There is no way to happiness: happiness is the way.
-Buddha
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Monday 7 December 2009
Anarchia in Piemonte
A family of lights
gathered over there
where you took me
south of the city
We came to Vercelli, your hometown--
only fields of rice and knobby trees
Then walked la galleria, Porta Nuova to Porta Susa
as dry as kings in the rain.
The new way is the old way again, you said, just with a different face--
neofascismo
We left our safety, and out of 1000, 100 came into the street
It rained on those hundred, of which we were two.
But later, Inside, the bar was warm, a large oven,
the ceiling a well laid arch above us, and at
crossroads of conversation, words gave us spring,
rising over our
heads like steam, wrapping us.
Rice silos, rice beer
To return to la tera--
The new way, you said, is the old way all over again.
When we arrived to the place we were going--
and whether it was the top of the mountain
or the confluence of the two rivers--
You gathered our thoughts together and held open the palm of your
hand.
You said, They are out there, making a pilgrimage to
Predappio, learning nothing, getting ready for the war.
You held open the palm of your hand.
gathered over there
where you took me
south of the city
We came to Vercelli, your hometown--
only fields of rice and knobby trees
Then walked la galleria, Porta Nuova to Porta Susa
as dry as kings in the rain.
The new way is the old way again, you said, just with a different face--
neofascismo
We left our safety, and out of 1000, 100 came into the street
It rained on those hundred, of which we were two.
But later, Inside, the bar was warm, a large oven,
the ceiling a well laid arch above us, and at
crossroads of conversation, words gave us spring,
rising over our
heads like steam, wrapping us.
Rice silos, rice beer
To return to la tera--
The new way, you said, is the old way all over again.
When we arrived to the place we were going--
and whether it was the top of the mountain
or the confluence of the two rivers--
You gathered our thoughts together and held open the palm of your
hand.
You said, They are out there, making a pilgrimage to
Predappio, learning nothing, getting ready for the war.
You held open the palm of your hand.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Street language and language
In New York, people avoid eye contact and flesh contact at all costs, leaping over open sewers and small dogs, in stillettos, in the rain. French citizens are also practiced in the art of not-encounters, but they do it by walking into one another. No one yields the sidewalk, and everyone gets by. The Italians are in the same camp as the French, but they take it to another level. In fact, they are so adept at collision that they stop just short of kissing you in the street and then inviting you for a coffee.
Italy is less efficient than France (trains, planes, politicians), and at least at first glance, less hostile and rigid. For example, if you attempt to speak French to a French person, they respond in English rather than listen to you butcher their language, even though they detest speaking English. (Americans are the same as the French, by the way, but because most of us can't speak other languages, not to mention our own, we're forced to accept other versions of English). Italians, however, are very supportive of foreigners. They look amused and are full of smiles, and answer in Italian, annuciating clearly. Also hand gestures are a wonderful aid in learning Italian. One doesn't need to know all the words to get the meaning. Italy is a great place to kick an introvert out of her shell. You have to speak boldly, you can't be shy when speaking Italian, or you sound and look more ridiculous than you already are.
I said Italy is less efficient than France, but there is one fabulous exception: eateries. In France you have to keep pestering your waiter, you have to worry about him (not coming back, being rude, bringing the wrong dish). But if there is one word for Italian eateries besides delicious, it's efficient.
France has a few things on Italy, however. You cannot get hot chocolate (or chocolata calda or chocolat chaud) in morning or evening in Italy. It's only an afternoon drink, and they don't make it like they do in France. I had one today and I drank my death (heated chocolate syrup). France also has...hmm, no, on second thought good chocolat chaud is all they've got.
Italy is less efficient than France (trains, planes, politicians), and at least at first glance, less hostile and rigid. For example, if you attempt to speak French to a French person, they respond in English rather than listen to you butcher their language, even though they detest speaking English. (Americans are the same as the French, by the way, but because most of us can't speak other languages, not to mention our own, we're forced to accept other versions of English). Italians, however, are very supportive of foreigners. They look amused and are full of smiles, and answer in Italian, annuciating clearly. Also hand gestures are a wonderful aid in learning Italian. One doesn't need to know all the words to get the meaning. Italy is a great place to kick an introvert out of her shell. You have to speak boldly, you can't be shy when speaking Italian, or you sound and look more ridiculous than you already are.
I said Italy is less efficient than France, but there is one fabulous exception: eateries. In France you have to keep pestering your waiter, you have to worry about him (not coming back, being rude, bringing the wrong dish). But if there is one word for Italian eateries besides delicious, it's efficient.
France has a few things on Italy, however. You cannot get hot chocolate (or chocolata calda or chocolat chaud) in morning or evening in Italy. It's only an afternoon drink, and they don't make it like they do in France. I had one today and I drank my death (heated chocolate syrup). France also has...hmm, no, on second thought good chocolat chaud is all they've got.
Monday 30 November 2009
Me and Marco Bellini
Gelato is my new religion. Today I ate it for lunch, and I have never felt better. The other thing that I try to eat everyday is marrons\castagnas (chesnuts) because they are in season, and everywhere. There is even a gelato flavor: marron glaces. Best ever. A French invention. Bravo.
From Lyon, I took a train to Torino through the Alps. The Alps can be seen from the city center--and technically, for this time of year, I am underdressed (unprepared), but like everywhere else, it is unseasonably warm.
Italy's reputation is to be hyper fashion conscious, but even here, the American look is in. In fact, those who are into it look more American than the Americans do. Converse can cost upwards of 60 euros. They take our look of hyper casual and perfect it: a careful cross of thug and punk. I think maybe we are the curiosity of the world.
Marco Bellini is my host here and we are two peas in a pod: he too can walk for hours without collapsing. He has given me crash courses in Italian politics and the mafia; Berlusconi's attempt to privatize water; the role of trees and rice fields in the Piemontian economy; zen\rock climbing theory; and, how to tell time in Italian (among other things). I'm not quite sure how there is enough time to cover all of these topics, but we have. He took me to his hometown, Vercelli, as well, where we stayed with his friends and went climbing. I learned a few Italian words this weekend because his friends spoke only a little English.
Torino: I walked along the left bank of the Po River, walked along the right bank of the Po, helped an Italian woman pushstart her car, watched 4 swans (double date) sleeping on the river. More: walked up a hill to the museum of mountaineering, drank coffee in Cafe Elena, where Nietzche used to hang out, went to a very fine modern art museum (the GAM) where it is written, "All art has been contemporary."
Of Italy and Itailans, I have lovely first impressions.
From Lyon, I took a train to Torino through the Alps. The Alps can be seen from the city center--and technically, for this time of year, I am underdressed (unprepared), but like everywhere else, it is unseasonably warm.
Italy's reputation is to be hyper fashion conscious, but even here, the American look is in. In fact, those who are into it look more American than the Americans do. Converse can cost upwards of 60 euros. They take our look of hyper casual and perfect it: a careful cross of thug and punk. I think maybe we are the curiosity of the world.
Marco Bellini is my host here and we are two peas in a pod: he too can walk for hours without collapsing. He has given me crash courses in Italian politics and the mafia; Berlusconi's attempt to privatize water; the role of trees and rice fields in the Piemontian economy; zen\rock climbing theory; and, how to tell time in Italian (among other things). I'm not quite sure how there is enough time to cover all of these topics, but we have. He took me to his hometown, Vercelli, as well, where we stayed with his friends and went climbing. I learned a few Italian words this weekend because his friends spoke only a little English.
Torino: I walked along the left bank of the Po River, walked along the right bank of the Po, helped an Italian woman pushstart her car, watched 4 swans (double date) sleeping on the river. More: walked up a hill to the museum of mountaineering, drank coffee in Cafe Elena, where Nietzche used to hang out, went to a very fine modern art museum (the GAM) where it is written, "All art has been contemporary."
Of Italy and Itailans, I have lovely first impressions.
Thursday 26 November 2009
Lyon the Lion
I, II. Overlooking Lyon, At the basilica.
III, IV. French Thanksgiving 1 and 2.
I might like Lyon even better than Paris, which is saying a lot a lot a lot. The public bike system is through the roof amazing. For €1.50 I get an unlimited bike pass for the week. There are terminals all over the city. You check out a bike, you go, you put the bike a way. All day long, all night long. Public biking systems have flopped in a lot of US cities because people are destructive assholes. Not here.
Lyon was once a Roman city. It has two rivers, the Rhone and the Soane, both beautiful. It has an ancient basilica on a hill (with a view of the city I cannot begin to describe just now), and the ruins of a Roman ampitheatre, and an astrological clock that is by far the most impressive man-made thing I've ever seen in person (if I ever see a spaceship I will get back to you). The clock runs until the year 2019. (I guess we all blow up after that). It gives you the time, the date, Lyon's relation to the stars in any season, and important holidays.
After escaping the wreckage of my attempts at French farm life, Lyon is sunny, a safety net of urbanity. I'm staying with my dear old friend, Vittoria. We rode the bus together in Kindergarten, she was one of my first friends in life, and now she is living here, teaching English. Highlights: chesnut ice cream and blueberry sorbet, dancing to MJ at a boat bar. We got a whole crowd of shy French kids to play a reverse version of the human knot that we made up on the spot. It was one of those incredible moments: the bar was quiet except for me and Vittoria acting out (not drunk, just happy). Everyone was glancing at us shyly from their tables, and by the end of the night the whole bar was on their feet. Francois, Vittoria's cousin, who was visiting from the south, looked at my delighted, astonished face, and said, "You're thinking something like this would never happen in the US. But this is not France, it's the situation, it's the moment and the people and the circumstance." Anything can happen, anywhere. And anybody can be family, and any place can be home.
V. Dressed as "Vitamin AB" at a "combat the swine flu!" costume party.
VI. Ready for some honest to goodness French Champagne!
Sunday 22 November 2009
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Birds What Don't Fly, and other creatures
Last reflections from the farm:
Chickens are disgusting creatures. It was my duty on the farm to tend the chickens, and I now don't eat them anymore. For your sake, I won't go into details, but on days when I had to muck out the coop, I didn't put a thing into my stomach before 2 pm. Those of you who know me well know what a sacrifice it is for me to skip breakfast. Basically, the stench is unbelievable and they shit everywhere, including in their own water container. If someday I am an old lady living in the country (likely), I will not have any, but will get my eggs from the guy down the road.
There were TINY labrador puppies. Blind. The most pathetic creatures I've ever seen. The momma lab looked bored out of her mind.
Horses are big and scary, but incredibly beautiful. I won't have any of these either.
Thursday 12 November 2009
(Un?)teachable Moments Or How I Nearly Lost My Soul (and sanity) in Ruffec, France.
I haven't written in a little while because I've been movin' and shakin'. But I will attempt to catch you up now, in a short series of poorly organized, chronological posts. First, how things ended up as I left the Charente...
A few evenings before I left Ruffec, I was cooking dinner and the TV was on in the background. Jamie's American Road Trip was on: a British chef travels through the US to investigate how the recession effects how regular Americans eat and interact with one another. He was in Georgia (on my mind) for only a few brief scenes, but it was a fascinating study in how race and class interact. First, he had high tea with upper middle class white women in Savannah. He asked them straightaway if, and how, the recession was affecting them. "Yes, of course," they replied, "but we don't talk about it." "And is this predominantly a McCain or Obama crowd?" he asked. "This is predominantly a McCain town," one woman replied, "but we don't talk about that." They ate fancy cakes and had cocktails. Then he visited a poor white family outside Savannah. He asked about the presidential election here as well, and here plenty was said, including the n word. In the background was a Confederate flag. The camera zoomed in on his shocked face, but he said nothing. They ate barbeque. And so there it was, that flag, which I normally dont think about, twice in the course of a week. And that was it for me. I started to think differently about what I was trying to do.
There are confederate flags all over America, and different versions of the same sentiment all over the world. I can't get rid of them all, but if I got some people thinking, I'd like to think that's something. In the end, I don't know if I got through, but I had gone as far as I could go without completely losing it. I was on this farm outside this pretty shit town, (which could have been anywhere in the world), and I had no one to talk to about what was happening. What was happening? I was working for and with people who believed that England should stop Pakistanis from immigrating, and that it was o.k. to fly the flag of American Fascism, and that it was okay for straight people to kiss in public, but not gays or lesbians. I knew I could walk away from this scene at any time, and without a word, but what use would that be? I wanted to affect something. I would take these long walks in the pitch black at night: just me, and the stars, and some dogs howling in the distance. And I would ride around on a borrowed bike in the late afternoons, after I finished work, looking for that barn. I never found it. I knew I should be looking at my travel journal as my friend, but I resented it. Instead, I wanted someone to tell me I was right. But this was about ego. Eventually I realized that if you can't make sense of it, write it. And voila. A gear engaged: I felt just barely better, but enough. And I gave up. Because a teachable moment is only teachable if people are seeing, not just looking, and listening, not just hearing.
Then I escaped to Lyon, which is a beautiful city, and drenched in history.
So America, send reinforcements into the world. I feel torn about travel. My environmental impact makes me guilty everyday. I wonder, even as I do it, if the environmental impact of leisure travel is justified in its mind-broadening qualities. Travel can open one's mind like magic mushrooms only wish they could. And I do get down on America for all of the many problems we have. It's important to stay critical of one's country, always. But as unresolved as our race issues are, western Europe has a lot to learn from us. Maybe because we've been negotiating immigrant issues on a larger scale for a longer time? I don't know...
A few evenings before I left Ruffec, I was cooking dinner and the TV was on in the background. Jamie's American Road Trip was on: a British chef travels through the US to investigate how the recession effects how regular Americans eat and interact with one another. He was in Georgia (on my mind) for only a few brief scenes, but it was a fascinating study in how race and class interact. First, he had high tea with upper middle class white women in Savannah. He asked them straightaway if, and how, the recession was affecting them. "Yes, of course," they replied, "but we don't talk about it." "And is this predominantly a McCain or Obama crowd?" he asked. "This is predominantly a McCain town," one woman replied, "but we don't talk about that." They ate fancy cakes and had cocktails. Then he visited a poor white family outside Savannah. He asked about the presidential election here as well, and here plenty was said, including the n word. In the background was a Confederate flag. The camera zoomed in on his shocked face, but he said nothing. They ate barbeque. And so there it was, that flag, which I normally dont think about, twice in the course of a week. And that was it for me. I started to think differently about what I was trying to do.
There are confederate flags all over America, and different versions of the same sentiment all over the world. I can't get rid of them all, but if I got some people thinking, I'd like to think that's something. In the end, I don't know if I got through, but I had gone as far as I could go without completely losing it. I was on this farm outside this pretty shit town, (which could have been anywhere in the world), and I had no one to talk to about what was happening. What was happening? I was working for and with people who believed that England should stop Pakistanis from immigrating, and that it was o.k. to fly the flag of American Fascism, and that it was okay for straight people to kiss in public, but not gays or lesbians. I knew I could walk away from this scene at any time, and without a word, but what use would that be? I wanted to affect something. I would take these long walks in the pitch black at night: just me, and the stars, and some dogs howling in the distance. And I would ride around on a borrowed bike in the late afternoons, after I finished work, looking for that barn. I never found it. I knew I should be looking at my travel journal as my friend, but I resented it. Instead, I wanted someone to tell me I was right. But this was about ego. Eventually I realized that if you can't make sense of it, write it. And voila. A gear engaged: I felt just barely better, but enough. And I gave up. Because a teachable moment is only teachable if people are seeing, not just looking, and listening, not just hearing.
Then I escaped to Lyon, which is a beautiful city, and drenched in history.
So America, send reinforcements into the world. I feel torn about travel. My environmental impact makes me guilty everyday. I wonder, even as I do it, if the environmental impact of leisure travel is justified in its mind-broadening qualities. Travel can open one's mind like magic mushrooms only wish they could. And I do get down on America for all of the many problems we have. It's important to stay critical of one's country, always. But as unresolved as our race issues are, western Europe has a lot to learn from us. Maybe because we've been negotiating immigrant issues on a larger scale for a longer time? I don't know...
The Confederate Charente
To my previous post, I would like to amend the list. As it turns out, sadly, racism makes the cut.
The past week has been one of the most bizarre of my life. Last Friday night the 19 year old twins, Tobias and Luke, resident kings of the farm I'm currently working on, took myself and the two other helpers to a country bar. It's in a barn and is also home to the local Harley Davidson Club. It was crowded, I was drunk--real cognac is delicious, by the way--and perhaps for these reasons, I did not notice the unusual decorations. As a side note, I should explain what I mean by real cognac. The French (I think like Italians with cheese) are very particular about their alcohol. It is only cognac if it comes from Cognac, and 'champagne' that is not from Champagne is merely "mousseaux," or sparkling wine.
In any case, the following evening was Toby and Luke's last nite in town before they returned to university in Bristol, so we went out again. I had not yet been treated to taste the very fine Cognac yet, as I had the night before, so I was feeling just a bit more alert and intellectual. The numbers 1, 9, 4, and 7 were written in succession on the side of the limestone barn. Observation number one: whoever built the barn must have been proud to have done so post-war. There were seven or eight Harley's parked in the lot, and a few were vintage--we admired them briefly before entering.
It was five euros to get in and see a just-less-than-mediocre rock band and freeze to death. The barn-bar was not heated: I shivered with cold, and then with something else. Just behind the drummer's head was a confederate flag. To the left was an American flag with the Harley symbol in the middle. My bones were chilled. As sickening as the flag itself was, it's mantra was even more gag-worthy: "The South Will Rise Again." In the center of the flag was an illustration of a rough looking soldier struggling under the weight of his own confederate flag.
My mouth dropped. I looked around me: it was early and the bar wasn't yet full. Make the scene mute, take away the French lyrics, and we could be anywhere in the rural US. People wore sweaters, nondescript boots, and jeans. There were a few bikers in leather, and a few young women who had compromised their warmth for attention. The crowd made room for a wild dancer: the local Erik Starchild, burnout extraordinaire.
I grabbed Luke's shoulder. "What is that doing here? Who put it up? Who owns this place? An American?" Toby came over. They were baffled. People stared, and I realized I was speaking English. Loudly. The boys genuinely did not know what the flag meant. I explained what it was, and asked them to help me get it taken down. I found that I wasn't upset only by the racism (although chiefly this). I was also mortally offended that the French had appropriated American racism of a specific context, now out of date by several hundred years. Something inside me shouted, "Get your own racist flag!" I know this is ridiculous: racism of any order is out of order. But I was not better than the situation: I was ridiculous too.
Luke told me he would talk to someone later, only it "wasn't right" to do so now, as people were partying. I considered walking onto the stage, reaching over the drummer, and ripping the flag off the wall, but took a more cowardly route instead. I went outside and cried out of anger. I continued this way until Lisa, a British woman, (also working on the farm) came out to check on me. And, if half of England is like Lisa then I will consider it a very wonderful, forward thinking country. She lit me a cigarette, held my hand, and convinced me to get out of the rain (me being wet, she explained, was accomplishing nothing). I went inside and made Luke promise to follow through. Sometime after that, we went home.
The boys are very sweet, generally, and seeing that I was upset, tried to comfort me. Toby told me: "people have different opinions in the world...and you have to accept that." This, coming from a 19 year old boy who's never left home, was the icing on the patriot cake. I launched into a passionate history lesson (probably a tirade, from his perspective), which concluded with something like "Confederate flag equals Nazi flag." Now they have gone back to university to party and study, in that order, and for me the thing couldn't be less resolved. I saw the flag on Saturday nite, and haven't had a good nite's sleep since.
I dream of Holocausts: sometimes I am watching from a hiding place, sometimes I am the one hiding. I have been a Jew, and I have been Palestinean, but I have never been a Fascist. Last nite I dreampt I was the twin of the little girl in Pan's Labyrinth. We were two, and we were one. But she died in the morning; I did not. I fear complacency.
I spoke with Carla, my host here, and like her boys (or they like her), she doesn't quite get it. She said that "people just aren't like that here," and whoever put the flag up certainly didn't know what it means. It's possible they didn't. But she also told me that I can't do anything about it, which made me wish I had yanked it off the wall that night, consequences whatever. It also made me like her less. Now, I am in the process of trying to hunt down someone who has some influence at the HD club, is on my side, and who I can communicate with. The lack of solution is as much my fault as anyone's. If I could speak French, I could step forward. I would also like to cut and run.
So, I've decided to stay another week in Ruffec to see if I can put that thing where it belongs: in the asher. Friends, send your prayers this-a-way.
Friday 6 November 2009
The Country in Any Country
There are certain things that are constant in rural areas the world over, which I find both comforting and ominous.
First, country people always have a place set aside in the woods, reserved for the purpose of dumping unwanted appliances. It is often in a valley, and surrounded by brambles. There's a place like this behind the old Dutch cemetary in Kinderhook, NY, where I grew up. I happened on it a long time ago because I was certain I heard a kitten in the valley. I skidded to the bottom of the hill--no kitten to be found, but plenty of rusty barrels, empty two liters, old plastic dolls, refridgerators, you name it. I'm now at the second of two farms I've stayed it in rural France, and in my off-time/off-road wanderings I've found similar pits in both places.
Second, an excessive amount of drinking and smoking goes on for no other reason than there is nothing else to do. I feared that visiting my sophisticated friends in Paris would turn me into a wine-guzzler and smoker. However, Parisian habits can't hold a candle to Charentian ones. The first farm was in wine country, the second not far from Cognac, and the farm boys here, much like those I grew up with, smoke a lot to look clever. (They are not, of course, clever).
Third is hunting (sounds a bit like bombs going off). In my brown sweater, I typically worry that I look like a deer.
The fourth is fun: me getting stuck in brambles on walks. False. It's not fun. It happens like this. I see a 'path' leading into the woods, and think "Cool!" Then it turns out that there isn't a path, but I becomed determined to make it out the other end. Most recently, the thorns were so thick that I actually crawled on my hands and knees until I reached a small stream, which I crossed on a log, and ended up in a cow pasture. It was interesting. The cows looked up at me like, "Uhhh...WTF?" So I hopped a fence and went off, my jeans ruined.
Much more coming soon, kids. Stay posted.
M
First, country people always have a place set aside in the woods, reserved for the purpose of dumping unwanted appliances. It is often in a valley, and surrounded by brambles. There's a place like this behind the old Dutch cemetary in Kinderhook, NY, where I grew up. I happened on it a long time ago because I was certain I heard a kitten in the valley. I skidded to the bottom of the hill--no kitten to be found, but plenty of rusty barrels, empty two liters, old plastic dolls, refridgerators, you name it. I'm now at the second of two farms I've stayed it in rural France, and in my off-time/off-road wanderings I've found similar pits in both places.
Second, an excessive amount of drinking and smoking goes on for no other reason than there is nothing else to do. I feared that visiting my sophisticated friends in Paris would turn me into a wine-guzzler and smoker. However, Parisian habits can't hold a candle to Charentian ones. The first farm was in wine country, the second not far from Cognac, and the farm boys here, much like those I grew up with, smoke a lot to look clever. (They are not, of course, clever).
Third is hunting (sounds a bit like bombs going off). In my brown sweater, I typically worry that I look like a deer.
The fourth is fun: me getting stuck in brambles on walks. False. It's not fun. It happens like this. I see a 'path' leading into the woods, and think "Cool!" Then it turns out that there isn't a path, but I becomed determined to make it out the other end. Most recently, the thorns were so thick that I actually crawled on my hands and knees until I reached a small stream, which I crossed on a log, and ended up in a cow pasture. It was interesting. The cows looked up at me like, "Uhhh...WTF?" So I hopped a fence and went off, my jeans ruined.
Much more coming soon, kids. Stay posted.
M
Thursday 29 October 2009
Muffin Economy
I'm beginning to understand the language these children speak, which is useful for keeping them in line, but has nothing to do with anything else. I came here, after all, to learn French, not English-inspired gobbleygook. But, I am designing an economy with one of the boys: muffins for French words. I just have to be careful of his crazy accent.
I'm in an alternate universe, it's true--but at the end of the day, there are lovely walks, plenty of food, and the occasional shooting star.
I'm quite sleepy, and will be turning in now, but I wanted to share something that someone shared with me. I think it's beautiful:
http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/307/
A bientot
M
I'm in an alternate universe, it's true--but at the end of the day, there are lovely walks, plenty of food, and the occasional shooting star.
I'm quite sleepy, and will be turning in now, but I wanted to share something that someone shared with me. I think it's beautiful:
http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/307/
A bientot
M
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Digger Extraordinaire
Just spent my first day with my first hosts in Europe. They are an odd and highly dysfunctional British/Irish family with three brats (coincidentally all boys) and one incredibly sweet little girl. How she came to be this way, I have no idea. She even attempts to be helpful (unfortunately, she's incredibly clumsy for a small child). All of the children seem to have horrific speech impediments. At first I chalked this up to the fact that they speak British English at home, but are growing up in the French countryside. Surely, this is confusing. But their inability to speak is actually too astounding for this to be true. Although, the eldest boy (8) told me about his school (public, French, country), and I must admit, it doesn't sound in the least bit educational. They get graded "by colors", not marks (actually I'm not sure what this means). Maybe he doesn't understand either, which would explain why he gets "all reds."
The parents, unsurprisingly, are pretty strange. The father, Carl, came to get me at the train station in Libourne last night--and no surprise--French trains blow ours out of the water in terms of efficacy. In fact, they only pull into the station for about 3 minutes. The gate posting is only written for about 2 minutes before that: everyone runs, which is not a problem as everyone is fit.
Anyway...where was I? Oh. Carl. He's a tall, barrel chested guy who's so spacey that he looks at his own children as if they're afterthoughts. This sounds much sadder than it is. The children don't notice, as they get more attention than they could possibly desire from their mum. She can be heard screaming at either Oliver, Lucas or Dommie for the majority of the day. Usually Oliver. The woman's impressive though. I was working in the garden, some distance from the house, and could hear her. Today I resolved never to have 4 babies (1 or 2 at most) and anyway, none of them will be allowed to be boys.
Carl always walks like he has no idea where he's going, even if it's to the car or the bathroom. At the train station, he approached me vaguely, and said, "Oh, are you....um....Maura?" He asks me questions sometimes, but I don't think he would notice (or care?) if I didn't answer. And he claims to be from Dublin, but sounds suspiciously British.
However, the vineyard is lovely. There are a few old stone wells (still in order) and the remains of an old fortress on the hill, which puts me in mind of orcs. Also, a lake with carp. From the top of the hill we can see the house that once belonged to the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne (credited with popularizing the essay genre).
Right. Vicki and Carl don't get along and don't mind fighting in front of me or the other guy who is working here. He's a character too--a British guy named Andy who's lived here for five months without learning a single French word. Personally, I can't imagine anyone staying here longer than the minimum two weeks, so I like to think Andy is hiding out. My theory is that he killed someone in Dorset, where he's from, and can't go back. Or, bank fraud. Vicki and Carl have let him stay so long because they're bored of each other. In fact, this is the only explantation aas to why they host at all, as they don't pay any attention to Andy or me. I dug trenches around the garden all the live long day, I was fabulous at it, and now my back is sore.
The good bits:
1) The wine.
2) The scenery.
3) The most comfortable bed I've ever slept on in my life.
4) The weather (70 degree weather today--I'm reclaiming my summer tan).
5) The story. There's a theory about travel writing that says that we don't actually travel for ourselves, but rather to collect stories and souvineers for our friends. It is for this reason, I hope you find the above amusing. I only have to remind myself of George, and feel grateful. For those of you who don't know, George was the harmless but certifiably insane southerner I got a lift with, Atlanta to Scranton, last February. I'd tell the story here, but it's really much better with voices. Anyway, this is infinitely better than being with George. And all of it is taking place here:
http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&source=hp&q=la%20sauve%20france&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl
Meanwhile, I hope to catch you up while I'm here on all of the wonderful things that have already passed: Belfast, hikes in Northern Ireland, Dublin, and Paris.
Take care, kids.
Au revoir,
M.
The parents, unsurprisingly, are pretty strange. The father, Carl, came to get me at the train station in Libourne last night--and no surprise--French trains blow ours out of the water in terms of efficacy. In fact, they only pull into the station for about 3 minutes. The gate posting is only written for about 2 minutes before that: everyone runs, which is not a problem as everyone is fit.
Anyway...where was I? Oh. Carl. He's a tall, barrel chested guy who's so spacey that he looks at his own children as if they're afterthoughts. This sounds much sadder than it is. The children don't notice, as they get more attention than they could possibly desire from their mum. She can be heard screaming at either Oliver, Lucas or Dommie for the majority of the day. Usually Oliver. The woman's impressive though. I was working in the garden, some distance from the house, and could hear her. Today I resolved never to have 4 babies (1 or 2 at most) and anyway, none of them will be allowed to be boys.
Carl always walks like he has no idea where he's going, even if it's to the car or the bathroom. At the train station, he approached me vaguely, and said, "Oh, are you....um....Maura?" He asks me questions sometimes, but I don't think he would notice (or care?) if I didn't answer. And he claims to be from Dublin, but sounds suspiciously British.
However, the vineyard is lovely. There are a few old stone wells (still in order) and the remains of an old fortress on the hill, which puts me in mind of orcs. Also, a lake with carp. From the top of the hill we can see the house that once belonged to the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne (credited with popularizing the essay genre).
Right. Vicki and Carl don't get along and don't mind fighting in front of me or the other guy who is working here. He's a character too--a British guy named Andy who's lived here for five months without learning a single French word. Personally, I can't imagine anyone staying here longer than the minimum two weeks, so I like to think Andy is hiding out. My theory is that he killed someone in Dorset, where he's from, and can't go back. Or, bank fraud. Vicki and Carl have let him stay so long because they're bored of each other. In fact, this is the only explantation aas to why they host at all, as they don't pay any attention to Andy or me. I dug trenches around the garden all the live long day, I was fabulous at it, and now my back is sore.
The good bits:
1) The wine.
2) The scenery.
3) The most comfortable bed I've ever slept on in my life.
4) The weather (70 degree weather today--I'm reclaiming my summer tan).
5) The story. There's a theory about travel writing that says that we don't actually travel for ourselves, but rather to collect stories and souvineers for our friends. It is for this reason, I hope you find the above amusing. I only have to remind myself of George, and feel grateful. For those of you who don't know, George was the harmless but certifiably insane southerner I got a lift with, Atlanta to Scranton, last February. I'd tell the story here, but it's really much better with voices. Anyway, this is infinitely better than being with George. And all of it is taking place here:
http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&source=hp&q=la%20sauve%20france&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl
Meanwhile, I hope to catch you up while I'm here on all of the wonderful things that have already passed: Belfast, hikes in Northern Ireland, Dublin, and Paris.
Take care, kids.
Au revoir,
M.
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