Two weeks ago, I landed in America and immediately discovered, less than two hours later, that I could not sleep. It was funny to me because everyone, including myself, assumed that it was due to jet lag, time difference, and the commencement of a period of adjustment. Nobody thought it was because I was simply nervous, or that I was simply afraid, or that I had something interesting to say or think or that my situation was unique. Because my situation is not unique.
I have heard it said by undisclosed sources that one of every four students who accepts the TAPIF program leaves it within the first three months because of financial stress, severe lack of job satisfaction, or the ordinary, inevitable quarter-life crisis that grips a large majority of twenty-somethings of my generation. When relatives and friends hear the real story of what happened to me in France, they shake their heads and are unsurprised that I left. How could anyone survive on a visa that only permits 12 hours of work a week? You are such a courageous girl because you tried anyway. You are so much better than me. I would never have gone in the first place, and I certainly wouldn't have had the sense to come back. You should hardly feel the way you do. You are young and talented and motivated and you have so much to give and so much time to give it and ... and... and...
This morning, I was watching the news - Good Morning, America, perhaps one of the most famous morning shows of all time - with my beloved mother. Toward the end of the broadcast, one of the four anchors announced a headline that sounded a little something like this:
"Has your recent college grad moved back home with you? Here's the scoop on why Generation Y is so unsuccessful and career-stunted."
We never heard the story because Good Morning, America went on a commercial break, my mother painstakingly turned off the television, turned to me and said, "You know I don't think that, right?"
Of course I know my mother doesn't think that. She loves me and supports me and my parents have been two of those rare individuals that don't care when their children make mistakes because they know that mistakes are necessary in order to become functional human beings. My parents have other problems, but failing to support their children is certainly not one of them. My mother especially has made it a point to let my sisters and I know that we are loved and brimming with possibility, and that no matter what we want out of life we will find a way to be successful. We are, after all, her daughters, so we have that same tenacity she possesses in spades. We were brought up with the words, "The worst thing they can say is no!" echoing in our ears when we came to Mom crying upon reaching what appeared to be an impenetrable brick wall built by humans who wanted to shut us down. In other words, Mom believes there is always an intrinsic value in the art of trying.
But I didn't start writing this post to extol my mother's virtues, no, I began writing it because I am overwhelmingly hopeless and irritated with the fact that society and my culture as a whole now considers me to be another negative statistic and a stain upon the already crimson American reputation. I toss and turn at night because I am not alone, and while there is comfort in this knowledge, there is also great responsibility. I am one of thousands of disenfranchised American youth, who is about to spend an unknowable length of time in her least favorite place in the universe because I made a long and thoughtful string of mistakes that began my freshman year in college and that nobody told me were important to rectify and rectify soon. I could go ahead and make a list, and say, "Nobody told me networking was the bread and butter of the adult world" and express remorse about being foolish and moody and buy into Good Morning, America's ridiculously insensitive broadcast about my generation's inability to launch. Or, I could start to learn again. I could rebuild. I could try new recipes and take free classes. I could try to make plans that may not work out. I could put all my hopes and dreams in a little box and package them up into resumes and cover letters and hope that someone will take a chance on me. I can be miserable living in my teenage bedroom where the wallpaper is tacky and the colors are inherently and awfully nineties themed. I'll fill up the gas tank and complain about my hometown's horrifying lack of public transportation, missing out on dancing and falling in love and constantly feel like I am missing out on life while some lucky American 20-somethings get apartments and jobs and connections.
But I will not sit idly by and accept this fate I have made for myself, for my mother taught me two great things in this young life. The first I have already told you: "The worst they can say is no." The second is that we must all learn to accept the decisions we make, no matter how difficult. And accepting a decision means watching talk shows that rag on your judgment and going to friend's birthday parties where they say, "Well, if you had just stayed in France..." and going to your childhood church and watching the horrible looks on people's faces when they realize their poster child is a nice little miniature failure.
Well, America, this kind of short-term failure is a reality for hundreds of thousands of cum laude private college graduates without money or prospects.
I could keep spouting my twenty-two year old wisdom and wax nostalgic about the things 2013 has and hasn't done for me, and I could look back upon where I was a year ago and be utterly speechless and afraid. (I could also continue to write poorly constructed sentences that involved more "ands" than substance...) It is a difficult thing to have one's future determined by the moods of other people we cannot control. I'm in a proverbial waiting room; the limbo that didn't really exist before 2005 where smart people who deserve a chance don't get one.
I'm angry at a lot of things right now, including myself. I could spend countless hours making lists of all the ways people and institutions failed me, but that would be an incredible waste of my intellect and motivation. So instead, I am going to start, right now, to be creative and innovative. That's what Americans do when we get scared and want to run for the hills. Somewhere in this mess is a way out. And while I have no idea what or where it is, I do know I got a lot of wonderful books for Christmas and culture and the economy and management and foreign affairs and American history, and that reading has always seemed like a great place to start.
Here we go, 2014 - a very good place to start learning the art of trying.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
The City Both Curious and Quirky
It is my last full day in Nantes, and as I sit here amongst the colorful autumn leaves on a stone swirled bench outside the city's famous fortified medieval castle walls, it occurs to me that I have never properly explained or described this city in all its wonderful and particular eccentricities. It seems fitting then, that I at last take time to depict to you this place as it appears to my eyes, which I admit, will differ greatly from the way most in my cohort may see it.
My first impressions of this city were summed up in one word: curious. Nantes is a city that does not live in the present. But unlike Paris, which has a distinctly historical and beautiful feel, Nantes is all about the future. It is always changing, transforming, under construction. New apartments are added daily, old buildings are razed, new bus routes are sketched and the residents are largely optimistic for the future of their little French metropolis. Like many French people from the "lesser" French cities, I find the Nantais (nahn-tay - people who live in Nantes) to be fiercely proud of their city. Many or most of them could never imagine life elsewhere and they do not wish to. To buff the city's ego, it has been named the "green capital of Europe", a title all are proud of. This means the ville is characterized by more parks and green spaces than anywhere else in Europe, that there is huge respect for recycling and organic food, that bicycles are everywhere, and public transit is king.
What's more, Nantes is the modern capital of the province Pays-de-la-Loire (pay-duh-la-lwar, meaning "countries of the Loire", which is the major river running through Nantes), but its cultural and historical allegiance is with Bretagne, a province in the northwest corner of France, of which Nantes was the capital until country redistribution after the first world war. Consequently, Nantes is the cultural melting pot of northern France, as nearly everyone is at least part Breton in both blood and spirit - well, and culinarily, too. Crêpes are more common here than anywhere else in France.
So Nantes is eternally caught between multiple identities - Breton vs. French, old vs. new, and Protestant vs. Catholic (the Edict of Nantes, the first document of pan-Christian tolerance, was signed in Nantes in 1598). This means that defining it like one can define Paris or Marseille is an all-but-impossible task. In order to do so, the Nantais turn to the river - the mighty Loire - which, for so long, gave Nantes is principal identity: the most important port in all of France.
Nantes took part in some of the most horrifying atrocities ever committed by the Western world. It was the French capital of the slave trade, an important stop for the Crusades, rich in battlefields from the Hundred Years' War, and struggled with Nazi collaboration in the Second World War. Unlike Paris, however, a city guilty of all these sins and more, Nantes is overwhelmingly open in its acknowledgement of its participation in these crimes, and actively promotes the education of these topics. It cites its faults, explains their maliciousness, and hopes to move on to a bright future of acceptance and tolerance. And it is why Nantes seems to be caught between two eras; heavily bombed during the World War II, one building may be preserved in all its seventeenth century glory while the one just next to it may be newly constructed.
There is much more I could say about Nantes' history, for it is multifaceted and captivating, but I won't bore you with such trivial tidbits, for the Nantes of today is incredibly unique and quirky. I call it quirky for several reasons, but chief among them being the random objects of art that are often scattered about the city, including moving giant elephants, sculptures of measuring tape, tiny sandcastles with faceless dolls, and the like. It is a bizarre little place, but the residents boast of it with fierce pride. It has a special kind of liqueur and a special kind of cake, and to make matters ever more exciting for your wasitline, it has a special kind of cookie famously titled the "LU" (which makes me giggle, as a Lawrentian).
I didn't fall in love with Nantes the way I fell in love with Paris, of course, but I did learn to live with it. I was frustrated by the governmental incapabilities and irritated by the fact that everything is closed on Sundays (in Paris, this was once the tradition, but is no longer true, so it is very convenient to live in Paris). I missed buses, encountered train strikes, and took a tram whose path was once obscured by a drunk driver attempting to get home (long story). The rhythm of life in Nantes is quirky and slow. But Nantes is also effortlessly French. Less elegant, far less beautiful, but cleaner and unique, it is not Paris. Regardless, it is lovely.
Nantes is the place where I first got lost: with my sense of self, with my sense of friends, with my sense of family, and with my sense of work. Yet, after three months in the place, all these uphill battles made me realize what I want out of life, which is something Paris never did. Maybe someday I will return to it, this city where a castle is a favorite meetup place and the giant mechanical elephant can be seen from across the ile de la cité. But for now, it rests in my imagination as the crossroads for French history and culture, and I am privileged to have lived there, if only for less than ninety days.
My first impressions of this city were summed up in one word: curious. Nantes is a city that does not live in the present. But unlike Paris, which has a distinctly historical and beautiful feel, Nantes is all about the future. It is always changing, transforming, under construction. New apartments are added daily, old buildings are razed, new bus routes are sketched and the residents are largely optimistic for the future of their little French metropolis. Like many French people from the "lesser" French cities, I find the Nantais (nahn-tay - people who live in Nantes) to be fiercely proud of their city. Many or most of them could never imagine life elsewhere and they do not wish to. To buff the city's ego, it has been named the "green capital of Europe", a title all are proud of. This means the ville is characterized by more parks and green spaces than anywhere else in Europe, that there is huge respect for recycling and organic food, that bicycles are everywhere, and public transit is king.
What's more, Nantes is the modern capital of the province Pays-de-la-Loire (pay-duh-la-lwar, meaning "countries of the Loire", which is the major river running through Nantes), but its cultural and historical allegiance is with Bretagne, a province in the northwest corner of France, of which Nantes was the capital until country redistribution after the first world war. Consequently, Nantes is the cultural melting pot of northern France, as nearly everyone is at least part Breton in both blood and spirit - well, and culinarily, too. Crêpes are more common here than anywhere else in France.
So Nantes is eternally caught between multiple identities - Breton vs. French, old vs. new, and Protestant vs. Catholic (the Edict of Nantes, the first document of pan-Christian tolerance, was signed in Nantes in 1598). This means that defining it like one can define Paris or Marseille is an all-but-impossible task. In order to do so, the Nantais turn to the river - the mighty Loire - which, for so long, gave Nantes is principal identity: the most important port in all of France.
Nantes took part in some of the most horrifying atrocities ever committed by the Western world. It was the French capital of the slave trade, an important stop for the Crusades, rich in battlefields from the Hundred Years' War, and struggled with Nazi collaboration in the Second World War. Unlike Paris, however, a city guilty of all these sins and more, Nantes is overwhelmingly open in its acknowledgement of its participation in these crimes, and actively promotes the education of these topics. It cites its faults, explains their maliciousness, and hopes to move on to a bright future of acceptance and tolerance. And it is why Nantes seems to be caught between two eras; heavily bombed during the World War II, one building may be preserved in all its seventeenth century glory while the one just next to it may be newly constructed.
There is much more I could say about Nantes' history, for it is multifaceted and captivating, but I won't bore you with such trivial tidbits, for the Nantes of today is incredibly unique and quirky. I call it quirky for several reasons, but chief among them being the random objects of art that are often scattered about the city, including moving giant elephants, sculptures of measuring tape, tiny sandcastles with faceless dolls, and the like. It is a bizarre little place, but the residents boast of it with fierce pride. It has a special kind of liqueur and a special kind of cake, and to make matters ever more exciting for your wasitline, it has a special kind of cookie famously titled the "LU" (which makes me giggle, as a Lawrentian).
I didn't fall in love with Nantes the way I fell in love with Paris, of course, but I did learn to live with it. I was frustrated by the governmental incapabilities and irritated by the fact that everything is closed on Sundays (in Paris, this was once the tradition, but is no longer true, so it is very convenient to live in Paris). I missed buses, encountered train strikes, and took a tram whose path was once obscured by a drunk driver attempting to get home (long story). The rhythm of life in Nantes is quirky and slow. But Nantes is also effortlessly French. Less elegant, far less beautiful, but cleaner and unique, it is not Paris. Regardless, it is lovely.
Nantes is the place where I first got lost: with my sense of self, with my sense of friends, with my sense of family, and with my sense of work. Yet, after three months in the place, all these uphill battles made me realize what I want out of life, which is something Paris never did. Maybe someday I will return to it, this city where a castle is a favorite meetup place and the giant mechanical elephant can be seen from across the ile de la cité. But for now, it rests in my imagination as the crossroads for French history and culture, and I am privileged to have lived there, if only for less than ninety days.
Friday, December 13, 2013
The Act of Leaving
I rounded the corner in a fevered rush as the fog seeped over the buildings. At this time of day before the trains arrive, the town gets dim and soundless. The businesses close and the people go home and the moon shines through my bones. There was only one shop still open as I passed it, its lights overwhelmingly bright in the hazy late twilight of a French winter's day. The place in question had a rather mixed identity for a boutique - indeed, it appeared to feature leather cleaning, watch-making, and various jewelry services. Just behind the thick glass window, a workman busied himself with the repair of an enormous antique clock. From the corner of my eye I watched him, slowing down my pace until I reached the curved nook beside the shop. It seemed to me that he had stopped time, and I stood breathless as I watched him. I had passed him by every single morning and every single night that I worked in La Roche-sur-Yon, this provincial French town where the passage of time is indeed very slow and perhaps stuck two hundred years in the past. It was not until that evening, however hazy it was, that I noticed the passage of time. It was as though that little watch repairman was responsible for the passage of all the things that changed me and warped me and failed and succeeded.
It was my last day teaching high school students in La Roche-sur-Yon, and I was angry. I was angry and frustrated and bored and happy and loved - the great conglomeration of all the emotions I have felt during my time working here. Yesterday was the culmination of everything I have experienced in the approximate 120 days of my life in France, round two. I woke up to find out that there was a train strike. When at last I took the first train to the town, the locomotive that was assigned to drive it was broken. As such, I waited another forty minutes in the train for it to start moving. Of course there would be a train strike on my last day of work. It was France, after all, and almost like the country was saying goodbye to me with a less than exciting farewell gift.
I ran from the train station and into the high school, where it was the middle of an empty period for some of my favorite students. As I burst through the doors, they all started laughing and smiling at me, the smiles of people who know that the last of something was about to begin. We entered an empty classroom. What happened next was a flurry of emotion and a stream of tears.
About two weeks ago, I taught them a lesson called "Mixtape". It was an easy lesson about music, and I believe it was the first time they realized I was "cool". We watched a cute video about a boy who made a mixtape for a girl, we came up with our own playlist, listened to the songs, and analyzed the lyrics. One student asked me, "Kathryn, why would someone make a playlist or a mixed tape for someone else?" I replied, "In America, it means that you care about that person. You thought enough to compile a list of music you know they'd like, to tell them you like them and want to get to know them better."
You can only imagine the growing size of my heart, then, when they handed me a CD of their favorite French songs - songs that make them think of me, me of them, songs they made me play in the classroom in the five minutes we often had left, songs that were about dancing and sardines and living far away and coming to America. It was a priceless moment from a misfit band of teenagers I shall never forget.
The rest of my day was, as I say, a reflection on all the other days I had. Classes were cancelled. I conducted oral exams with some surly girls who refused to answer my questions and told me they hated English. I lost control of my last class with the drama kids. However, as last things are won't to do, I was endeared to my experience more than I have been these past three months. Instead of expressing frustration at a cancelled class, I ran into three of my students in the hallway, where we sat down and chatted for over an hour about their lives and their aspirations. Instead of chastising the negative attitudes of the girls in my oral exam, I let them go early with a little verbal slap on the wrist, "You know, if you improve your English, you could enjoy YouTube a little more." I sloughed off the silly, crazy, loud girl in my 5-6 p.m. class who always irritated me before.
For weeks now, I've told my friends and family that I will feel guilty about leaving these teenagers. It is the forthright complaint of anyone who works with children. You grow attached to them, you want to see them get better and become greater people, and you feel extreme remorse for leaving them to go on their way without you. I felt horrible last night, tossing and turning in my bed, trying to sleep with a million things on my mind, imagining their lives without an English assistant. Had I taught them anything? Had I taught them enough? Was I enough? The words of one of my students rang over and over in my head. "Kathryn, you taught us life lessons. We learned how to be better as people."
The way that thick French accent of hers ripped through the air tugged at the very center of my heart. I had done that?
Three months ago, I came to France in search of a lot of things, but namely, myself. I had no idea what I wanted out of life or who I could be, so it made sense to go back to the last place in the world where I was incandescently happy. This time around, it was nothing but struggle and heartache and a world of harsh reality. I made many mistakes in both my personal life and my work life and I came to find the things in life that make me happy. (And the things that don't.) It gave me time on my own, away from school and a crazy job, to soul-search, wander, and think. It was difficult but was exactly what I needed.
Here are some things I have learned:
It was my last day teaching high school students in La Roche-sur-Yon, and I was angry. I was angry and frustrated and bored and happy and loved - the great conglomeration of all the emotions I have felt during my time working here. Yesterday was the culmination of everything I have experienced in the approximate 120 days of my life in France, round two. I woke up to find out that there was a train strike. When at last I took the first train to the town, the locomotive that was assigned to drive it was broken. As such, I waited another forty minutes in the train for it to start moving. Of course there would be a train strike on my last day of work. It was France, after all, and almost like the country was saying goodbye to me with a less than exciting farewell gift.
I ran from the train station and into the high school, where it was the middle of an empty period for some of my favorite students. As I burst through the doors, they all started laughing and smiling at me, the smiles of people who know that the last of something was about to begin. We entered an empty classroom. What happened next was a flurry of emotion and a stream of tears.
About two weeks ago, I taught them a lesson called "Mixtape". It was an easy lesson about music, and I believe it was the first time they realized I was "cool". We watched a cute video about a boy who made a mixtape for a girl, we came up with our own playlist, listened to the songs, and analyzed the lyrics. One student asked me, "Kathryn, why would someone make a playlist or a mixed tape for someone else?" I replied, "In America, it means that you care about that person. You thought enough to compile a list of music you know they'd like, to tell them you like them and want to get to know them better."
You can only imagine the growing size of my heart, then, when they handed me a CD of their favorite French songs - songs that make them think of me, me of them, songs they made me play in the classroom in the five minutes we often had left, songs that were about dancing and sardines and living far away and coming to America. It was a priceless moment from a misfit band of teenagers I shall never forget.
The rest of my day was, as I say, a reflection on all the other days I had. Classes were cancelled. I conducted oral exams with some surly girls who refused to answer my questions and told me they hated English. I lost control of my last class with the drama kids. However, as last things are won't to do, I was endeared to my experience more than I have been these past three months. Instead of expressing frustration at a cancelled class, I ran into three of my students in the hallway, where we sat down and chatted for over an hour about their lives and their aspirations. Instead of chastising the negative attitudes of the girls in my oral exam, I let them go early with a little verbal slap on the wrist, "You know, if you improve your English, you could enjoy YouTube a little more." I sloughed off the silly, crazy, loud girl in my 5-6 p.m. class who always irritated me before.
For weeks now, I've told my friends and family that I will feel guilty about leaving these teenagers. It is the forthright complaint of anyone who works with children. You grow attached to them, you want to see them get better and become greater people, and you feel extreme remorse for leaving them to go on their way without you. I felt horrible last night, tossing and turning in my bed, trying to sleep with a million things on my mind, imagining their lives without an English assistant. Had I taught them anything? Had I taught them enough? Was I enough? The words of one of my students rang over and over in my head. "Kathryn, you taught us life lessons. We learned how to be better as people."
The way that thick French accent of hers ripped through the air tugged at the very center of my heart. I had done that?
Three months ago, I came to France in search of a lot of things, but namely, myself. I had no idea what I wanted out of life or who I could be, so it made sense to go back to the last place in the world where I was incandescently happy. This time around, it was nothing but struggle and heartache and a world of harsh reality. I made many mistakes in both my personal life and my work life and I came to find the things in life that make me happy. (And the things that don't.) It gave me time on my own, away from school and a crazy job, to soul-search, wander, and think. It was difficult but was exactly what I needed.
Here are some things I have learned:
- I really like living alone and having my own space.
- Spending extra money on an apartment that is a good fit and safe is worth it.
- Traveling is always worth it.
- Contacts, friends, acquaintances, and networking are some of the greatest things you have in this world. They are everything. Do not burn bridges.
- Spend more time being grateful for the things you have in your life.
- Coffee is always necessary.
- Praying is always necessary.
- Reliable phone service and internet service are crucial.
- I do not enjoy teaching, but I love working with students.
- If you need help, ask.
- Mom is always right.
- You don't need a dryer for your clothes.
- Never question God.
- Sometimes you have to eat food that is bad for you to feel better. And that is really okay.
- I need to be dancing, and I need to have music in my life. End of story.
- Exercise is really good for you and prevents health problems.
- If you splurge on something, splurge on practical (but cute) shoes.
- Being financially responsible is paramount.
- Learning, reading, and trying new things are essential.
- Remember that you are loved, and that there are an incredible number of people in this world who want to help you.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Quintessentially French: Angers and Me
I walked from the train station in a labored gait not uncommonly seen in the early mornings of northern France. I was freezing and two steps from lost. It was still dark as pitch in the sky - that time of morning where the moon has left and the sun has not yet arrived. I was in search of the Office du Tourisme, since I understood it was in the center of town and had free maps. But when the clouds cleared and the fog rolled over between the hills and the river, I didn't since the Office du Tourisme. I saw a towering fortress, foreboding and cold, hidden behind a cathedral in the creases of time.
This is Angers (ahn-jay), of the ancient and notorious Anjou region of France. Today it is a humble town about the size of Madison, Wisconsin, all but forgotten to non-European tourists. Nestled in the fertile Loire valley, it was the northern capital of France up until the late medieval period. In the 8th century, there was no such thing as Paris. There was only Angers, Bordeaux, and Lyon, which operated diverse and complex manufacturing and trade routes between each other, Rome, and Madrid. Paris was still a muddy marsh, occupied by the Celts and the Gauls. By contrast, Angers was a glorious city of dukes, princesses, monks, bishops, and merchants. The court of Anjou, situated at Angers, played an important role in fostering culture - most notably in poetry, the writing and translation of religious texts, and music. In a one hundred mile radius surrounding, the city, there are more than one dozen castles, dating from the Carolingian period to the nineteenth century Napoleonic nobles, including a place called Chenonceau (sheh-nawn-so) which was the inspiration for Charles Perrault's classic tale The Sleeping Beauty. It was in Angers that the first world-famous French liqueurs were invented: cointreau, chartreuse, crème de menthe, and crème de poire were all first distilled in this river valley surrounding the village and the medieval castle houses the largest European tapestry ever stitched: la Tapisserie de l'Apocalypse (The Apocalypse Tapestry), which depicts the entire book of Revelation and took fifteen years to complete. If these things aren't enough to illustrate Angers' cultural significance, just google fleur-de-lys. They grow wild here, and this insignia of all things French was first etched into the Anjou family coat of arms on the banks of the river Maine in 1048.
Angers is the quintessential French city, and in case it wasn't endearing enough, it had a special place in Thomas Jefferson's heart - and stomach. His favorite restaurant, Le Jongleur isn't well-known in the slightest; it doesn't even exist on the website TripAdvisor. But it is certainly proud of the famous statesman who frequented it. They have an entire part of the menu devoted to his favorite eats - deep red wine from Anjou, a chocolate, pear, and cointreau tarte, a potato dish called tartiflette, and French rotisserie cornish hen. Neither my wallet nor my waistline could afford to eat all of that, but I did indulge in the tarte, and unsurprisingly, my favorite founding father has great taste.
I sat in the café and participated in one of my favorite activities which, incidentally, is overwhelmingly French: people-watching. The best time to people-watch in Europe is by far Christmas time: the streets come alive with families and shoppers, couples and best friends. There are lights even during the day, every town has a Christmas market, and children spin around on carousels in the town squares. It is the indescribably wonderful feeling of happiness that possesses the residents of France at this time of year, no matter where they are living. While I luxuriated in my solitude today, a little piece of me wished I had my family or my special someone to hold close while we drank our little cups of espresso on a chilly afternoon. Angers seemed to lend itself to the kind of warm familiarity everyone wants in their hometown, but also the kind of culture that makes it accessible and exciting.
What I also loved about Angers was its free museums, the quality of which I haven't seen since my last visit to Paris. Nantes' art and history museums are closed for renovation (except the one I visited in my last blog post) until the end of 2014, so one of my favorite things about France - its commitment to the fine arts - has been sorely missing from my French experience. And not only were the museums free for me, but the conservatory of Angers, which specializes in the education of Gregorian chant, was hosting a free workshop followed by a viola de gamba concert in a fifth century chapel that had an exhibition of monks' translations of the Bible in old French and Latin.
When I came to France, I had no plans to join a choir or keep dancing or do anything artistic, and quite honestly that was probably one of the biggest mistakes I had ever made. While I found out during my university years that being a professional singer/dancer is not only unattainable for a variety of reasons but also not something I had the strength to do. As such, I thought perhaps it was a foolish idea to practice them to begin with, so I figured I would all but eradicate them from my life. What endured were three of the unhappiest months I have ever lived because I was far from the things I enjoy and could find nobody around me who similarly loved them. I would say, "I'm a musician" or "I'm a dancer", and others would say, "That's cool", or "I used to play (insert instrument here)" or "When I was little, I danced". There was no reason to pursue these activities, so I thought it was time to ignore them. Today, I especially discovered that they are a part of me - a part of my soul and my head that I cannot live without, no matter where I am on this planet. I need art.
Yes, Angers was full of pleasant surprises and the perfect day trip from Nantes - even if intolerably cold. It filled a void that has overpowered me for quite some time: learning. Today, I actively learned for the first time in months. I took a French lecture tour (also free!) of the castle in French, remembered how to decode ancient neumes in the voice workshop, and chatted with a restaurant owner about our favorite American diplomat. Angers doesn't feature any regional delicacy in particular, but has all the great things about French food available at any restaurant at the drop of a hat. There's hardly anything "stand out" about it. There's no Eiffel Tower or luminous beach or duty free casino or incredible scenery. But it is just wordlessly French. It's that je ne sais quoi identifier that really has no adjectives. And if Angers is effortlessly French, then it is also effortlessly, well Katie, too, and all just a short train ride away.
I may not have had the luxury of visiting far off and extraordinary places in Europe or its environs. In fact, if I measure my time in France these past three months by the places I've traveled to, I would find myself completely unfulfilled. I didn't visit any of the places on my "hit" list: London, Dublin, Copenhagen, Geneva, Rome, Barcelona, and Casablanca remain undiscovered by this 20-something francophile, and while I desperately wish I had both money and time to spend and visit, I don't. I can't change the fact that I am still disgustingly under-travelled compared to my friends. But if this little moment in Angers has illuminated something to me, it's that I still have the better part of my life to witness the history of those places. This three month period is probably one of the last times I will ever travel to France, so making the most of my time here, in the country I first learned to love myself and began to realize my life's ambition, makes sense. Who knows? Maybe I'm the next, modern day Thomas Jefferson, and will someday have a menu named after me in the humbling town of Angers.
It doesn't hurt to dream.
This is Angers (ahn-jay), of the ancient and notorious Anjou region of France. Today it is a humble town about the size of Madison, Wisconsin, all but forgotten to non-European tourists. Nestled in the fertile Loire valley, it was the northern capital of France up until the late medieval period. In the 8th century, there was no such thing as Paris. There was only Angers, Bordeaux, and Lyon, which operated diverse and complex manufacturing and trade routes between each other, Rome, and Madrid. Paris was still a muddy marsh, occupied by the Celts and the Gauls. By contrast, Angers was a glorious city of dukes, princesses, monks, bishops, and merchants. The court of Anjou, situated at Angers, played an important role in fostering culture - most notably in poetry, the writing and translation of religious texts, and music. In a one hundred mile radius surrounding, the city, there are more than one dozen castles, dating from the Carolingian period to the nineteenth century Napoleonic nobles, including a place called Chenonceau (sheh-nawn-so) which was the inspiration for Charles Perrault's classic tale The Sleeping Beauty. It was in Angers that the first world-famous French liqueurs were invented: cointreau, chartreuse, crème de menthe, and crème de poire were all first distilled in this river valley surrounding the village and the medieval castle houses the largest European tapestry ever stitched: la Tapisserie de l'Apocalypse (The Apocalypse Tapestry), which depicts the entire book of Revelation and took fifteen years to complete. If these things aren't enough to illustrate Angers' cultural significance, just google fleur-de-lys. They grow wild here, and this insignia of all things French was first etched into the Anjou family coat of arms on the banks of the river Maine in 1048.
Angers is the quintessential French city, and in case it wasn't endearing enough, it had a special place in Thomas Jefferson's heart - and stomach. His favorite restaurant, Le Jongleur isn't well-known in the slightest; it doesn't even exist on the website TripAdvisor. But it is certainly proud of the famous statesman who frequented it. They have an entire part of the menu devoted to his favorite eats - deep red wine from Anjou, a chocolate, pear, and cointreau tarte, a potato dish called tartiflette, and French rotisserie cornish hen. Neither my wallet nor my waistline could afford to eat all of that, but I did indulge in the tarte, and unsurprisingly, my favorite founding father has great taste.
I sat in the café and participated in one of my favorite activities which, incidentally, is overwhelmingly French: people-watching. The best time to people-watch in Europe is by far Christmas time: the streets come alive with families and shoppers, couples and best friends. There are lights even during the day, every town has a Christmas market, and children spin around on carousels in the town squares. It is the indescribably wonderful feeling of happiness that possesses the residents of France at this time of year, no matter where they are living. While I luxuriated in my solitude today, a little piece of me wished I had my family or my special someone to hold close while we drank our little cups of espresso on a chilly afternoon. Angers seemed to lend itself to the kind of warm familiarity everyone wants in their hometown, but also the kind of culture that makes it accessible and exciting.
What I also loved about Angers was its free museums, the quality of which I haven't seen since my last visit to Paris. Nantes' art and history museums are closed for renovation (except the one I visited in my last blog post) until the end of 2014, so one of my favorite things about France - its commitment to the fine arts - has been sorely missing from my French experience. And not only were the museums free for me, but the conservatory of Angers, which specializes in the education of Gregorian chant, was hosting a free workshop followed by a viola de gamba concert in a fifth century chapel that had an exhibition of monks' translations of the Bible in old French and Latin.
When I came to France, I had no plans to join a choir or keep dancing or do anything artistic, and quite honestly that was probably one of the biggest mistakes I had ever made. While I found out during my university years that being a professional singer/dancer is not only unattainable for a variety of reasons but also not something I had the strength to do. As such, I thought perhaps it was a foolish idea to practice them to begin with, so I figured I would all but eradicate them from my life. What endured were three of the unhappiest months I have ever lived because I was far from the things I enjoy and could find nobody around me who similarly loved them. I would say, "I'm a musician" or "I'm a dancer", and others would say, "That's cool", or "I used to play (insert instrument here)" or "When I was little, I danced". There was no reason to pursue these activities, so I thought it was time to ignore them. Today, I especially discovered that they are a part of me - a part of my soul and my head that I cannot live without, no matter where I am on this planet. I need art.
Yes, Angers was full of pleasant surprises and the perfect day trip from Nantes - even if intolerably cold. It filled a void that has overpowered me for quite some time: learning. Today, I actively learned for the first time in months. I took a French lecture tour (also free!) of the castle in French, remembered how to decode ancient neumes in the voice workshop, and chatted with a restaurant owner about our favorite American diplomat. Angers doesn't feature any regional delicacy in particular, but has all the great things about French food available at any restaurant at the drop of a hat. There's hardly anything "stand out" about it. There's no Eiffel Tower or luminous beach or duty free casino or incredible scenery. But it is just wordlessly French. It's that je ne sais quoi identifier that really has no adjectives. And if Angers is effortlessly French, then it is also effortlessly, well Katie, too, and all just a short train ride away.
I may not have had the luxury of visiting far off and extraordinary places in Europe or its environs. In fact, if I measure my time in France these past three months by the places I've traveled to, I would find myself completely unfulfilled. I didn't visit any of the places on my "hit" list: London, Dublin, Copenhagen, Geneva, Rome, Barcelona, and Casablanca remain undiscovered by this 20-something francophile, and while I desperately wish I had both money and time to spend and visit, I don't. I can't change the fact that I am still disgustingly under-travelled compared to my friends. But if this little moment in Angers has illuminated something to me, it's that I still have the better part of my life to witness the history of those places. This three month period is probably one of the last times I will ever travel to France, so making the most of my time here, in the country I first learned to love myself and began to realize my life's ambition, makes sense. Who knows? Maybe I'm the next, modern day Thomas Jefferson, and will someday have a menu named after me in the humbling town of Angers.
It doesn't hurt to dream.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
In the Steps of Terrible Men
I have always placed a very high value on knowledge and its
acquisition. I’ve been in France for three months now and while I have gathered
quite a bit of practical knowledge (like how to use a French kitchen, translate
centimeters to inches, and how to go about the search for apartments), it
wasn’t until last night that I truly acquired my most favorite kind: cultural
knowledge.
Everyone knows I adore culture. I love learning and
analyzing and comparing one culture to another. The way people live their lives
is fascinating to me, probably because I am still trying to figure out how to
live my own. Last night, my host family invited me and some of their friends over for les aperitifs – essentially happy hour
at home. They had all kinds of wine and little snacks, and they discussed
everything from raising children to jazz music to eighteenth century French philosophy.
About halfway through the evening, we started a discussion that both fascinates
and terrifies me; a topic I have long avoided talking about on this blog
because of its controversial material; a topic that is at once quintessential
to French culture and still rarely understood: the Second World War.
Much of my young life has included the study and
misunderstanding of this terrible era in Western history. My father, a staunch
conservative and patriot, raised my sisters and I with disparaging comments
regarding France’s involvement in World War II and he is one of millions of Americans
who are at a loss to understand why the French “gave up”. Why did DeGaulle go
into hiding? Our American comprehension of war is binary and thus limited: when
you are weak, you lose, when you are strong, you win.
And so it was that I was predisposed to hate both Germany
and France throughout my high school and college history courses. When I
decided to major in French in college, issues concerning right and wrong, war
and peace, and twentieth century French experience became more and more
difficult to navigate. The waters are murky. The French are silent when it
comes to their past and the Americans are too quick to judge. It spins us into
an incredibly bizarre relationship that our governments and citizens barely
understand.
And yet last evening, there we were. Eight French people in
their fifties and sixties, and one twenty-something American, casually sipping
wine and beer in the dim twilight, discussing the taboo topic of France, Germany, and Hitler.
The stories they recounted to me are of their grandparents’
generation but strangely close to their living experience. This was a side of
the French people I had never seen, My host mother Marianne relayed to me the
exquisitely bold story of her grandparents. Her grandfather served in the
French army in the early days of the war. He was captured, tortured, and killed
by the Germans in 1941, and his body was held hostage at Birkenau. With six
children at home, her grandmother bid them farewell and embarked on a dangerous
quest to recover her husband’s body. Three years later, she succeeded, and laid
him to rest in the family’s cemetery plot. “She faced enormous challenge,” said
Marianne, her fingers tracing the clear, clean rim of her wine glass. “And she
showed enormous strength.”
October, 1941. On a bitter and starless evening, four young French resistance fighters arrive in Nantes with a clandestine mission: to kill the resident Nazi officer, Karl Holz. The plot is largely unorganized and these men care naught for the consequences of their actions. They know the dangers far exceed the possibility of their own brutal torture and death; it involves their loved ones and the innocent citizens of Nantes - the Nantais. Regardless, they risk all that is dear to them in the world to restore France's honor and perhaps liberate her from her captors. Quite simply, they succeed. It is easy. Four against one. Four bullets, one body. Quick - lay his body in the public area. Show the Nazis we do not take occupation lying down. Our country is all we have. For France! Long live France!
Upon learning that these Frenchmen assassinated Holz, German general Von Stülpnagel orders his troops in Nantes to abduct 50 ordinary citizens of Nantes and kill them unless the killer(s) come forward. But the resistance fighters had fled the city hours ago, and news deep in provincial France travels slow. In 48 hours, 48 men and women were murdered by German officers. Two went missing. and the city of Nantes continued to live, under more gruesome conditions, beneath the foreign rule of a cruel and unusual dictator.
Stories like these are commonplace in Nantes' wartime history, and while they are fascinating, they are also untold and unknown to the majority of people who visit or reside within its periphery. I learned this tragic tale with my friend Abigail on free museum day, today, the first Sunday of the month. Abigail and I spent ten weeks this past spring in perhaps the most notorious French class at Lawrence, France Under Nazi Occupation. By some magical twist of fate, we ended up in Nantes at the same time when the city was finally coming to terms with its twentieth century war history via an exhibit at the history museum: Entre deux guerres - "Between Two Wars".
Nantes makes no apologies for its controversial part in the Second World War. But it did not take the Occupation lying down. Unlike Paris, whose glittering balls and festive nightlife continued almost uninterrupted during the occupation, Nantes all but shut down. Its people were desperate, homeless, and starving. Traffic signs, public announcements, Catholic masses, and schools switched languages overnight. German propaganda, which focused on promoting German cultural hegemony, littered the streets and covered the buildings. And because of its proximity to the sea, Nantes was one of the first cities infiltrated by Germans after the fall of Paris. Thus, it is unsurprising that Nantes was the northern headquarters of one of the French resistance, blowing up Nazi warships, killing Nazi officers, and operating various clandestine missions for which they paid enormously.
Anyone who knows me at all knows I am deeply affected by the events of World War II. When I learned about Paris during this period, I was shaken and haunted for months. So it was with a heavy but engrossed heart that I headed to this special exposition with a dear friend whose passion for this period of history will probably lead to an incredible senior honors project. Like most WWII exhibits, it was deeply moving and awfully illuminating.
My time in France over the past three months has been largely punctuated by breathtaking glimpses of human history and today was no exception to this pattern. It is one thing to read general facts from a school textbook. It is entirely another to connect names, faces, places, and dates with the gruesome things that befell them. In truth, it is maddening. As I walked through the exhibit and read through testaments of racism and ethnic cleansing, I was angry - no, furious. Some of the most disgusting things I have ever read are currently on display in that museum; a testament to the people who killed, who suffered, who died, or who were liberated. A constant reminder of the atrocities we committed against each other.
Yet, I walked through the exhibition rooms with grace, observing this period of humanity as a quiet scholar amongst the wreckage. I stared blankly at the ledgers of names... of beautiful and poetic French names, names like Giselle and Charlotte and Amandine and Guy and Jean-Luc and Antoine that were labled "JUIF" (Jew) or "JUIVE" in condemning red letters. I peered at their addresses - 3 Rue de Commerce... 28 Boulevard Guist'hau.... 45 Impasse des Manœuvres... and hoped I could forget I ever passed and walked those streets. I was all but impartial until I saw it framed on a sterile white wall across from a court testimony of "whiteness": it was a simple name, Rose Rosenbaum, with a usual age, 23, unaccompanied by an unusual nationality: American.
Abigail and I looked at each other with lumps in our throats. "What was a Jewish American woman doing in Nazi-occupied France in the middle of a war?" Abigail asked me. I shook my head. Just like all the other names on this particular ledger, Rose's story was forever forgotten; a ghostly imprint in a horrible moment in time. She was erased from the earth along with her memories, her nationality, her religion, and her identity. We would never hear of the Jewish-American woman who spoke French in Nantes over half a century ago. We would never meet her children or her grandchildren, we would never see her picture or read her memoirs. She was denied those freedoms and those joys. She was denied them because of all she was and would never become. What struck me the most, however, was that she was American. She was a 23-year-old American woman living abroad in Nantes.
The parallels were uncanny. The shivers on my spine were unlike any others I had ever felt.
Today, I learned another chapter of Nantes' grisly and unfortunate history. I also learned a very important life lesson that I hope to carry with me for as long as I am free to live, which is that I am granted certain freedoms that many millions of people have never seen and will never see. I have an education. Someday, I will have a career. I hope to fall in love and have children. And I have already lived abroad twice without fear of persecution from a terrifying enemy.
We spend much of our first-world American lives wanting more. Fifty Things You Cannot Live Without. Forty Countries to Visit Before You're 40. Thirty Foods to Gorge On. Twenty Luxury Vacations. Ten Ways to Win the Lottery. Do we ever stop and wonder about the ones who do not even have the privilege of considering these options? Of the millions of human beings who were killed before the age of five by other humans, by disease, or from starvation?
"I want to see x number of countries by y number of years."
"I want to have x number of money by the time I'm y years old."
"I want a villa in the south of France."
"I want a private jet."
"I want a golden necklace and diamond earrings."
Make any combination of "things to do before you die" - any first world, trending bucket list - and I guarantee you will find one or more of these materialistic sentences. We ought to be focusing on smiles, on faces, on embraces, and on experiences more than we focus on the things society tells us we need. I'm sorry, society, but you've lost your grip on reality.
Before I left the good ol' United States of America, I found myself in quite the argument with a friend I met on my study abroad semester in Paris. I was angry because I was anxious to leave the little town of Appleton, Wisconsin, and because I hated everyone's "small town" "settled" mindset. In a frustrated moment, I exploded, saying, "I just want to go everywhere in the world, but I'm poor. I'll never see anything more than a small amount, and I could actually end up destitute." I confess, I do have a flair for the dramatic, and this example was no different. Knowing this, he responded, "Have you any idea how lucky and privileged you are to even be able to experience the things you've experienced so far? So what if you don't see 40 countries by the time you're 40. What does it matter, when millions of people will never even leave their tiny town?" I knew he was right, but at the time I was wrapped up in the allure of travel and discovery. Now that I've spent some precious moments with and without other people like me, I know exactly what he means.
I've spent a lot of time recently reflecting on what it is to be "grateful" and how our comprehension of this word can affect our lives. In the craziness that has been my life these past few months, I haven't taken enough time to be kind, to be grateful, or to be reverent for the things I have and the things I may be lucky enough to have in the future. I'm hardly wealthy, and neither is my family, not in material goods at least. But I'm wealthy in other ways - in experience, in opportunity, and yes, in love. I'm a privileged white girl, plagued with all the silly first world problems thereof. It means I don't have to wander around this planet in fear of what could happen to me or afraid that I will die alone under enemy fire.
And as I walk the streets of Nantes, haunted by stories of the Nantais and their struggles, in the footsteps of the terrible men who bound them and killed their spirits, I feel the overwhelming desire to live because they couldn't. If I accomplish nothing else in my life than to have lived it with purpose and gratefulness, my material desires will mean nothing. So, from this day forward, I will live for those who couldn't and help those who weren't born with the privileges I have. Horrible things have befallen humanity. I won't let myself be another passerby. It's time to take ownership of me and my future. It's time to live with purpose.
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