We commiserated on the woes of the publishing business and the somewhat sadistic pleasure of rejection letters until she boarded her plane back to California.
My seatmates on the plane were just as pleasant as the aforementioned Alex. I found myself next to a pair of siblings, John G. and his sister (whose name has slipped my mind). They were born in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium, but moved to the states some seven years ago or so. They were returning to Belgium to visit their sister and meet her newborn son. John had just finished his undergraduate degree in Aeronautical Engineering at the University of Maryland, and he is pursuing a master’s degree in the same subject, again at the U of M. He would eventually like to enter the astronaut corps and/or work for NASA, and he is doing everything possible to improve his chances of being accepted into the corps, including working towards a private pilot’s license. He explained to me why the wings of airplanes have curved tips, how cold fronts always pass under warm fronts, and what happens when a scuba diver ascends to the surface too quickly. His knowledge base reminded me of the conversations between my brother and my dad, but with vocabulary that I could actually grasp and understand. Once we arrived in Reyjkavik (the capital of Iceland) I was frankly sad to see them go. It of course helped that John was a beautiful specimen of “tall, dark, and handsome,” and his sister was charming and kind.
From what I saw of Iceland, it is cold, sparsely populated, mountainous, and somewhat mysterious. My sense of time was entirely confused once we finally landed—not only was I exhausted from a night of sleeping in a trunk and increasingly jetlagged, the sun only set for an hour in Iceland. We touched down at 11:30pm local time in a rosy sunset. The sun disappeared behind the horizon for about an hour, but by the time my plane to France took off, the sun was already creeping back up in a grey dawn.
My arrival in Paris was inconsequential, and I got on the RER to Paris centre without a problem, but once I arrived at la Gare du Nord to meet Tom, I could not find him for the life of me. (Tom, for those who do not know, is a friend of mine from Ohio University. He graduated from the Honors Tutorial College when I was a freshman, and he now lives in L.A. and works for Digital Domain as a video effects designer). Bref, it was my fault. I had positioned myself on the right side of the train station, but at the wrong exit. Finally, I found a tabac to buy credit for my French cell phone, spent an obtuse amount of money to call Tom’s iPhone, and finally corrected my error. Hungry and exhausted, we finally arrived at the Hôtel Gérando, where I collapsed into the deepest 45-minute nap I have perhaps ever taken.
Tom finally roused me so we could find caffeine and food. The hotel was conveniently positioned in Montmartre, so before looking for something to eat, we first ascended the hill to Sacre Coeur (the Cathedral so prominently featured in Amélie, for those of you who know the film) and ducked inside to observe the ostentatiously pious interior. Descending Montmartre, we successfully avoided the Sénégalais selling tie on bracelets and miniatures of la Tour Eiffel (you’d think they’d make a miniature Sacre Coeur too, but no) and found caffeine on a quiet street. From there we took the métro to la Tour Eiffel. As we waited for our sandwiches at a nearby café-snack, we were entertained by a passing manifestation (strike). It is said that the American national pastime is baseball; in France, it is striking. This time, it was cheminots (railway workers) who were dissatisfied with something or another. They passed with much chanting, megaphone shouting, blank cannon firing, and sulfur flare lighting. We briefly joined the stream of parading strikers to get to the other side of the street, where la Tour Eiffel stood regally, buffeted by the din of the striking crowd and a sudden strong wind.
Although Tom and I had both ascended la Tour Eiffel before, we decided to climb to the second level to search for a note that a young friend of his had left for him under a table a while back. We both doubted that the note would still be there, but it gave us an excuse to participate in overt tourism and take cheesy pictures with the Parisian cityscape as our background. After descending, we treated ourselves to drinks—des Monacos (blonde beer, limonade, and grenadine syrup), a drink that we had both been introduced to by our mutual French friend Julien. Before dinner, we bought a bottle of cheap champagne and entertained ourselves by la Seine. I had missed Tom, really. By the time the “magic hour” of the evening had cast Paris in gold, we were pleasantly punchy. We wandered towards l’île de France to see Notre Dame bathed in the amber light of the magic hour, and then headed towards le quartier latin for dinner. We had the good luck to stumble upon a hole-in-the-wall Tunisian restaurant that turned out to be quite a hidden treasure. Although we had planned to return to la Tour Eiffel after dinner to watch the hourly light show, I was overcome by exhaustion that rendered me somewhat incoherent, so we returned to the hotel and for the first time in ~36 hours, I slept for a full night in a bed with sheets. What a luxury!
In the morning, I had the chance to shower in a real shower (again, quite a treat after days of travel grime), and we packed up our belongings. After caffeine, we took our daily bread up to Sacre Coeur and enjoyed our pain au chocolat with a magnificent view of Paris stretched out below. When I first met Tom nearly three years ago, we jokingly promised that one day we would have a baguette sword fight in Paris. We finally fulfilled our own promise. We borrowed a confused American tourist to take a picture of the indelible act, of course.
I said goodbye to Tom for who knows how long at la Gare de Lyon, from the window of a train headed towards Grenoble. A brief séjour à Paris after an incredibly long journey does the body good.
Tuesday 14 June—Friday 17 June
We (Jess, Mary Brett, and I) followed a rainbow into New Jersey and a rainstorm into New York City, and we arrived on Long Island a bit after 10:00pm, exhausted. In short, the accommodations that we had arranged at Adam’s place were not as we had expected. We encountered a grumpy security guard who frowned at our sleeping bags and duffels and forbid us entrance into the building. Adam apparently lives in a high-security dorm where he is treated as a temporary “conference guest” and not a resident. We had no option but to sleep elsewhere. At 11:00 at night, that “elsewhere” ended up being the trunk/backseat of Adam’s car, where we quietly drank Yuengling, ducked every time we saw headlights pass, and distractedly watched late night construction and the immobile rides at Adventureland across the street. In the morning, we did saluted the sun that seemed so late in coming after a restless night and did yoga in the parking lot to loosen our stiff muscles and creaky joints. To continue our brief homeless adventure, we took adventure of the Target bathroom down the street to brush our teeth and hair and smooth out our baggy eyes with foundation and creative makeup techniques. I am only slightly ashamed to say that for the first time in my life, I ordered a vente latte at the Starbucks in Target. Yes, I was in desperate need of three shots of espresso, and yes, I was willing to spend my last American dollar bills for overpriced steamed milk, if only to add a bit of class to my night of homelessness.
We got to the JFK airport without any more problems, navigated the airport’s eight terminals to find Icelandair’s departure gate, and said goodbye. MB is off to Israel for the summer, and Jess will be working at a YMCA summer camp a couple hours outside of the city. And without further ado, I checked my bags, carefully removed all potentially dangerous objects that could peg me as a socialist or a terrorist from my person, and proceeded through security without a problem. While waiting for the plane, I met and chatted with a certain Alex(andra) Brown, who is working for a publishing house in L.A. We commiserated on the woes of the publishing business and the somewhat sadistic pleasure of rejection letters until she boarded her plane back to California.
My seatmates on the plane were just as pleasant as the aforementioned Alex. I found myself next to a pair of siblings, John G. and his sister (whose name has slipped my mind). They were born in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium, but moved to the states some seven years ago or so. They were returning to Belgium to visit their sister and meet her newborn son. John had just finished his undergraduate degree in Aeronautical Engineering at the University of Maryland, and he is pursuing a master’s degree in the same subject, again at the U of M. He would eventually like to enter the astronaut corps and/or work for NASA, and he is doing everything possible to improve his chances of being accepted into the corps, including working towards a private pilot’s license. He explained to me why the wings of airplanes have curved tips, how cold fronts always pass under warm fronts, and what happens when a scuba diver ascends to the surface too quickly. His knowledge base reminded me of the conversations between my brother and my dad, but with vocabulary that I could actually grasp and understand. Once we arrived in Reyjkavik (the capital of Iceland) I was frankly sad to see them go. It of course helped that John was a beautiful specimen of “tall, dark, and handsome,” and his sister was charming and kind.
From what I saw of Iceland, it is cold, sparsely populated, mountainous, and somewhat mysterious. My sense of time was entirely confused once we finally landed—not only was I exhausted from a night of sleeping in a trunk and increasingly jetlagged, the sun only set for an hour in Iceland. We touched down at 11:30pm local time in a rosy sunset. The sun disappeared behind the horizon for about an hour, but by the time my plane to France took off, the sun was already creeping back up in a grey dawn.
My arrival in Paris was inconsequential, and I got on the RER to Paris centre without a problem, but once I arrived at la Gare du Nord to meet Tom, I could not find him for the life of me. (Tom, for those who do not know, is a friend of mine from Ohio University. He graduated from the Honors Tutorial College when I was a freshman, and he now lives in L.A. and works for Digital Domain as a video effects designer). Bref, it was my fault. I had positioned myself on the right side of the train station, but at the wrong exit. Finally, I found a tabac to buy credit for my French cell phone, spent an obtuse amount of money to call Tom’s iPhone, and finally corrected my error. Hungry and exhausted, we finally arrived at the Hôtel Gérando, where I collapsed into the deepest 45-minute nap I have perhaps ever taken.
Tom finally roused me so we could find caffeine and food. The hotel was conveniently positioned in Montmartre, so before looking for something to eat, we first ascended the hill to Sacre Coeur (the Cathedral so prominently featured in Amélie, for those of you who know the film) and ducked inside to observe the ostentatiously pious interior. Descending Montmartre, we successfully avoided the Sénégalais selling tie on bracelets and miniatures of la Tour Eiffel (you’d think they’d make a miniature Sacre Coeur too, but no) and found caffeine on a quiet street. From there we took the métro to la Tour Eiffel. As we waited for our sandwiches at a nearby café-snack, we were entertained by a passing manifestation (strike). It is said that the American national pastime is baseball; in France, it is striking. This time, it was cheminots (railway workers) who were dissatisfied with something or another. They passed with much chanting, megaphone shouting, blank cannon firing, and sulfur flare lighting. We briefly joined the stream of parading strikers to get to the other side of the street, where la Tour Eiffel stood regally, buffeted by the din of the striking crowd and a sudden strong wind.
Although Tom and I had both ascended la Tour Eiffel before, we decided to climb to the second level to search for a note that a young friend of his had left for him under a table a while back. We both doubted that the note would still be there, but it gave us an excuse to participate in overt tourism and take cheesy pictures with the Parisian cityscape as our background. After descending, we treated ourselves to drinks—des Monacos (blonde beer, limonade, and grenadine syrup), a drink that we had both been introduced to by our mutual French friend Julien. Before dinner, we bought a bottle of cheap champagne and entertained ourselves by la Seine. I had missed Tom, really. By the time the “magic hour” of the evening had cast Paris in gold, we were pleasantly punchy. We wandered towards l’île de France to see Notre Dame bathed in the amber light of the magic hour, and then headed towards le quartier latin for dinner. We had the good luck to stumble upon a hole-in-the-wall Tunisian restaurant that turned out to be quite a hidden treasure. Although we had planned to return to la Tour Eiffel after dinner to watch the hourly light show, I was overcome by exhaustion that rendered me somewhat incoherent, so we returned to the hotel and for the first time in ~36 hours, I slept for a full night in a bed with sheets. What a luxury!
In the morning, I had the chance to shower in a real shower (again, quite a treat after days of travel grime), and we packed up our belongings. After caffeine, we took our daily bread up to Sacre Coeur and enjoyed our pain au chocolat with a magnificent view of Paris stretched out below. When I first met Tom nearly three years ago, we jokingly promised that one day we would have a baguette sword fight in Paris. We finally fulfilled our own promise. We borrowed a confused American tourist to take a picture of the indelible act, of course.
I said goodbye to Tom for who knows how long at la Gare de Lyon, from the window of a train headed towards Grenoble. A brief séjour à Paris after an incredibly long journey does the body good.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Winter Holds Its Breath
Rainer Maria Rilke was right—the stillest of days these truly are—here in this bleak forest of stoic giants shuddering under the weight of snow. Squat, matronly pines and the ghastly shadows of birches keep watch in the night. I feel like an intrusion in this quivering, inky blackness. My words are deadened with the silence of snow. But it is in this mindful night that the forest comes alive. Although proud and deceitfully lifeless, what creatures slumber unseen behind that sloping bank, beneath the drooping fronds of the bushes half-buried in funeral robes of velvety white? What lush, forgotten summers do the bowed heads of those proud conifers now mourn?
Squeaking through the crystalline darkness on yet another Mihuta Grimm family vacation, I gather the fragments of those languid road-trip days of my eternal childhood, when my parents toted my brother and me around the country. Ben and I played endless games of magnetic chess (I always lost) and Uno and gin rummy and license plate bingo in the backseat while mom read AAA travel guides aloud from up front and dad pointed out ski trails traversing the distant mountains. Leafy shadows coquettishly patterned our bruised-as-a-rotten-banana legs and cut-off corduroys as a reel of landscapes strung by our aquamarine minivan, a shuttle of middle-class civilization, thrust into the wilderness.
My insatiable wanderlust is not my fault—I blame my parents. My family perpetually wandered West or migrated North for the summer months: the Canada Boundary Waters, Prince Edward Island, Maine, New Brunswick, the Adirondack Mountains and Tupper Lake, the race tracks at Saratoga, the gateway at St. Louis, Glacier, Yellowstone, Nevada (but never Vegas nor Reno), Colorado Springs, San Francisco and up the coast to Seattle, the North Dakota Badlands, Sun Valley Idaho, Nebraska’s endless monotony, Jackson Hole and the Tetons, and both sloping sides of the continent. Our minivan teeter-tottered over both sides of the Continental Divide and I’ve swum in both oceans. But I (ever-inadequate, little-ol’ me) remember grumbling over peanut butter & jelly or pork & beans on paper plates in endless smoky campgrounds. The yellow K.O.A. triangle meant real flush toilets and a gift shop—bison hide (fake, of course) tom-tom drums in Wyoming, polished volcanic stones in Utah, cedar wood jewelry boxes in Idaho, ballpoint pens with floating moose and canoes suspended in a plastic vial that never really wrote. Charcoaled campground signs swinging from a mailbox painted with Monarchs and blue bonnets promised mushrooms in the showers and tree frogs in the sinks (Outer Banks, North Carolina.) At the time I hardly hallowed the land my suntanned feet traversed, and for this, I resent my selfish youth.
We would habitually rise from our downy slumber with the shadows still slowly creeping up the sides of mountains that loomed above a canopy of aspens and white pines. Now I long for those mornings in the mountains, when the camp stove percolator murmured with the unmistakable sound of boiling tea water at summer’s still nippy dawn. Or daybreak on the Great Plains, the pale flesh of the morning sky an aching shade of yellow chiffon. Or the shrouded sun rising over the Pacific at low tide, two placid eternities colliding at the slate-grey horizon. The mornings I’ve seen could rival any Thomas Cole. All those vagabond years, all those ambling summers . . .
And here in winter’s black stillness—crisp, cold, menacing—I think of them, those suntanned and freckled summers. On stagnant winter nights when nothing seems to move but an incidental avalanche set off by a startled cardinal, I am clutched in a troubling internal freeze. My heart seems to beat slower, weary. These glassy midnights make me long for spring—those mountain springs, strangely delayed by altitude, when crystal streams that still bear a bitter chill reminiscent of winter come gurgling from a rocky throat in the middle of July. Mountain springs are still frosty in the mornings although buttercups already toss their blonde heads in the minty ditches.
Oh, how beautiful it is in the Adirondacks in the winter. But the glassy precipices of waterfalls, the skeletal branches clothed in white, the banks sharply drifted like a surprised puff in the ditches, and the steep-roofed cabins pulling sloping snow over their eaves like a stocking hat—all have an air of waiting. They hold their breath in suspension like two armies standing face-to-face in anticipation of the inevitable first shot. What icy dagger will fall first? Which stream will break through months of suffocation with a hopeful, watery gurgle? How many bruised snowdrops will wither before one brave, delicate head peaks through the frost?
These winter nights are so long—the twilight startles the southwestern sky at a quarter to four. But from this heated cabin, where my father reads an old newspaper in his socks and my brother and mother have fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber, I look out of the frosted window and see that although the forest hibernates with me, I can be assured that it won’t last forever. Until then I’ll bow my head with the sad, sad sycamores and let the patterns of falling snow say my bedtime prayers for me (the moon listens to the flakes more than it ever paid heed to me).
Squeaking through the crystalline darkness on yet another Mihuta Grimm family vacation, I gather the fragments of those languid road-trip days of my eternal childhood, when my parents toted my brother and me around the country. Ben and I played endless games of magnetic chess (I always lost) and Uno and gin rummy and license plate bingo in the backseat while mom read AAA travel guides aloud from up front and dad pointed out ski trails traversing the distant mountains. Leafy shadows coquettishly patterned our bruised-as-a-rotten-banana legs and cut-off corduroys as a reel of landscapes strung by our aquamarine minivan, a shuttle of middle-class civilization, thrust into the wilderness.
My insatiable wanderlust is not my fault—I blame my parents. My family perpetually wandered West or migrated North for the summer months: the Canada Boundary Waters, Prince Edward Island, Maine, New Brunswick, the Adirondack Mountains and Tupper Lake, the race tracks at Saratoga, the gateway at St. Louis, Glacier, Yellowstone, Nevada (but never Vegas nor Reno), Colorado Springs, San Francisco and up the coast to Seattle, the North Dakota Badlands, Sun Valley Idaho, Nebraska’s endless monotony, Jackson Hole and the Tetons, and both sloping sides of the continent. Our minivan teeter-tottered over both sides of the Continental Divide and I’ve swum in both oceans. But I (ever-inadequate, little-ol’ me) remember grumbling over peanut butter & jelly or pork & beans on paper plates in endless smoky campgrounds. The yellow K.O.A. triangle meant real flush toilets and a gift shop—bison hide (fake, of course) tom-tom drums in Wyoming, polished volcanic stones in Utah, cedar wood jewelry boxes in Idaho, ballpoint pens with floating moose and canoes suspended in a plastic vial that never really wrote. Charcoaled campground signs swinging from a mailbox painted with Monarchs and blue bonnets promised mushrooms in the showers and tree frogs in the sinks (Outer Banks, North Carolina.) At the time I hardly hallowed the land my suntanned feet traversed, and for this, I resent my selfish youth.
We would habitually rise from our downy slumber with the shadows still slowly creeping up the sides of mountains that loomed above a canopy of aspens and white pines. Now I long for those mornings in the mountains, when the camp stove percolator murmured with the unmistakable sound of boiling tea water at summer’s still nippy dawn. Or daybreak on the Great Plains, the pale flesh of the morning sky an aching shade of yellow chiffon. Or the shrouded sun rising over the Pacific at low tide, two placid eternities colliding at the slate-grey horizon. The mornings I’ve seen could rival any Thomas Cole. All those vagabond years, all those ambling summers . . .
And here in winter’s black stillness—crisp, cold, menacing—I think of them, those suntanned and freckled summers. On stagnant winter nights when nothing seems to move but an incidental avalanche set off by a startled cardinal, I am clutched in a troubling internal freeze. My heart seems to beat slower, weary. These glassy midnights make me long for spring—those mountain springs, strangely delayed by altitude, when crystal streams that still bear a bitter chill reminiscent of winter come gurgling from a rocky throat in the middle of July. Mountain springs are still frosty in the mornings although buttercups already toss their blonde heads in the minty ditches.
Oh, how beautiful it is in the Adirondacks in the winter. But the glassy precipices of waterfalls, the skeletal branches clothed in white, the banks sharply drifted like a surprised puff in the ditches, and the steep-roofed cabins pulling sloping snow over their eaves like a stocking hat—all have an air of waiting. They hold their breath in suspension like two armies standing face-to-face in anticipation of the inevitable first shot. What icy dagger will fall first? Which stream will break through months of suffocation with a hopeful, watery gurgle? How many bruised snowdrops will wither before one brave, delicate head peaks through the frost?
These winter nights are so long—the twilight startles the southwestern sky at a quarter to four. But from this heated cabin, where my father reads an old newspaper in his socks and my brother and mother have fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber, I look out of the frosted window and see that although the forest hibernates with me, I can be assured that it won’t last forever. Until then I’ll bow my head with the sad, sad sycamores and let the patterns of falling snow say my bedtime prayers for me (the moon listens to the flakes more than it ever paid heed to me).
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Oh, hi, Ohio
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.
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.
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.
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