February 25, 2010

As I sit waiting for a certain redhead to arrive, I can't help but think of the first time I came to France many months ago. What comes to mind is a sad, pathetic image of a boy who was, and is, happy to be the sole member of his audience that somber day. I think I first realized what I had gotten myself into while waiting for my flight to Paris. I was sitting in the international terminal of the Atlanta airport, and, suddenly, everything changed. People, language, dress, and my comfortability began to shed its american skin. I can remember taking great strength from my biography of George Washington. Could there be a better model for strength and courage when you begin to doubt yourself than Washington? George was my cocoon, my shield from what was changing in front of me, as I moved further and further into a world I struggled so painfully not to enter. I always told myself I accepted everything, could adapt myself comfortably, and pleasantly, to what was different and unknown. But, I didn't know what I would come to feel. In truth, when put to the test, I became, and was for a long time, the exact opposite of what I had once thought I was capable of. When it came time to put up or shut up, I shut up and wondered why I had put myself in the position where choosing to put up was a necessity. Difference and the unknown are much easier to confront and experience when seen on a television screen or through the pages of a book. I wish I had known this at the time, it might have changed my pathetic appearance. But, how was I to know? Who, what would have prepared me properly? When the world shakes you up a little, I have noticed, it's not so bad.

The international terminal put me in the international world. The Air France flight to Paris put me in the world of the french. I can remember not being able to understand the flight attendants as they spoke french over the intercom. My incomprehension led to what I would consider my longest, most pathetic cram session of my life. I dove deeply into every french grammar book and learning CD I owned, in the vain and unrealistic hope of making myself fluent by the time I reached Montpellier. For once, french was spoken without an english word or phrase after it, and I realized how little I knew. The flight attendant, who seemed to be one of those intellectual types who fit the mold of an intellectual because they try to look and talk like one, made a joke I didn't get. The joke had to do with my studying, a "you are doing a so-and-so" type of joke. Whatever it was, it fell flat with me. I can remember his response. He patted me on the back, looked at me with sorrowful eyes for my lack of intellectuality and said "nevermind." It might seem trivial, but, when uncertain of your own capabilities to the point I was, any slight rebuke makes your whole world seem more ominous and ill-fitting. So, not only was the language problem first surfacing, but I also felt that someone such as myself was not fit for this experience. Whatever it took to be international, I didn't have it. I was a kid from Kentucky who had a dream once and should have left it at that. When it came down to it, I thought I was of the wrong mold, that the place for me was with the same people, in the same city, in a world of custom and the common.

Three things repetitively crossed my mind when I reached the airport in Paris. First, this place is depressing. I find it interesting, from coming and going to France a few times now, how ugly and depressing the terminals are when you arrive, and how beautiful, clean and pleasant the terminals are when you leave, at least that is the case in Paris. The only reason I can fathom is, once they have you in their country, there is no longer a need to mesmerize you with luxury and pageantry. Once you've arrived, you are stuck as a purchaser in a foreign land, and their work, getting you to that point, is done. When leaving, it's simple. They want your business to come back, and a nice memory of your last hour-and-a-half in France helps this cause. Now that that's over, my second thought was, "oh shiza (used different word, which is far less poetic, but

I don't want Mom to see me cuss)! What have I gotten myself into?" My world was spinning as I passed the morning work crews and bright advertisements, written in french, for french companies. I couldn't understand anything at the Customs' station and got lost looking for my terminal. In the plane, my introduction was blunted, but, when I reached Paris, it came at me in full volume. Before, despite the lack of confidence, I took comfort from the situation still being in the future. As far as I knew, miracles were possible, maybe I would receive one. However, as I tried to answer the customs officers' questions about what was in my bag, my situation was in my midst, there was no more time to ask myself if I would be alright. My third thought arose from the second. Once I cleared all official areas, I stopped caring. Whatever happened, happened. If I was to fail myself or surprise myself and do well, I no longer cared. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep, but I stopped foreshadowing and worrying. I was there, I wasn't happy about it, yet the moment became more important and irrelevant to what I had once thought and predicted. My last memory of the flights was seeing the monuments as I flew above Paris. The crazy blank-mindedness was to only grow with time, but the serenity and beauty of the moment made me realize how lucky I was to be in such a special situation.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Sunday, we set out to see the french infantry museum in Montpellier. Two germans and two americans walked across town, befitted with a panoply of jokes and a thimble full of respect for the modern french infantry, or even the entire french military in general. We couldn't help ourselves to pry at some of the french blemishes of the past. Flanks and feints were far from our minds, and the way to a fashionable retreat was what we thought we stood to learn. Nevertheless, despite our jokes, we trekked a few kilometers only to find ourselves at a military base, sight of the museum, with closed gates and abandoned halls. At some point in the recent past, the museum had been closed and, as of now, is in the process of being relocated to a more prime piece of real estate in the area. Perhaps, we should have taken it as proper amends for our jokes and lack of respect during the walk. Or, maybe we were right. An infantry museum in France is similar to the bocci ball club at the ice rink in Louisville, destined for failure. Sometimes it's not the building, but what the building stands for. Of course, the french infantry and military are respectable, as well as warranting a museum, and we were genuinely excited to hopefully see it. But, I can't help strike at what squashed our hopes for a nice, Sunday afternoon. Add one more to the countless times I have walked far for a bona fide cause and walked back after realizing it was, in reality, not possible. At the same time, my frustrations coordinate with an admiration of mine. The french population seems to really relish the present moment. If you spend more time waiting than doing, you might as well enjoy it. Whether sad, mad or happy, the small stuff warrants concentration and effort, passion and interest. I see far fewer sales clerks ignored by busy-body citizens who find whatever errand they might be on as far more important, and warrants more attention, than human interaction and communication. In France, people seem to treat people more as people and less as a means to attain something. The ice cream vendor and/or waitress are people with opinions to be valued, not skills and a "know how" to be exploited. Perhaps, they hold the solution to your problem or confusion, and you hold the same for them. We, as americans, could improve in this matter, in my opinion. That is not to say we are all "scrooges," walking from place to place and spattering humbugs at those we meet, nevertheless, I think we forget, at times, that we are around people and not objects or objectives. If we give a chance and expend some energy, maybe we could have a little more fun.

This past Sunday, football came to France. Throughout my stay, when asked which sports I prefer to play and watch, I have received cold replies, just as I bevy injustices towards soccer, to my life-long attachment to football. So, when I was informed of a Super Bowl party put on by the local, professional football team, I gravitated to it with excitement. Finally, I was to be around a handful of men and women who shared my hardiness for the game.

The game started shortly after half-past midnight Sunday night. Having to be up the next morning for class, I made it to shortly after the start of the third quarter, returning then for a few hours of rest before class the next morning. What did I find? Mostly, it was much as you would see and experience in millions of american homesteads the night of the big game. If one can imagine, or retrieve from memory, the sight of a large quantity of food, beer and stereotypical football fans equipped with a beard and a beer-belly, you have an exact mental image of my setting. The game was viewed on a large projection screen at the far end of a reception hall at the International Relations House, my office. From the screen, spanning more than two-thirds of this rather large hall, were seats for nearly one hundred football rowdies. Towards the back of the room sat the buffet tables, which, although far different from the nachos and hamburgers I am used to on the "Big Night," were filled with excellent, non-healthy, belt-severing appetizers and entrees. The buffet, or at least my abuse of the buffet, was what made my bed look awfully well by the start of halftime. It was interesting to watch the game broadcasted by a french television station. I am convinced that the only thing that sounds more beautiful, as far as languages go, than the french language, is english with a french accent. Needless to say, the names I know so well took on a sweeter tune that night. Other than french being shouted and not english, the fans cheered much the same. Big hits with arms and legs flailing, as well as a high probability of injury, drew the more fervent bursts of enthusiasm on display Sunday night. All in all, the setting and the inhabitants, coupled with the refreshments and the fare, made an excellent evening and a wonderful night's rest.

I understand I have not written in a while, so I will try to update certain things I have done and particular projects and routines I have going on at this moment. My schedule this semester could not be more perfect. Monday and Tuesday are long days, as I total thirteen hours of class between them. Other than that, I have school one other day, Thursday, to give me sixteen hours of classes per week, three days each week. I work Wednesday and Thursday at the same job, doing the same tasks. Recently, I received a new project from a local organization which hopes to promote and celebrate the 150th anniversary of the relationship between Louisville and Montpellier as sister cities. My job is to present Louisville, through photography, personal stories, advertisement, and personal presentation, to the best of my ability and, hopefully, generate some enthusiasm for french students doing the reverse of what I have done. Therefore, if one sees a sudden spike of french-born immigrants to the United States over the next few years, we all know who to thank for it, me. School and work have kept me busy and, overall, very happy for the action.

Socially and culturally, new events have surfaced in my station as well. As of this past weekend, I am the proud owner of a theatre pass which permits me to go to any four plays, concerts, and/or other spectacles, I would choose to choose at the beautiful Place de la Comedie. Last Wednesday, I went to a chinese party for the beginning of the new chinese year. Coming up is the year of the tiger. I'm not sure what this is supposed to symbolize, if anything, but will post any information I find of interest. I am sure I have left something out, but this is all I have for now.

Written 23 January 2010

The following happens often in France. One day, one moment, one series of events, or even a single event, lead to a fresh outlook or insight, which may perhaps be overturned tomorrow or the next day but, at least for now, becomes transparent, over-arching, and complete. Tonight, after eating with friends, a realization set in and it is as follows.

I enjoyed an american majority around the table this evening. Given our superior numbers, we pushed our preponderant agenda and established english as our language for communication. By the time we broke away for the evening, we had weaved a labyrinth of topics: politics, film, art, food, music, social and personal economics, college and our futures. The conversation was comedic, sympathetic, broad, particular and, at times, serious and austere. We would talk of the ridiculous style of fashion during the 80s, then switch to race relations in the United States or religious differences in France. I was at home, in a place I wished to settle as a repetitive part of my life, maintaing the same subjects, thinking abstractly and speaking in an exhibitive, intelligent manner. Yet, I noticed something unsettling about it all, something of a kick or a shiver which awakes one in the midst of a dream to a cold, dark reality. We live separate lives, one french, the other english, with correlating attitudes and personalities. That's not to say at one moment I love fast food and large cars and, the next moment, prefer small cars and foie gras. It's more of a definition of my means and abilities. In french, my world is what I can understand. What I can understand in french is a needle in a needle stack, when compared to my understanding of the english language. What does this mean? While in France, I stay on a fringe, in a mist of ignorance, naivete, and simplicity. Yet, when I have the ability to change to english, I hear what could not at one time be heard or understood. Suddenly, the mist clears and sight returns.

What do I see? Well, I see a darker side of life. I understand stories and experiences of the human appetite for vice, our weaknesses for prejudice and discrimination, our allurements to the debased, sordid sides of ourselves. In short, what I can see and, for once, understand are the problems I know from home. Montpellier is no longer a playground of education and new, fresh experience. Just like any other city, it has it’s cobwebs, it has what most want no part of and would feel completely content with pretending it wasn’t real. It is not that the enlightenment came as a huge surprise, but, for the first time, my cocoon of educational bliss was penetrated. For once, things aren’t so personal, they aren’t so defined by my own comprehension. It’s sobering, that in a place I found so intriguing, so enriching, can be a cesspool of pain, suffering, crime, greed, compulsion, and debauchery. In the end, I am thankful for the station I can claim away from all the madness, separated from severe pain, a situation in which I choose what to take away and what to leave, rather than being stuck in the mire of its woes. I can claim myself as what I make of myself and not what the city does. For this, I am lucky and forever thankful.

Each monday and friday I head southward from my apartment to the center city and my place of occupation, the International Relations House. Three stops and a seven minute tram ride, or nearly thirty minutes by foot and stride, I descend the tram at Le Corum, a tramway stop and major convention center in Montpellier, and begin my ascent of seven flights of stairs to the foot of l'Esplanade de Charles de Gaulle and the street level of downtown Montpellier. Facing the center city, and to the left and right of the staircase which snakes its middle passage up the modernized acropolis, lie Le Corum and La Maison des Relations Internationales, my building, each forming the final border of its respective side. Taking a right from the top step, I find three long, tree-strewn lanes leading through the park, l'Esplanade de Charles de Gaulle, to la Place de la Comedie and the center city and, to my right, a panoramic view of the north side of Montpellier, culminating in a mountain range, les Cevennes, at its far-off horizon. Continuing straight ahead, I pass through a gate and onto a path which leads me from my point of entry through a garden of palm and cypress trees, colorful flowers, and brown park benches, and eventually terminating at the arched entryway of the International Relations House. In the mid-section of each rectangular block of concrete making up the walkway lie marble plaques dedicated to each of Montpellier's sister cities. The building itself lies at the very edge of the right wing of the acropolis, offering the same panoramic view as listed above. Built in a colonial style of red brick, pale blue window boards, and creamy white cornices around each doorway and window, the two-story house is beautiful and picturesque.

Inside and up two flights of stairs, at one end of a narrow passageway, is my place of work. In the center of a large, rectangular room lies the table of my toils, flanked on both sides by two desks, one for the director of students such as myself and the other for a very hard-working, very over-worked secretary. On the opposite side of my position, separated by table and mine and her computer screens, is another office worker. To this day, I am not sure what all they do or if they do all they are there to do. The atmosphere is chatty and convivial, conversation is easy going and time never seems to be lost or squandered. At certain times, the boss of my bosses will come into the room to assign chores and ask for help on one of her seemingly endless projects. Overall the workplace is laid back and ritual. However, when a task duffs its ritual and seeks to be independent and unique, the place, as a result of its habitants, turns colorful, chaotic, and passionate. It's best at these moments to stand aside and keep to yourself lest you become the target or accidental victim of a flailing arm or an indecipherable, yet highly affective and hair raising, tirade my colleagues possessedly fall victim to.

As far as my tasks go, I run documents over to the hotel de ville, the sight of many government big timers, and research and/or suggest possible events or activities that link Louisville and Montpellier. I write articles on upcoming events and track down possible sources of coming-togetherness between the two cities. My research and writing has included the Derby, football, baseball, Kentucky bourbon, Joan Baez, writers from Louisville, Thanksgiving traditions, and, my personal favorite, Buffalo Bill. Today was a good day. To test the fluency of possible french exchange students to the United States, I had to make an english exam. I can proudly say I did not let the sudden power go to my head. I created a very thorough, but not extremely difficult or tricky exam made up of grammar, as well as, reading and writing comprehension segments. It was nice to be the warden for once and not the prisoner.

My sole ambition today was to re-introduce myself to the city I absented myself from for the past month. As if the quite pungent visit to my packed, poorly circulated gym without, at this moment, a serviceable air-conditioner was not enough to thoroughly satisfy me that, indeed, I was back in France, as well as service me with enough culture shock to keep me secluded in my room for the next week, I took to the streets tonight to see the town after dark. Montpellier puts on a new face after dark. During the day the city is a busy town: people hurrying from place to place, scents emanating from cafes, street vendors, and unscrupulous washers, sights of sunshine, brightly colored graffiti, the yellowish, cream coloring of stucco offset by roofs of navy blue, black, and red spanish tiling create a quite chaotic atmosphere. As the sun fades, the life, the color, the scars of a town packed with college students shed their poignancy; the city polishes and bathes itself in the white, golden hue of it's lights. The well-trodden town takes a much needed break from the pounding of its promenading populace, licks its wounds and offers a wonderful show for those who wish to partake. Its morphosis is complete and dramatic, ever evolving from that which thrusts itself upon you by day and coddles and pampers you by night. Throngs of busy-bodies going each and every direction are replaced by couples, groups of men and women with interlocked arms, the lonely photographer, those lost in sight, thought, and sensation, all quietly enjoying a private reunion with the streets and buildings they may know so well, yet appreciate only seldom. Shadow and darkness create a scene of the surreal as churches, cinemas, private dwellings, fountains and parks transform to literary, cinematic objects where beauty and perfection transport the viewer to heightened, dramatic senses of seemingly fictitious splendor. Perhaps one must read a book or watch a movie which romantically portrays the ambience of a European city to get this feeling. I know I feel it each time I am in the city at night. I feel a part of a world where its beauty and mystery can never be mastered, never understood or found dull, uninteresting, or uninspiring, a world apart which has a firmer grip on me than I have on it..

Written 15 January 2010 at 11;35 am Montpellier Time

I am glad I waited till today to write a blog. I can tell my story as a detached outsider looking back in time at a pitiful, distraught, and pained young man without being him, without being the story, as a mediator with a keyboard writing to mend the incongruence of yesterday's passion and pain with today's more settled perspective and outlook. The melancholic mists of despair dissipated with the night's rest and the morning's coffee and rising sun; I can be my own judge today, can escape being the prey of my fears and loneliness.

The fatigue of overseas travel will be my scapegoat, for I choose not to think I can be as emotional as I was yesterday without a dose of extraordinary circumstance. Nonetheless, I felt as if my world had fallen apart. Lonely, pathetic, miserable, disheartened, I moped from flight to flight, train to train, hoping for an invisible hand of fate to come down from the skies, scoop me up and drop me back in my home with friends and family. Needless to say, the hand of my escape never heard my cry for help, either taking a day off or being too busy with others in more desperate situations, I arrived at my planned destination last night at 7:30. I couldn't and can't help how I felt. I tell myself to stop each time, to be a man, to stiffen the upper lip and take what is on my plate without grimace or reservation. Each time, I am swept away by the moment, by the loss of those I left and will not see for some time. I know the time is not long and the situation I go into is not horrible, but it is not home and it is not with the ones I love, therefore, I come kicking and screaming. The frenchmen and women I see along my way become the handlers and creators of my pain, I glare at them with spite and malice, asking myself why I would want to leave loved ones in favor of the company of such miscreants. I tell myself the feeling will pass, tomorrow and the next day will be better, but, in the moment, I seem to be stuck in a quick sand of sadness that will not leave until it has sucked every last ounce of life out of me. This is how I felt; I can't claim it as mature or reasonable, it is what it is and will be how it is as long as I have leave those I love.

I feel better today, a little less lonely, a little more occupied by what I want to accomplish here, and, overall, like the French. I grew and grow to hate the feeling of yesterday, the way I am each time I leave my home. I wish it was as I feel today as part of a new chapter, the inevitable turn of a page at the end of another that creates a more beautiful, full, and better story.