Pécheur to Pêcheur

Last night was the last weekly Bible study of the semester for the group of students I've been meeting with each Wednesday night. It was also monumental because I volunteered to lead it. So I arrived early at Le Shamrock, the Irish bar where we meet, having printed out Bible passages and did my usual prep work, of course this time in French. When the others arrived, late, I was actually unsure of whether I was still leading. There've been some changes to the group the last two weeks (almost a completely different group this time) and no one acknowledged that I was leading. So let me confess that not only did I almost up and leave after waiting alone for 15 minutes (it's been canceled before without me receiving word), but, when the bartender listened to our drink orders, I, thinking someone else was leading, ordered a beer. Well, the minute my 1664 was plopped in front of me, in all its golden smoothness, and I had taken a sip, everyone was like, "It's John who's leading tonight." So I guess I'd be rising to the occasion after all.

After cautioning them that I might not understand everything they said, usually an indispensable quality for Bible study leading, I said, "We're gonna do a little Bible study à l'américaine!" And I had them share "high's and low's" from their weeks, although they insisted on "plus et moins." I've said before how reticent French students can be. I was not prepared for them to be hesitant to share with each other about their weeks, but the braver ones pushed the rest of the group to participate and it worked!

"Now, just to make the link," I said, "there are lots of plus and moins in Luke 5:1-11. But I really did this opening activity simply to share a piece of my culture with you." And we jumped into the deeper waters of this passage.

It was the story of Jesus calling Peter to follow him after providing an unprecedented catch of fish to this fisherman and his friends, telling Peter, "Do not fear; from now on you will catch people." Well, the funny thing about French and this passage is, the word for "fisherman" is "pêcheur" and the word for "sinner" is "pécheur," pronounced exactly the same. Needless to say, the following hour and a half was full of humor and constant precision of what kind of fisher/sinner we were talking about.

Just imagine the possibilities (taken from this Bible passage):
"Jesus, I've already sinned all night, but if you say so, I'll lower my nets." (pretty honest on his part!)
"Remove yourself from me, Jesus, I am a fisherman" (duh)
"From now on you will sin for people!" (Did Jesus really say that?)

What made this Bible study really special was our discussion at the end about trusting Jesus when he speaks to us. I asked them, "Is Jesus telling you to lower your nets? Is he asking you to let him into your boat? Is he calling you to leave everything? Is he calling you to follow him?" How is Jesus telling us to put our faith in him in our lives right now? After some truly open sharing from everyone in our group of 7, I encouraged them to continue to support each other in their walks with God, after hearing what's going on in each other's lives.

Then we all went out for kebabs. It was a great way to end my experience with the French Bible study group this semester.

My new housemate

He's 80 years old. He grew up in East Germany and graduated from high school in the forties. He went on to study physics at college, followed by internship in Leningrad, where I believe he met his Russian wife. Even though his studies of English were cut short by the government, he had to learn it when he started working for an East German company that was developing computers. As he explained in fragments of French clauses, it would have been impossible to translate the vocabulary of English technology into German.

I've never met anyone like this guy. Despite certain similarities he shares with my late grandpa (in age and occupation...and maybe German-ness), he grew up in a completely different universe that I no so little about. I'm so glad to get the chance to meet him, someone who knows what it was like before, during, and after the splitting of Germany.

I was just telling my host mom that it puts things into perspective to hear his story. I don't think I have the right anymore to worry about what I'm going to do with my life after college. Compared to the situation in Germany at the start of the Cold War, there are lots of certainties in my life right now.

I look forward to hearing more about his life in the two weeks he'll be here.

I passed the DELF B2

Yesterday I took the exam for the Diplôme d'études en langue française (French language study diploma). Not only was this as near as I'll get to a culminating test of all the French I've learned in my life, but I took the test at the Institut de Touraine, where I studied for two weeks at the beginning of this semester, and it was good to reflect on how I've grown this semester. (This is important to note, because, like everyone who's left an American university to study overseas, I have trouble feeling like I've learned anything this semester.)

It started with a reading comprehension test. We read articles about identity theft and online drug prescriptions. I got a nearly perfect score on this section. The funny thing about French is, the more we progress into the 21st century, the more English is incorporated in the language (e.g. internet, meeting, marketing, packaging, timing: these are all standard French words.) And it's not like French were a different language to begin with. Sixty percent of our language is French already. Hardly more than another dialect.

Next was writing, where I composed a fuming letter to a mayor from the south of France, demanding that he not build a 4-star hôtel in my family's favorite campsite. Don't you value the environment, Monsieur le Maire?

Then there was listening comprehension (more internet stuff...i.e. English) and after lunch I had to prepare a presentation on orientation weeks on French college campuses.

After waiting another stressful, nervous hour, I got my results. I passed!

I was so happy, rode the Christmas ferris wheel at the end of the Rue Nationale. There was an awesome sunset that you could really only see as you rose above the city. That and the cathedral, the basilica, the Loire River, and the whole city decorated in Christmas lights.

When I got home and told my host mom I passed she grabbed me and did the kissing cheeks thing (les bises) and exclaimed, "CHAMPAGNE!" Glad it's over with.

Bike Ride and Theatre

Last Saturday, as predicted, I rode from Tours to the little up-river town of Amboise by bike. My host mom lent me a kind of old bike that belonged, she claimed, to her "voisin" a mysterious neighbor I've never met although this isn't the first time I've used his stuff. I went with my Bucknell friend Josue.

Despite the cold fall weather, the fog, and my out-of-shapedness for the distance of 49.8 kilometers (total), it was a great trip. My favorite part of the ride was when we turned into the forest for a bit of mountain biking (this probably wasn't prudent to do on a junky old bike that didn't belong to me) but it was fun to dodge around the trees and feel the wind in my face. After the forest we got lost (somehow...all we had to do was follow the river), but that gave the opportunity to ask a farmer for directions and then cross acres of farmland on an old dirt road. It was very "pittoresque" and "idyllique."

Once in Amboise, we checked out the castle façade and ate in Da Vinci's gardens. It's a cool little town and they had just decorated for Christmas. It's actually very odd that the French would choose to begin celebrating the day after Thanksgiving. But what may even be harder to understand is that the French actually celebrate Christmas publicly. In a society that forbids wearing crosses and burkas in public institutions, the municipal government puts up lights, wreaths, and Christmas trees on the main streets and blasts traditional Christmas carols (like Joy to the World) from P.A. speakers. Well, I suppose paradox is the essence of church-state controversy.

Speaking of paradox, I saw an important play last night at the "Centre Dramatique." Entitled "Kids," (or keedz) it explored the aftermath of the Balkan conflict through the perspective of nine Sarajevo adolescents who played, fought, and flirted as they tried both to understand the violence that left them orphans and to cope with the first day of peace. It was a heavy play, but with lots of strange songs and child-like dances, and a bi-frontal audience seating arrangement, we were kept from emotionally relating to the characters. This was the goal, as outlined in the program: "to grasp the reality of the war without falling into pathos," to consider the violence, poverty, and destruction from a "distance." This distance was certainly created at the end, when we see the teenagers recreate with great theatricality the horrors of war for "les journalistes de l'Occident" (Western journalists). To me, this threw the whole concept of the play into question. I'm left wondering what Western viewers are supposed to conclude or even reflect on after sitting through a piece like this. I can say, however, that it is as important now as always to wrestle with these issues of ethnic violence and to reconsider the West's response.

Church and Yesterday's Walk

Today, at church, the pasteur spoke from Luke 14:25-26. He warned us beforehand that it could be shocking, then he read: "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters, his brothers and sisters--yes, even his own life--he cannot be my disciple." And then he had us say "Amen," to this verse. Although I'm not completely satisfied with his treatment of this passage (I feel like he watered it down just enough till it was palatable--something I think we do a lot with God's word), it was a thought-provoking message that should prompt lots of reflection. I also just had a good conversation with my Spanish housemate about this verse, I, having returned from church, and she from Mass. She asked what I thought about this verse and I said that I wasn't sure, but that what I can say with certitude is that our lives our about God, not our family or our plans, and that are love for God is so much beyond all other loves. She said that was a good reminder for her. It's been nice to get to know her and talk about faith with her. In other news, she's sharing her culture with us tonight by making Spanish omelets.

Yesterday I walked 12 km up the Loire River to the town of Montlouis sur Loire and back again. The sun was shining all day and the sun was perfectly clear. I wasn't really sure where I was going...I'd driven through this town before but I didn't know how far it was. I just followed a bike bath that stretches along the river. There was a lot to see, the sandy island rivers, the medieval wine towns carved into the cliffs on the other side, lots of families walking doing the same thing as me. My favorite part of the journey was the unexpected turn through a patch of forest. I was feeling tired on my way back, so I lay down in the leaves there for a while and read a Balzac novel I had just started (I'm currently living right around the corner from one of the houses of this great French writer.)

One thing I like about French culture is most people love to walk in woods or sit by rivers and think. It's a very reflective society. It makes it hard, though, to find a place to rest that isn't already occupied. I do feel a sense of achievement in adapting to French culture, even if all I have to do is spend a day such as this one, an introvert's paradise. I did branch out, however, from the introvert mold half-way through, when I got my lunch.

Allow me to break it down: a. I went to a restaurant instead of eating my packed lunch (therefore subjecting myself to human interaction) b. I chatted for a second with the waitress (that is, engaging in small talk) c. I told her I had walked from Tours (i.e. bragging--the typical extrovert pursuit), and if that weren't enough, d. I thanked her for my meal (exhibiting social skills...am I even an introvert anymore?)

On my way back, I was pleasantly surprised to see a long way off the two towers of the cathedral marking my destination for the rest of my trip home. I think next week I'll go to the next town on the river, this time by bike.

Paris encore

I went to Paris again last weekend and had an amazing time. Here are some highlights.

- I didn't know much about the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch, but there's a special exhibition of his work right now at the Centre Pompidou, a large modern art museum famous for its architecture (with most of its piping/structural support on the outside of the building). The exhibit was called "Edvard Munch, a Modern Eye," and it featured a number of devastatingly captivating paintings and lots of auto-photographes. I started drawing/sketching this weekend, largely because I was so inspired by the theatricality of Munch's work.
In other news, the French pronounce his name like the word monk. And I don't know if I've said this before, but the Starry Night Dutch painter is pronounced van gogg, or vang gongg, if you're provençal.

- My hostel in Montmartre. A lot of people say that this neighborhood is one of the most dirty and touristy in Paris, and I never understood this till this weekend, where I ventured near the Moulin Rouge etc. The hostel I usually stay at in Paris, though, is situated in a quiet quarter, with lots of boulangeries and cafés, and at night you can see lots of locals returning home, climbing the giant staircases with their kids in hand. I also got to look down from my window on the plain of Paris and watch it light up for the night.

- I returned to the Musée de l'Organgerie, which has beautiful rooms with long panels of Monet's paintings of lily pads, water, and leaves. Everything is peaceful here. The rest of the museum has some powerful art as well. I was deeply touched two and half years ago by some of the art there. On my return to England when I was nineteen, I wrote these lines about my experience:
...the vamping strokes of pavement soft as two
who, naked, counter coldly in their arms,
are looks, impressions, where dead love once grew
and curled a town above the streets alarms.

The naked lovers were in fact imagined/interpreted by Picasso (didn't realize this before) and the dizzying self-liberating cities were depicted by Soutine. Although the transformative effect wasn't the same this time around, it was good to remember and reflect.

- Laina. I saw a good friend from Bucknell too. It was great to talk and catch up, to explore new parts of the the city together, le cimitière Père-Lachaise (where Chopin is buried, among many other famous people), and return to favorite places, like the jazz club Caveau de la Huchette, which featured a smooth dixieland band.

I only have a month left in France. I'll try to post more as I make the most of the rest of my time.

dinner 8/11

Tonight my host mom had a jazz concert to go to, so she left and the other students and me to finish our dinner. Not to say that it's not pleasant when she's there, but whenever she leaves the house we have a rollicking good time. I like to think I started off the festivities by describing what the French word "concert" means to one of the new students across the table: "Elle fait le mosh pit." Another student didn't know what mosh pit meant, undoubtedly perplexed by my suggestion that Madame Saint-Louis could be capable of enjoying music as such, so I got up from the kitchen table to demonstrate with some solo moshing.

Then we tried sharing tongue twisters from our representative languages: English, German, Spanish, Korean, and Arabic. All I can remember from the German one is, "Whisky whisky whisky bisky trixie lixy hisky whisky."

Afterwards, the new Spanish girl Marisol proposed that we play "Telephone." Although I chose something silly to say and have repeated around our circle in each other's ears, the others instinctively chose proverbs from their cultures. For example, my German housemate said, "This wouldn't make sense literally, but we say, 'The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.'" Another good saying comes from South Korea: "Everyone makes mistakes in their life" or literally, "Sometimes monkeys fall from the tops of trees."

When the son of our host mom came home, he told us they call this game "Téléphone Arabe." We decided to call it "Téléphone Faloiz" after our new housemate just come from Kuwait. He was, in fact, the best at this game.

Dinner each night is truly my favorite part of the day.

Amsterdam (vacances part 3)

As I was leaving France to start my vacation, my host mom called out to me from the house, "Remember to change the clock back on Sunday! Méfie-toi." I guess I should have méfied myself. In any case, my long day of travel from Sheffield, England to Heiloo, the Netherlands was made even longer as I got to the station an hour early. No biggie.

I rode easy-jet into Amsterdam, passed quickly through border control (nothing like the UK customs lines) and figured out my train into the dark, unknown territories of Holland. It actually was very dark--my plane was delayed an hour and, of course, it was the end of daylight savings. The good thing about traveling in the Netherlands, though, is that everyone speaks English. Everyone.

Once on the train, I realized that I was nervous, and I little scared to continue this part of my fall break adventure. I was excited to be visiting another good friend from Capernwray, Rebecca, but all I knew was the town she lived in and her phone number. It sounds kinda silly now that I was worrying, but I really felt like I was going into the middle of nowhere, never to return. But I got off the train, called the phone number, was relieved that Rebecca picked up, and that her fiancé was waiting at the station for me, and I was welcomed with lots of food, a fresh brew*, a game of Settlers, and a nice warm bed.
* I relearned a lot of English whilst in the UK. Other favourite words include "to fancy," "dodgy," and the correct pronunciation of "Monty Python."

The next day I went back into Amsterdam, where I had just enough time (after getting pretty lost) to visit the Rijkmuseum. Most of the museum was being renovated, so they had moved all the famous paintings into a small corner. I found two of Rembrandt's paintings, Anna the prophetess and Jeremiah lamenting the destruction of Jerusalem, to be particularly moving. It was a beautiful day. Overcast and autumnal and first, but then, in fact as I waited in line to enter the museum, the sun broke out. I took time on my return to grab some gouda and look out over the canals as the leaves fell all around me.

That evening Rebecca and made for the beach on moped, arriving with time to walk on the beach as the sun set. It was so good to spend time with yet another Capernwray friend and catch up on each other's lives.

The next morning I headed back to Tours...riding in the first class car (somehow it was the cheaper ticket when I bought it). I always find it amazing how the staff on international trains manage. For instance, when I was served breakfast, the woman approached me saying, "Guten morgen/goedemorgen/good morning/bonjour." "Bonjour," I replied, and we continued on in French.

So it was a great trip with lots of new things to experience and lots of old things to remember. I have only about a month and a half left in France.

the North (vacances part 2)

Well, as I believe I noted, I did not board the train for Hogwarts on Friday, but I left London for Sheffield, where I was to meet my Bible school friend Dan. Within minutes on the train, I was surrounded by the English countryside I fell in love with three years ago. And it only got better from there. That afternoon Dan and I went for a walk in what he called the Peak Country. Fall was finally taking hold in the trees, and our path winded through the woods, up hills, across meadows, and along a little creek, leading to a nice little pub at the top. I had a mushroom, steak and ale pie, and he had the biggest plate of fish and chips I've ever seen. It might have been a little dangerous, but we fumbled our way through the dark forest that night, making it back for the train with enough time to take in the stars. Creatures live in British forests, you know. Werewolves, dragons, centaurs...one can never be too careful.

Together with Dan and another good friend Nathalie, I returned to Capernwray the next day, the "castle" in England that I studied at three years ago. At times it felt so normal to be back, to sink into the chairs under the stairs, to warm myself by the radiators in the lounge, to descend from the road to the dining hall. Other times it felt so strange...there's not much that has changed since I was there May of 2009...was I really at Capernwray again? Some things were very hard, like walking through the Beehive where I lived for many months...definitely some sad memories. However, for the most part, I was flooded with good, fond memories of God's work in my life, of friendships I had, of all the fun things we did (Christmas concert, work days on the farm, American football games, camping out on the big hill to watch the sunrise.)


I also spent a lot of time drinking tea that day, chatting with the staff. It was funny how they would recognize us as old students, then when we ran into them again (it's a small campus), they'd recall our names. So good to catch up and to hear how things were going at my school. I hope to return again sometime (i.e. Capernwray 10-year reunion...not my idea, but it's happening, y'all.)

In sum, it was necessary to return to Capernwray and recognize how important this piece of my life was...and it was equally meaningful to see Dan and Nathalie, and many of the Capernwray staff again. I'm very thankful for this opportunity.

And the next day I made my way to Amsterdam...next blog coming soon.

London (Fall break part 1)

Hey friends, I just got home a few hours ago from the best vacation I could have imagined. For those of you who I asked to pray for me as I traveled, thanks! Although I'm in the middle of moving into my third bedroom this semester (apparently to make room for the Uzbeks), but I'll take a little break to share about the first leg of my journey.

Some highlights from London:

1. Wandering out of customs to be met at the airport by my good friend Rochelle (a Bucknell student studying in London). We caught up as we took the tube to her flat in the very pretty neighbourhood of University College London. We also shared a pizza in Gordon square that night. It was fun to see another Bucknell face.

2. Occupy London. Thursday afternoon, I went to St Paul's Cathedral to check out the growing number of indignant Londoners who had started camping out in front. In other cities (Amsterdam, for example), this kind of protest is a little more welcome, but things were tense in London. The police were making stronger threats each day to force everyone out. In fact, the church had to close for a few days, and a leader in the cathedral resigned his post because he didn't want to play any part in a violent removal of the campers. Bearing in mind my study abroad program's interdiction of political protest, I just walked around reading the posters, poems, and artwork. It felt a little weird to be enjoying tourism in England during one of the most critical weeks of European history, where the success of all the reconstruction since WWII is on the line. History happens here too. I'm just trying to take everything in.

3. We saw a disturbing play about human trafficking in London, put on by Only Connect, a theatre company for prisoners, ex-offenders, and at-risk youth. It was stage in a black box theatre, with most of the action behind a square of screens, where video was also projected. We walked home a little scared that night, with an expanded view on UK immigration and London crime. We found that it was important to pray before going to bed.

4. Thai food. Green cury. The uzh. It's the real reason I travel to big cities.

5. Platform 9 3/4. Look for pictures on facebook. My last morning, we met up with Faria, another Bucknell student, to try to get to Hogwarts. There was a Brit who was a little embarrassed but equally enthusiastic about the platform, and we encouraged him to pose for a picture in front of it. We also had full English breakfasts--eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, baked beans, tomatoes, and toast, before I left for the (admittedly Muggle) town of Sheffield.

I'll try to post about the rest of my trip soon!... à bientôt...

Two French families

This week it finally worked out to meet two groups of French people with whom I've been making arrangements for awhile. One was the family of a four-year-old girl, who want me to teach English to her, and the other, a French student who the university here set me up with (as I'm an exchange student.) They call him my parain (godfather.)

I'll start with the English lesson.
This family was very nice. They've just moved from Paris and they have three kids with almost ridiculously old-fashioned first names, Mahaut, Arnaud, and the baby, Baptiste. The first time I went to eat them, they served me coke, potato chips, and local, seasonal radishes. The girl I'm teaching, Mahaut, was very shy, but she opened up as I asked her if she's a good student in Kindergarten. When I asked her to compare her school this year to the year before, she paused for a second and then said, "Let me reflect." When I returned two days later for the first lesson, she was very excited to start. I taught her a song I wrote called, "Hello. How are you? I am good." (These happen to be the lyrics too, but I think I'll add different vocabulary each week if she does well at remembering.) It hadn't occurred to me before how difficult it is to pronounce a phrase such as "How are you" if you speak a language without diphthongs. Often, I would introduce a new word, and she, catching on quickly that I wanted her to repeat it but not wanting to make an effort, would simply say, "Oui, c'est ça. Exactement." One time I got her to repeat a phrase perfectly and after congratulating her on her hard work, she said, "C'est presque paraît" (It's almost identical.) Furthermore, I was very impressed when I used a situation in a story I was reading to teach the phrase "I am lost." She said, slowly, "I...am...GOOD." It's doubtful that this is evidence of a conscious connection between this phrase and the very similar sentence she had sung earlier, but it does show me that she had processed these sounds enough to recall them with automaticity. Next time, I hope to use activities which will help her see the meaning of English, that it can actually be useful to communicate. I'm open to any suggestions you may have.

And my day with my parain.
It was ended up being really fun. We met near my house (in fact, in front of a bar where filled with disappointed rugby fans) and he drove me to his nearby village, where we had lunch with 10 members of his family (Dad, brother and sister, dad's girlfriend, her three kids, grandma, uncle and his daughter.) Because my host family this semester is pretty much a household of international students, I told them I was happy to meet a true French family. They cut me off to say, "Well, we're not really a true family. Well, what we are is a modern family, a big modern family. C'est pas grave." And then we sat down and had another one of the best meals of my life. Raclette (cheese we melted individually--as if we were roasting marshmellows), with lots of deli meats and bread and wine. I learned the expression, "une main lourde" (a heavy hand) when the Grandma, who sat next to me, kept pouring me champagne without cease. It was like the biggest shock in the world if I told her I was fine with what I had. Needless to say, I often acquiesced to her heavy-handed heavy hand.

There was an interesting connection to my time in Normandy that came up while we were eating. The adults were reflecting on the number of Americans who know everything about WWII, who know more about the Normandy invasion that the French. They said that in French school, when that time period is taught, it's more about the conditions that give rise to Fascism. I offered that Americans might especially want to commemorate WWII because at least on the European front, it's relatively simple and without controversy (compared to Vietnam and Iraq), something truly to be proud of. They agreed. It's always a compliment when a French person agrees with you.


After lunch we played laser tag at a nearby arena (not something I would expect, but exactly the same as in America). And after returning, I took a long walk on the other side of the Loire as the sun set. I even discovered the entrance to an island park I've always wanted to find. It was a good day.

Thoughts and experiences in Normandy

I recently remarked on facebook that I feel like I came back from my excursion a little older. It was a heavy weekend, and through all my experiences and conversations and continuing reflection, I notice a particular deepening with regards to my views on peace, American identity, and cultural transmission of history.

(Also, I apologize for the fact that I may have written this blog more for me than for readers, another step in reflecting on my experiences up North. Hope some of it's interesting.)

We started in the city of Saint-Milo (which, as a French guy reminded me today kind of snobbily, is technically in Brétagne). Even though the city feels old, with a medieval wall surrounded it, and fortresses on the ocean, most of it was reconstructed after heavy bombing in WWII. This was the case with many of the cities we visited, as they were either attacked by the Axis powers or they suffered during the American invasion. I noticed, for example, that the cathedral's stained glass windows were very modern. The cathedral still had the smell that only a really old church could have.

This is sort of an embarrassing story: There's a famous French writer, Chauteaubriand, who is buried on an island only reachable at low tide. When it was getting time to rejoin the group, the tide lowered enough to reveal the little path to his final resting place. I raced down the beach and across, and, as I had to pee, I ran up the hill before all the other people crossing over to do my business on the other side of the island. After having done so, I turned a corner to see his grave, marked by a sign which read, "Here lies a great French writer. He wanted only to hear the sound of the wind and the waves. Please respect his wishes." Oops. When I returned to the bus a little late, my professor said, "Well, visiting the tomb of Cauteaubriand is a good excuse for being late." I didn't tell him how exactly I paid my respects.

The next day, we went to the "plages de débarquement." As I decended onto the beach at Arromanches (where the Allied forces built their artificial port), I instinctively picked up handfuls of sand and scattered it as if it were grain all the way to the ocean (a ritual I would repeat on the Utah landing beach.) I hastily wrote in my notebook:

It's just a little beach
and now I have the sand of Normandy
plastered on my jeans
after I sank my hands into the cool earth
and sprinkled it back in the sun,
the shadow, and toward the waves.
in the same way, several children beside me
stick their shovels into the sand.

In a museum, we read the quote of Private Henry Parker, who described his touching down onto Omaha beach, saying, "As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell."

I added to my journal: "I didn't feel like a visitor to hell. I didn't even feel like a visitor. I hope that's the point." Echoing these sentiments was a French poem in ridiculous rhyming quatrains that said, "See the laughing children / Playing in the sea / Today's sun / Dries Yesterday's tears." I don't know if this is true.

But I had a long to to reflect on this that day as I ran along the marine terrace outside of the town. From the highest point of the cliff I could see miles of green coastline in both directions. I asked these questions: Why is it necessary in every museum to juxtapose the horror of battlefield photography with the serene beauty of Normandy today? What does war do to a region's culture? Is Normandy still grieving? How could D-Day and its deaths have been avoided? What does this mean for violence and intervention today?

I kept thinking and talking with others as we visited the American and German graveyards, walked along the beaches and cliffs marked with bomb craters, and returned that night to Caen, another city utterly destroyed as France was saved. I felt at the same time proud to be an American and disturbed by the footage from the 40s, where political and military leaders used the same language in describing WWII intervention that Americans use today when they speak of military action around the world. However, after our visit to the Museum of Peace (which situated well the D-Day invasion in its context of war and totalitarianism, French cooperation and resistance, genocide and poverty) my thoughts sunk a little further into place. In the end, D-Day seemed to me to be simpler than all the debate and questioning. It requires grieving and thanks for the sacrifice of the soldiers.

And so I returned Sunday afternoon with the weight of a deepened understanding of just how devastating war is and how widespread violence is in our world. But I also carried with me a new appreciation for the value of human culture and its power to create and preserve, to look back in order to move forward, and even to save.

German history

I have a class each Thursday from 4:30 to 7:30, straight lectures, by a German professor on Franco-German relations in the 20th century. It's often not that bad, however. Apparently they won't have tests till January (after I'm gone), so I guess I keep going for the pleasure of it. It makes me reminisce about being a high school student in AP European History.

And things even got a interactive for a moment (and just a moment). In his discussion of the Dawes Plan, the professor paused, wondering if there were any anglophones in the room who could verify the pronunciation.
"I think it's DOS," he said (like two in Spanish), "le plan dos--"
"DAWWWS!" I thundered from the back of the classroom. Everyone sort of giggled.

The French students in general have trouble understanding his accent, and they are very kind in asking me how I'm doing in that class. "In fact," I tell them, "a foreign accent is easier than a French accent." "Mais non," they reply, "This is central France. No one here has an accent!"
I'm sure, in a way, we're both right.

But while the girls around me continued to snicker at poor Monsieur Beck's accent and write down every word he said (French students are a little crazy when it comes to note-taking), I kept looking out the window to my left across the river. And I started to write some poetry (translation will follow):

la forêt de l'autre côté est ravissante
dans le vieux soleil, cette fin d'après-midi.
les feuilles se colorent dans cette heure tranquille
grâce à la colère du nouveau automne
et bientôt, l'eau de la Loire devient cendre
de ce feu peu feroce qui souffle dans
le vint du soir.

Pourtant, pendant que les oiseaux
rentrent aux nids, les braises respirent en haut dans les arbres,
les dernières feuilles de feu contre le soir.

(okay, this isn't the best translation)

the forest on the other side is ravishing
in the aging sun, at the end of this afternoon.
the leaves color in this peaceful time
because of the anger of new fall
and soon, the water of the Loire becomes the ashes
of this small, weak fire that blows
in the evening wind.
But still, while the birds
return to nests, the embers breathe high in the trees
the last leaves of fire against the evening.

Good night :)

afternoon at l'Opéra

This afternoon the Tours Opera opened its theatre doors to the public. Since I have this weekend unexpectedly free (long story), I decided to go for the dress rehearsal of the staging of their season-opener, Thaïs. I wasn't familiar with this opera, but here's what I gathered today in terms of synopsis:

Thaïs tells the story of a young woman who, while mourning the loss of a beloved friend at a cocktail party, decides to become a nun. In fact, she is persuaded to do so by a quick-tempered monk, and to the great chagrin of her wild, party-going, flamboyantly dressed compatriots, she walks off with him to the monastery. Although the woman bids him adieu (literally) as she begins her life of celibacy, the monk falls so tumultuously in love with her that he seeks her out at the garbage dump where the nuns worship. (She had warned him personally of her impending death in a sexy dream sequence.) He arrives just in time for a richly layered duet before the woman, claiming to glimpse heaven, dies in his arms on a pile of trash.

And that was only Act II, and there's still another act left!

Other things made it an enjoyable experience. As it was a rehearsal, the "metteur-en-scène" would stop the steadily-mounting action quite abruptly to fix things here or there. At the end uproarious end of the first song, the main character yanked down a curtain of strings that hung across the stage. While she was untangling the strings from her costume, the director shouted out from the house, "In the silence, Thaïs, don't pull it down during the music." The soloist apologized: "I beg your pardon, I just always get taken by the rhythm."

The curtain of strings was in fact a very beautiful touch to the scenery at the beginning of the second act. While the light white cords allowed a projection of a recently deceased character, with a mourner grieving just behind, they also moved me to reflect on the transient nature of life and the thin veil that separates our world from the next. Rich, tender chords from an unseen chorus complemented this concept in a touching way. Yes, the acting was awful (it's opera), but I am stunned by the design concepts that the opera has at its disposal.

After the rehearsal, there was an échange, a Q & A session. I was pleased to see even the diva soloist stayed to answer audience questions. And everyone on the staff had a very charming sense of humor. They all seemed to really believe in their craft. The staging director said something funny when talking about the authoritarian nature of her job. She explained that they don't have the luxury of time that theatre possesses, so they can't explore alternatives. She just gives blocking, "and if a soloist opposes me, it will cost them dearly." I don't know what she means by that, but the audience applauded her comment.

So my new ambition in life is to do vocal training and enter the world opera. It won't be the last time I change vocation.

from goat cheese to van gogh and back again

I just told my sister that I had the time of my life in Provence. I don't think that's an exaggeration. Unfortunately, I've been too busy to blog about it, but as life keeps happening (i'm going to Normandy this weekend, for example), I need to get some of the word out before it's too late.

Some highlights of our excursion to Provence:

- The Roman theatre in Arles. It was amazing to see the ruins of Roman pillars and the stadium where the audience sat right in the center of town. We spent a good time here, climbing the stage, taking pictures on the steps. When I visit old theatres, I like to pretend I'm an actor. Although, I'm not too familiar with Roman comedy, I did my best. I wish our society still made space for the whole town to physically gather and watch political satire for entertainment. There were many others painting or making sketches, taking advantage of the hot, sunny day to let this ancient art inspire their own art.

- Again, in Arles, we turned around a corner, and there in front of me was the yellow café that Van Gogh famously painted: Café Terrace at Night I was like, "Ouaaaais" (which isn't a very French thing to do.) Throughout Provence, they have signs marking the subjects of his paintings by showing his work right in the midst of the actual thing. Wow.

- We visited two cities, Gordes and Beaux-de-Provence, which, situated on the tops of yellow, rocky hills, offered expansive views of the region. I would spend minutes taking it all in, the olive trees, the vineyards, the mountains, the red-tiled roofs.

- For those who understand French, you'll appreciate my accomplishment in instinctively using the phrase "ce dont" in a sentence, to which a French guy remarqued, "You're practically French." My sentence was, "C'est exactement ce dont j'ai besoin." (That is exactly that for which I had need.)

- I wrote a poem, inspired no doubt by the smell of olive trees in the late afternoon. The last two lines, I think, isn't have bad: "Car j'ai des ombres, et des lumières / en danse dans mon cœur." ("For I have shadows and lights / dancing in my heart"...it's better, of course, in French.)

- And for something more heavy: I had a terrible time at the Popes Palace in Avignon. It was too hard to imagine and see before me the extravagant political power and wealth of the popes at the end of the Middle Ages, or if you like, the beginning of the Renaissance. It's not just the popes, of course. The experienced touched me in part because of the shadow it cast over today's church in many places, and the luxury and privilege I myself maintain. When I was praying about these things over Vietnamese food before the high-speed train back to Tours, I asked God where he was when the church was amassing power and wealth, and he seemed to answer, "I was dying for it." As I told one of my professors here in a nice conversation about faith and belief, we agreed that God has lots of patience with us.

- I got home late (train delays) but as I told my host mom, it was worth it to have the opportunity to sit back down at the kitchen table in Tours and help myself to a cool slice of chèvre. She was like, "Tout effet. C'est sûr," one of those things that French people say after every other statement. Fresh goat cheese = home.

Groupe Biblique

Tonight I went to a Bible study with Groupe Biblique Universitaires at the university here in Tours. People were more friendly than they were last week (i.e. they actually talked to me this time). I keep having to remind myself that French people aren't accustomed to thinking of engaging people they don't yet know in conversation. However, they are accustomed to greeting them with kisses on the cheeks (two times in Tours...it changes by region) even if they hardly know them.

Many have heard me say (pettily) that when it comes to getting to know churches or people, I give out extra points for their affinity for 2 Corinthians. God seems to honor this. The first time I went to a knew church in Lancaster this summer, the pastor preached from 2 Corinthians. I nearly fell in love with a girl freshman year because she indicated that she liked the epistle. I once had quite a spiritual experience in a forest in Massachusetts while reading 2 Corinthians. I could go on and on.

Well, tonight we studied 2 Corinthians 5:12-21. We met in a the back of an Irish bar, and with the music and the fish tank (?) and the football match on the TV, I struggled to understand everything that was said. I did speak a few times, at the encouragement of a girl named Marie who always seemed to notice when I had a thought.

Some anecdotes:
- They expressly asked me to explain where Corinth was...TWICE because people walked in late...was this just the easiest question or did I give off l'air d'une grande connaissance géographique? I told them it was in the middle of Greece, by the sea.

- Someone asked what a Pharisee was, and the guy next to me concluded: So, Pharisees are just like the French. There's a law for everything. "En effet," I said under my breath.

- French people like argumentation. In fact, the way you say, "Okay" in French is "I agree with you." Well, one of the times I spoke, two people commented on the clarity of my argument (I suggested that vs. 13 is linked to vs. 12, that Paul's sanity or lack of sanity are "appearances," and that the Corinthian church and his devotion to God are where his "heart" is. Verse 12 ends by distinguishing between those who concern themselves with appearances and those who care about the heart.) The guy next to me said, "That is very nice." The French may be Pharisaic with regard to their administrative prowess, but they are equally vigilant to test and approve what a good argument is.

- To conclude the Bible study, they talked about people they loved (family, friends, etc.) who they wanted to know how good God is. This conversation reminded me greatly of what Christian students say in the States. It was a good to be there tonight.

Well, I leave tomorrow at dark fifteen for Provence in the South of France. They whether has been so exceptionally warm that my host brother averred that it was like California. (He's never been to California). I'll be there till Sunday night. I'll update when I get back.

French sauerkraut

I just had possibly my favorite meal so far in France, cabbage, four kinds of sausage, and pork (i think), of course with a course of cheese, and a gateau de riz rice pudding. My host mom is in Florida right now, and her good friend came to cook for me. Apparently its a specialty of the Alsace region, which is probably why it struck me as being Germain.
What made this meal so special was the conversation. We talked about the food, about the recent victory of the Left in the French Sénat, about the elections of next year in France and the U.S., and about the corrupt nature of many politicians. But slowly, and cautiously, she began to incorporate here and there her beliefs in "physique-chemie." I went with it, and we had an unexpected and sincere discussion of spirituality and change in the world. Although I may not adhere completely to her New Age beliefs (at first I thought she said, "New Edge" ... the most trouble I have understanding French is when they use English words), we were in agreement about many things, and she was very interested in my own spiritual beliefs and faith. I could tell being able to talk about these things was meaningful for her too. She described our conversation, and any such thinking about these things as an offering to God. I thought that was a nice way to put it.
It was equally refreshing for me to have such success speaking French. It's often hit and miss for me. Apparently tonight was an "on" night. It's like left pirouettes in dance. However, despite my ability to engage in more sophisticated conversation, I had trouble understanding her when she told me to put the plates in the cupboard. I still have a lot to learn.

two days in Paris

I just let out a deep sigh as I made it back to my neighborhood in Tours. The sun had come back out, and I could see the familiar gothic cathedral (the one I practically live in) polking through the trees of the park I walk through on my way home. It does feel good to be able to say, after a weekend away, that Tours is home.

Some highlights from Paris:
1. I returned to my favorite hostel, the Hôtel Caulaincourt, at the top of one of many gigantic staircases wedged into the hills of Montmartre. I was here two and half years ago. This time, I spoke French while checking in, and the guy at the desk (I think the same guy) spoke French back. As I arrived before the rest of my Bucknell friends, I explored the neighborhood a little bit, stopping at a café for awhile to try to write. When people say they like to people watch, I never understand what they mean...I don't really ever find pleasure in that sort of thing. But I can say that Montmartre is one of the few places that draws me out of my inwardly focused reflection, so that I see the breeze flicker in the trees, the moms with their children in hand stumble up the giant stairways, the locals at the cafés jet their cigarettes into the gutters, and the autumn sky shift through the clouds.

2. My first time at the Musée d'Orsay was worth the long line. It's fun and refreshing (for someone who doesn't really enjoy museums) to see a painting and not only know what it's called in English and French, but which history textbook I remember it from, and what I said about its significance in a paper or speech somewhere along the way. Comme par exemple, "Le déjeuner sur l'herbe," controversial because of the naked woman sharing a picnic with two fully dressed men with no thought of being allegorical. Or the Renoir that also hangs in my dining room. I remember trying to pronounce the painter's name when I was 5 and just learning how to read. I don't think I believed my mom when she told me, "Renwah." I must have been a precocious child.

3. After a long Saturday walking around, my friends and I were snacking in one of the hostel rooms and thinking about bed. But I persisted: "Let's go to a jazz club." So Katrina and I braved the rainy streets and the metro system, crossing the town to get to the Caveau de la Huchette in the thriving Latin quarter. What unexpected fun! It was so worth the trip. An American 40s and 50s jazz band played down below in the old stone cellar that dates to the middle-ages (Robespierre even liked to hang out there). It was packed. Many were dancing. Everyone was moving to the music. Katrina and I danced many numbers, bumping into everyone on the tiny dance floor. We realized quickly that closed positions and a vertical, jumpy motion served best for navigating the music in this space. And the band was bright, punchy, and soulful. I'm going to try to return every time I go to Paris in the future. There might not be a better way finish a long day of sight-seeing than to sweat it out and groove to the music under Paris' streets. Yesterday, my brother asked me whether jazz was a particularly Parisian pursuit. From a historical perspective, certainly. And from my own experience, bien sûr.

4. I ended my time in the Jardin des Tuileries. The trees were just losing their rusty leaves, and I crunched my way to one of the chairs that rest in the middle of the garden. I love fall. It reminded me of the Grove at Bucknell and my first New England autumn when I was four. In fact, as I was reflecting on how much fun I had in Massachusetts as a kid, a little boy approached, dragging one of the chairs across a stretch of the garden. Then he and his little brother started climbing and throwing rocks at one of the sculptures. It must be very fun to be a child in Paris. I wrote in my journal: "Fall teaches me to belong."

I made my way up the Seine to the train station (about an hour walk) and I slept most of my way home.

Soyez actifs

New class number 2: Mise en scène, Acting Workshop

I arrived early and chatted with Katrina (another Bucknell student) and this French girl named Claire. Of course, when we filed into the classroom, we had no idea what to expect. I didn't even really know I was taking a theatre class. You see, in order for my classes to get Bucknell credit, I have to have four hours of class...so they pair the French 2-hour classes together. Apparently it made sense to pair acting with French-English translation. In any case, I don't complain, it was a fun class.

Most of our work was on an excerpt from the French play "Hart-Emily" (about Hart Crane and Emily Dickenson...It took me awhile to figure this out...just IMAGINE how the professor pronounced their names.) Today's text featured a robust juxtaposition of passionate American verse and details about the poets' lives, chronicling their devastating suicides in order to demonstrate the tragedy, insanity, and torment that seems to await all American poets. When we finished reading as a class, the professor asked us, "What makes this text funny?"...Well I agree that there is a certain amount of irony to it all, but I was moved in quite the opposite direction, especially as a result of the play's treatment of Anne Sexton.

Hopefully the rest of the play doesn't hit so close to home. Or if it does, I'll find some truth that is waiting to be uncovered. I look forward to further reading and performing.

Some memorable quotes from my professor:

"Be ACTIVE. It's called acting. The work of an actor is acting. Therefore, we need to be active."

"We need to find characters outside of ourselves, and in order to present them, we need to be them completely."

"John, how do you pronounce 'oh-ee-oh?' Oh, ooOHIO. Listen to that. Say Ohio like it's the most fascinating place on earth."

So that was acting. More new classes next week. I leave for Paris early tomorrow morning. So many options to choose from. I'll be sure to blog about that.

À toute à l'heure!

Lost in translation

Today I had my first class at the university: Traduction. Right before the class, I had a meeting with the other Bucknell students, and I remarked to my Bucknell professor that I was nervous to start. He said not to worry, that I was the only Anglophone. Seeing that this didn't reassure me (quite the opposite), he said I would be a veritable dictionary in that class.

Well, class took off on a quick start as we began to learn some principles and methods of French-English translation. We will be alternating between "version" which is English to French and "thème," French to English. Which do you think would be harder?

For me, it is version, with which we spent most of our time today. I was comforted a little by the difficulty other students were having (because it was certainly hard for me), and I take pride in my considerate nature towards the French students' butchering of the English sentences we were asked to translate. However, in the end, the professor could get them to generate the right French translation, which often consisted of new vocabulary for me!

Each student was asked to make a translation, or at least give an idea. When my turn came around, I had to translate: "I'm going to have a quick wash." (We don't even speak like this in America.) So I said in French, "I'm an Anglophone, so this is a little hard for me." Seeing everyone's ears perk up and my struggling French, I offered, "Je vais me baigner vite" (I'm going to bathe quickly.) Well, it turns out, the better translation is "Je vais fair un brin de toilette." Interesting. Hmm.

I am excited for the rest of this class though. It's a good challenge, and I know I'll keep learning a lot of new vocab. It's also a very practical pursuit, translation. Today I visited the cathedral and had to read the signs in the original French because the meaning of the English was impossible to decipher.

I introduced myself to the professor afterwords, and although he began speaking English, with his posh southern English accent, I insisted on speaking French. We discussed where I came from, my studies this semester, and his previous travel in California.

So things are a little scary still, but I think it'll be ok. I just need to learn not to beat myself up or feel inferior when I struggle a little at something new.
À bientôt!

P.S. No joke, we had to translate this sentence today: "The Wetbacks swam across the Rio Grande." I felt slimy. "Les clandestins méxicains ont traversé le Rio Grande en nage."