A veritable ocean

“Paris est un véritable océan. Jetez-y la sonde, vous n’en connaîtrez jamais la profondeur. Parcourez-le, décrivez-le! Quelque soin que vous mettiez à le parcourir, à le décrire ; quelque nombreux et intéressés que soient les explorateurs de cette mer, il s’y rencontrera toujours un lieu vierge, un antre inconnu, des fleurs, des perles, des monstres, quelque chose d’inouï, oublié par les plongeurs littérateurs.” -Balzac

"Paris is a veritable ocean. Sound to its depths, you will never discover them. Skim it, describe it! No matter how much care you take to scan it, discover it; however numerous and interested are the explorers of this sea, one will always meet a virgin place there, an unknown lair, flowers, pearls, monsters, something extraordinary and forgotten by literary sea-divers."

Both having been home-educated for most of our lives, field trips have a rather broad meaning. Yes, the excursion to the art museum or meat-packing plant certainly qualifies. But how about the ten minutes you nab in to stare down the French baker preparing hundreds of baguettes in his marvelous ovens? Or the degustation at the wine shop that leads to a lesson in French oenological terminology? Captured moments and curiosity keep education part of our daily lives, even as "grown-ups" (whatever that means). This is home education's greatest lesson, for me at least. Wherever you are, take full advantage of the time that you have there and sound the place to its depths. With only a few months left in this city of unfathomable profundity, we have been cocking our heads and having a good long look at both some new places and favorite old haunts.

The Cluny. This is where the museum of the Middle Ages lives, and inside one can find all manner of flowers, pearls, and monsters. Really. The baths of the Romans form the foundations of the building, and Christianity just built up from there, sometimes neglecting that they were established upon groundwork that was somewhat incongruous with their beliefs. Well, that's the Middle Ages for you- a cornucopia of influences, passions, restraints, and beauty. They proudly display pillars which were found underneath the Notre-Dame during excavations. Pre-christian, they celebrate pagan gods. Did the priests serving Mass in the 14th century know what dark desires from the past were lurking beneath them? It makes one wonder.

Musee de l'Assistance Publique, or the Paris Hospitals museum. This humble presentation painted a picture of a society which once cared for the poor and sick out of love for God and man, long ago. Of course, it wasn't always completely altruistic, as eternal pardons and indulgences for sin were issued as payment for medical service. But there were the faithful and plucky few -check out Sister Rosalie's life for a good example. Near the turn-of-the-century, an increased emphasis on the survival of the fittest led to blaming society's ills on the poor and sick, with the solution of shutting them away into institutions. This was an extremely sad chapter, particularly for the most vulnerable, the children. The museum claimed that as of late, they have tried to find their way back to some sense of charity. Methinks they will be unsuccessful until they go back to that"loving God" part. Paris is full of needy people, and government programs seem about as efficacious as a bandaid on a tumor. Of course, the states of my own native country's health care puts me in a precarious position for judging others. But that's whole other can of worms.

La Fleche d'Or. This club is in an old train station. I like that. It reminds me First Avenue in Minneapolis, which is an old bus station. What is it about former transport systems leaving rock n' roll in their trail? Dylan said/sang: "it takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry." Maybe the ghosts of a thousand tearful adieus has something to do with it. At any rate, we duck into this dingy establishment every couple of weeks, saying hello to a sampling of rock bands that are a bit wet behind the ears, but usually exuberant and fun.

Le chateau d'Ecouen. Karl was rehearsing yesterday with a band, so Abbey took the train half-an-hour into the countryside to see a castle. This is where the Museum of the Renaissance holds court, and what a lovely little box to keep it in! I somehow had a suspicion that it was going to be a magical experience when I read on their website ahead of time that I would have to "walk through the forest on foot from the train station" to get there. Most breathtaking was: the lovely portative organ (complete with demonstration), the painted fireplaces, the elaborate golden moving clock in the form of a ship with musicians, and the budding forest all around. Spring is on its way.

There's no place (like) home

Late night in Paris, and I am meditatively chewing on the the remnants of a marvelously grainy loaf that served as our daily bread. The apartments across the courtyard are unusually black for this hour, which I attribute to the ski vacation...er...I mean "study week" that students (and teachers) all over France will enjoy this coming week. It's quite still.

All of this quiet has got me thinking again about home. What does it mean? One of our good friends decided this week to leave France and go home four months earlier than planned. In the same evening, another friend talks about never having connected with the backward ways of his hometown, and talks about finding a home in Paris. I can relate. Facebook asked for my "hometown", and in a fit of cuteness, I put "Paris". (That was five years ago.) I do a double-take every time the word flies out of my mouth and wonder. When we went to the cinema a couple of weeks ago to see the film Juno, we supposedly saw home. Is this really a place?

Another odd sentence I heard issuing from my over-eager mouth was that "home had recently come to visit". Of course, I was referring to Karl's mom and dad - Pam and Jerry - who spent a week with us exploring our...er...the city in which we live. They brought affection, news, photos, greetings, a computer, face lotion, tortillas, ad generousitum* - a real slice of Minnesota. In grateful turn, we whispered to Paris to spread her faithful table of good food and beauty for our guests. A reverent s'il vous plait always helps in these matters. She responded favorably.

We wandered through the oldest quartier of Paris, the Marais, and ducked in and out of fancy specialty shops, a famous Jewish restaurant and deli called Marianne's, poked our heads into the courtyards of former mansions. Someone once called these places home. Victor Hugo, for example - Karl and Jerry are nonchalantly strolling past his former digs in the Place des Vosges.

We didn't always have to go too far afield, either, to experience new little wonders. Walking home from the Sunday market, we discovered a tea house right in the neighborhood. "L'oisive de the" means "the idle woman of tea", which sounded promising, given the sunny, lazy afternoon. We basked in the warm circle of sunlight, partook of excellent tea, and some top-notch goodies from the kitchen. The atmosphere was generous and homey.They actually served the tart with a little sorbet. (Is this breakfast or dessert - I've lost track...)

In Paris, the bateaux mouches cruise up and downstream day and night, giving tourists a unique perspective on the city. Residents tolerate them, sometimes politely, sometimes not (I once saw a French high school student moon an entire boatful). Karl and I had never ventured aboard, but we figured it was about time when his folks proposed it. The city layout comes into sharp focus, and we only wished we had gone earlier during our stay! We we were treated to the City of Lights by daylight and bridge light, since our tour straddled the sunset.

I've proposed this before, I think, but I'm starting to believe that home is not necessarily where your hat but rather where heart hangs. In that case, we've got quite a few home ports to pull into.

* Please do not take my Latin seriously.

Hanging out

-I goed to the cinema with my friends.

-You went to the cinema?
-Yes, yes - went there.
-So, did you hang out afterwards?
-What?
-Did you hang out with your friends afterwards?
[blank stare]
-Did you spend time with them?
-Oh, yes...at a coffee.
-Cafe?
-Oui, cafe.

Ah, colloquialisms. There never was a more surefire way to gauge an incoming class in terms of their level of English. By the time my students reach my college classroom, they have maneuvered their way through the French high school system and somehow emerged with their desire to learn still intact. Really, it's a miracle. Second-language classes at the secondary education level are notorious for focusing on what many believe to be...well, secondary skills. These pupils can rattle off all of the irregular verbs faster then you can say "outcome-based education", but they seem singularly incapable of creating a sentence which contains one such verb. They have learned conjugations in long lists by rote, but if I ask them what they did over the weekend, they say things like "I goed". They have never been asked to use their English OUT LOUD. Some come to college very proud of their past accomplishments (i.e. good memorizer = good grades), and are hurt and indignant when asked produce some of the language on the spot. More than once, I have had a chat with a crestfallen student who realizes that they still have a long, long way to go. But luckily for them, they have bright minds, second-language skills have a steep learning curve, and we're right as rain in a few weeks, talking about how we "hung out" with our friends at a "cafe". Maybe even "chilling".

Of course, when it comes down to it, we're talking about some classic French pastimes. On any given sunny afternoon, you can go to the Jardin de Luxembourg, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Jardin de N'importe Quoi, and find hundreds of Parisians doing...nothing. They stroll around nonchalantly, sit and smoke, sun themselves, read the paper, and just "hang" - like so many extras in a film. When it is time to shift the scene, they stand up, walk down the street to a cafe, and pick up right where they left off.

In my case, it was page 141 of the book I've been enjoying for the past few weeks. It's a rum sort of read, all about two lovers who live about a four-days' journey apart and yet pine and moon away, resigned to their separation as if they can't do anything about it. It's medieval and illogical and just I love it. Anyways, last Saturday, I had just gotten to the part where the lover explains that he's been praying to the God of Love for a woman for years and years (oh, woe!), when a shifty-eyed, scruffy gentleman approached my chair and started talking to me. His words were incessant, like a water from a faucet. Every once in a while, the steady stream would be reduced to a dribble, and I would suddenly realize that he had asked me a question. What was I reading. I showed him the cover. Oh, he liked medieval literature. (Uh-huh.) He didn't know it...was it "erotique"? (Oh great, here we go.) I was mentally calculating how to extract myself from this annoying situation with the least amount of fuss possible, when something extraordinary happened.

He turned his face melodramatically to the sky and began to lament. Oh, the pain. God had not seen it fit to send him a lady yet, despite many, tearful prayers. I watch the scene unfold with my mouth half-open, and suddenly realized that this shabby park rat had been transformed into the character in my story. Life met fiction and said "hello".

Of course, eventually he snapped out of his monologue and remembered the other part he was supposed to be playing. After he started bugging me about selling me something (not quite sure what...?) that he had in his backpack, I firmly wished him a "good day", and went on my way. I was put out about losing my sunny spot, but still marveled at the odd encounter. It seems as if Parisians are either way-too-friendly, or not friendly enough.

This is not only the point-of-view of foreigners, I am finding. This past week, I had an extremely enlightening conversation with the coffee roaster down the street where we buy beans. She is French, but lived in Montreal for her studies. When she returned home, she found the people in Paris to be utterly insufferable. You walk down the street, and you are completely dévisagé (literally, "un-faced" - though translated as "stared at"). Another woman heard our discussion, sidled up to the counter, and was soon citing Americans as being so much more welcoming than the glacial Parisians.

A funny reversal of cultural roles ensued, during which I defended the French, gently offering a number of examples in my daily life. There are the bakers that know our favorite loaf, the veg stand that always gives us an extra "cadeau" (ca-DOH, gift) or two, the fruit guys that gave us bananas "on credit" last week ("pay me next time"), Michel our faithful cheese guy whose friendship prompted Christmas cookies on our part, the gardienne in our apartment building who will dole out aspirin or coffee from her own cupboard when needed or help us puzzle over French tax documents, the wine guy who says hello when I see him in the street, and of course the amazing community of people that make up our church. It's quite a cast of characters in our Paris life - plenty of faces that don't "un-face".

Of course, the two women thought that was nice and all, but continued to rail on the French for a while. We concluded with the mutual agreement that well, at least there was a coffeeshop in the neighborhood where we could go and while away about forty minutes talking with the proprietor. You know, just hanging out.

Creation

Creation, or the love of spaces filled.

There is something about being at the beginning of a New Year that inspires me to go back to the very beginning. Like, Genesis 1. This time, I was struck by the Creator's delight in filling spaces with life. Faced with an empty canvas -“without form and void” - He first delineated the zones. Stretches out the horizons, sets up proper work lighting to govern the project, commands that these blank white spaces be filled. And we're talkin' really full.

“Let the waters swarm,” and sea creatures dove deep, smaller fishes fluttering out and tucking themselves into every available nook and cranny of the underwater world.

“Let birds fly above,” and not one corner of the expansive sky was untouched by feather-tips and the joyful swooping of new wings.

Another corner of the workshop deals with clays and muds. “Let the earth bring forth living creatures,” and His command causes the earth to bear beasts and reptiles and dinosaurs and every possible incarnation of life that is bound by gravitational decree to their origins. “And God made the beasts.”

Finally, one last glorious creature to be sculpted with His own hand. Someone in His own image. A reflection of His eternal authority and dominion, but limited to the created earth. Mankind. Man is not only physical matter, helping to fill in the gaps of God’s joyous, swarming created world - he is spiritual. The filling of space takes on an dimension beyond that of the material.

And what is the command to the trembling throng, to all of those flocks, schools, herds, packs, bands, troops, colonies, armies, prides, mobs, hives, litters, bevies, rookeries, droves, warrens, broods, and pods? Above all, to man and woman with their gentle rule?

“Be fruitful and multiply! Fill the earth!”

Anti-creation - the love of spaces empty.

In striking contrast to all I imagined above, the current trends in art seem to witness to a certain horror, or at least avoidance, of swarming life. Everything is clean lines, empty spaces. I heard that during the birth of Impressionism, the artists (especially Renoir) pushed for a change in exhibition style. Traditionally, the Salon stacked paintings that were shown one right on top of the other. Renoir insisted on space – he wanted each work of art to gain individual attention. Aesthetically, this was an undeniably welcome change; the old way was confusing to the eye and too busy. But I wonder. Was it perhaps witnessing to certain follies and philosophies that came to fruition later?

As in now. When I visit the Pompidou, for example, where the enormous amounts of space are remarkable. You have to travel a long journey from one installation to another. When we reach it, it is often just another representation of empty space. Don't get me wrong - there are parts of this funky place that I find very satisfying. But the stretches of nothing are not one of them. I feel the same way when I traipse over to the Bibliothèque Nationale de France to study a few times a week. There is a similar thought process laid the foundations here. The award-winning building is simply clean, stark lines, surrounding long stretches of….nothing. There are hedges, but they are contained within cages. I don't have any photos to prove it to you for the moment, but I am not kidding. Cages.

Is this just a question of style, or is something deeper going on here? I mean, I don't intend to make a moral judgment on aesthetics. But if art is reflecting life in this case...what kind of life is it? Or is it life at all?

The Other of the Two Cities

London has existed in my mind since about the age of six. My parents took a trip over the ocean and brought back a tiny mounted guard with a funny hat, a little red double-decker bus, a medallion with my name on it (and, oddly enough, some other guy named "Westminster"), and the habit of clotted cream with tea. Later on, I peopled this Great City in my mind with characters out of Dickens, Mary Poppins, and Arthur Conan Doyle. You can imagine the motley crew - Julie Andrews dancing with Oliver Twist all over Kensington Gardens, while a gentleman by the name of "Westminster" strolls by with a big, fat cigar in his mouth. Around the corner, an angular figure who suspiciously looks like Sherlock Holmes keeps a vigilant watch on the whole lot of them.

Well, the stories are all true. And here are some more.

First, there was rain. And (so I've been told) as only London can produce. Mainly, wet shoes and umbrellas fighting for street corner space. When we occasionally tilted our heads skywards and caught a glimpse beyond our hat brims - what a surprise! Rather than the rows of stately "Haussmann-ized" buildings that usually frame our viewpoint on Paris, London seemed an endless supply of fascinating architectural odds and ends shoved together, as if we'd stumbled into a colorful antique shop. The old and the very old and the new all piled in corners, waiting to be discovered. Still, having puddles up around our ankles seemed less and less adventuresome and more and more of a bother. Just when we were about ready to break down and splurge on galoshes, we fell upon the shining door of the Waldorf Hilton. This seemed as good a place as any to air out out our sodden selves, and what do you know? Two of our friends and their small son happened to be occupying the very same hotel...and room. Yes, serendipity is a beautiful thing. And when it comes to the Cox family, planning is even better.

But before we dwell on the sweet reunion of like souls, there are a few details about the afternoon that must not be forgotten. The sun breaking through the windows at St.-Martin-in-the-Fields, while a young girl masterfully ordered a Brahms concerto to come forth from the instrument cradled on her shoulder. Waltzing in and out of the National Gallery of Art, with its seemingly endless rooms rich in Dutch painters, Rubens, and others. Being awkwardly chased around Whitehall court during the changing of the Queen's Life Guard, where a swaggering, vociferous man proudly issues changing orders once a day. I wonder - did he dream about that job as a boy? He seemed to enjoy it well enough. Popping through the passageway to St. James' Park, filled with diving ducks, elegant swans, and more - a regular aviary.

The angle of the sun told us that we'd better reconvene with our travel partners. Sure enough, they had made some vague adjustments to the new time zone and were ready to stumble out and pursue the object of tasty comestibles. Ah! The Seven Stars. A stone's throw away brought us to this cozy pub, where hot meat pies were packed away with all speed and washed down with glorious pints of. Cheers, Ben and Karl. Of course, a veritable avalanche of conversation ensued. Greatly encouraged, we turned down our beds for the night.

On day two, the umbrellas stayed home. Basically, we sauntered up and down Fleet Street from down till dusk...and beyond. First, St. Bride's Church captured our affections straightaway with its quiet courtyard and fascinating history as the "publisher's" church. Soon afterwards, the domed outline of St. Paul's cathedral appeared in view. While impressive, it seemed less reflective of a place of worship than the first. But we did enjoy the view from as we had our first cup o' tea in jolly old England. (And yes, there was clotted cream.)

Regarding holy places, another thought-provoking sight was the garden we found built upon the remains of a small church, with topiaries and such indicating the original columns. Karl's question: why not worship out-of-doors? And by golly, who says we weren't?

Soon the lunch hour had us running after double-decker buses to try and catch up with Ben, Sasha, and Creighton for the remains of the day. We towered over the busy streets from the upper deck and got a superb view of the truly recognizable monuments against the crisp backdrop of a chilly winter day. Grandeur and clean lines.

Just as the sun lowered and the lights on Big Ben began to dimly glow, Sasha and I decided that it was teatime. And everything must come to a halt for this all-important hour. Diving into the dank, serpentine passages of the Tube, we came out in the funky, Notting Hill area, where supposedly a certain "Tea Palace" welcomed lovers of the leaf. After asking around a bit, we finally attained to the coveted destination. The best way to describe this place was understated but generous, unpretentious but still awfully proud of the tea. I lolled my tongue over a bit of Lapsang Formosa and lazily pondered which finger sandwich to begin with. Ahh. (And yes, there was clotted cream.)

Upon our arrival back at the hotel, we found that the boys had come down with a severe case of cabin fever in our absence. Without further ado, we set ourselves loose on the London night, in search of music, ale, and whatever else might suit our fancy. The five of us eventually curled up with pints in a corner of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese - a haunt of Dickens and the gentleman below, who seemed to sum up so well my melancholy upon leaving the following morning:

“You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” - Samuel Johnson, 1777

*Many thanks to Ben, Sasha, and Creighton, who let us crash in their hotel room, and without whom this trip would have not been nearly as jolly. Hint: see Sasha's blog for more stories!*

Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung. It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter, When half spent was the night.

As we wended our way through this Christmas and the last winding stretch of road of the year of our Lord 2007, a particular image seemed imprinted on a good many of our activities. I should warn you. I am a great lover of symbolism, and try to catch things in the act of signifying as often as possible. For example, a piece of fennel from my salad is the Christmas star. Of course it is. But if I hadn't been a Christian, I probably would have been a unbearably superstitious person. Thankfully, the Lord had mercy on this soul, and my flights of fancy are pinned to a greater Backdrop. They might try to wiggle, escape, or flutter away from time to time, but just end up dragging the eternal dropcloth with them, bringing an immediate and palpable excitement to the ancient Story.

(By the way, if you ever see a writer capitalizing words willy-nilly, beware. They might be a symbol-lover. )

Well, as it turns out, everything came up roses. My handmade decorations, the choice of music Karl played in church, a chilly and beautiful walk through a park, and most of all - a newfound joy in each other. "Christmas came early," I said one day. It was true. The past few months had been a difficult readjustment to life together in small, sometimes lonely and frustrating spaces. A pervasive bad mood was hanging like a sheet of blank white sky and we both hunkered down and prayed for a change in the weather. I remember several Advent Sundays singing "disperse the gloomy clouds of night"and really meaning it. And then came the response: a sudden, spontaneous, and (almost) inexplicable compulsion to "love one another". We opened many beautiful presents on Christmas morning, but this early gift was our favourite. A rose amid the cold of winter.

And so, fitfully humming strains of old and faithful hymns, we arose early on Christmas Eve morning and decided to go Somewhere New for a walk. The Parc de Belleville had acquired something of mythic proportions in my head (no surprise there), mainly for its role in the classic film Le Ballon Rouge. To get there, you have to walk through the area of Belleville, which has a twin in our own neighborhood, both being large concentrations of Asian populations. But this is really the only thing they have in common - otherwise, a whole other world. The signs in Chinese characters, though still a mystery to us, were strangely familiar in these hills on the north end of Paris. Up, up, up we climbed the steep streets, colorful and kooky, where rooftops meet the street half a block down, and a pile of garbage looks poetical. It is hard to tell where the graffiti ends and the murals commissioned by the city begin.

Following the signs to the parc, we suddenly found ourselves taking in a stunning view of the city of Paris, softened by the rays of cold light glancing over the hillside in a strange, wintery way. "La lumiere d'hiver" is legendary in its beauty, refracted through the particles of pollution which blanket the city. Armed with sweaters, yogurt, and biscuits, we basked in the pale sun and speculated about the identities of ghostly spires and building frames on the horizon. Next, a quick jaunt through the paths during which I mindlessly gathered two winter rosebuds, and we were soon down on "ground level" again. We looked back up. Something about the angle of the light and the angle of the park made it a deliciously disorienting experience.

Why not a stop at a cafe? Elbows on the bar, we politely said bonjour to the lady sitting next to us - a blonde in a full-length furcoat with a cigarette making curly-cues, which approached ever so often the wry mouth. A mouth that had seen everything. Forty-five minutes later, we were still idly scraping the residue from the bottom of our cups of the best coffee in Paris and listening wide-eyed to her stories about the Chinese mafia. Later on, plenty of complaints about the upcoming smoking ban: "Zeese are ze last days of freedom!" You just never know what a friendly hello will get you into.

Indeed. Later on that day, we donned Paris blacks and browns (so festive) and made our way to Christ-mass. S. Padre Pio is a tiny oratoire at the very northern edge of Paris where an ancient and benevolent Italian priest leads the few but faithful. Karl's friendly manner had landed him a gig here, backing up a soprano on a few songs. Or that's what he thought at first. It turned out that they wanted him to play the entire service, complete with Kyries , Glorias and Credos! He was given some of the music, but with no measure markings and no guarantee of key. As the task ahead grew more and more formidable, memories of a music history test came to his unlikely aid. That, with many whispered directions and a few standard hymns in his back pocket for the occasional lull, he found his way through the humming, smoky jungle. Granted, it was a Christmas mass never heard before and probably never to be heard again, but the priest was sweet and thankful. It was good to be with fellow worshipers of Christ in such a fascinating atmosphere. At one point, the congregants were invited to come up and kiss the feet of the baby Jesus. As I approached, I watched His little face. A perfect rosebud mouth.

This Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air, Dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere; True Man, yet very God, from sin and death He saves us, And lightens every load.

Christmas in Pictures

Merry Christmas to all our dear ones!

Love,

Ab and Karl

Christmas Eve

Christmas Day

An Inconvenient Birth

These days, my vivid and unruly imagination refuses to stay fixed on the book I ought to be reading, and instead floats away upon odours of pine, clementines freshly-peeled, and warm gingerbread. I dutifully station myself next to a pile of student work to mark, while sugar plums with full dance cards refuse to stop waltzing in my head. All I want to do is bake cookies, drag a tree home, go on top-secret missions for gifts, and gaze at the two kilometers of sparkling trees that flank the Champs-Elysees.

Every year, alongside the giddy joys that make up the month of December, I find myself wondering, with melancholy, whether Christmas will somehow pass me by. As if the event were a train with a tight schedule to keep.* Lately, I have been bemoaning (to any unfortunate soul who is around to listen) that December 25^th is approaching altogether too quickly, and I don't have time to enjoy the journey. Poor me. I must be the only one in the whole, wide world with this problem.

Everyone knows that for all the manifold inconveniences of the Christmas season - uncomfortable reunions with estranged family, traveling long distances for short visits, long lines, the unavailability of accommodations, bad weather, crabby people – we only have ourselves to blame. It is the product of our dogged commercialization, the thirty-two days of rapid-fire retail from Black Friday to Christmas Day. It is what we get for reducing the most significant event of all human history down to a fruitcake-eating clown-act.

If only we could go back to The First Noel, when all was peaceful, unrushed, and perfectly planned…

Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.

Perfectly planned. Hmm. At first glance, this is hardly the model family for NFP. Both parents seem caught off-guard, especially the father - which we all know is a serious breach in relationship communication. In our day and age, they would have needed months of counseling. What’s more, Mary would hardly have had the time to dog-ear her copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” and (gasp!) the nursery would not have been ready, because the curtains would have been on backorder at IKEA. By our society’s standards, a very irresponsible way of building a family. At least it was "in the fulness of time."

And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.

Shame. The closest I let myself get to this word during this cheery time is being overly preoccupied that the holiday goodies I bring to the party will be found worthy of eager consumption. (Yes, I do worry about that.) But this poignant little verse brings home the real meaning of that uncomfortable word. Regardless of the joyous truth that we are privy to now as readers, a premarital trust had been broken. Mary looked awfully culpable. But Jesus’ earthly father, being just, loved mercy. (Am I that merciful?)

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered.

When I used to listen to my dad or my uncle read the account of Jesus’ birth from Luke on Christmas Eve, my mind usually flitted over the historical details above. The first part always sounded like blah, blah, blah, until words like “angels” and “glory” popped up, and (curiously enough) “swaddling clothes”. (I’m not sure why I got hooked on that one, except that it’s so much fun to say out loud. ) At any rate, it never occurred to me how the news of this official decree must have made Mary and Joseph’s hearts sink. The expectant mother was almost to full-term and they would be completing a 90-mile trip one-way, with very little chance of finding a bed when they got there. We might have counseled the young couple to stick around Galilee for an unhurried childbirth, with the help of surrounding family. Much “wiser”. Despite the difficulties, they chose to obey God-appointed authorities and rushed off to Bethlehem.

And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear.

Though I always loved this passage about the shepherds, I somehow edited out that part about “fear”. This is another word we tend to avoid at this merry time , unless we’re talking about little Johnny who freaked out when his mom made him sit on a stranger’s lap in the mall, just so she could have a cute picture for the family Christmas card. But if we’re honest, most of us are acutely afraid of a good many things, and this doesn’t change just because we overhear Jingle Bells playing in the grocery store.

This is beginning to look rather bleak. Why won’t Christmas save us out of our troubles? Perhaps somewhere in the myriad of inconveniences, in the puzzlement of heart-breaking misunderstandings, and even in the face of shame and fear, we can still hear the angels:

Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy…
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!

Yes, it’s still my favorite part.

---

* Credit: The Polar Express. If you have never seen this, go rent it. Now.

A Little Update

Here's a little update on our lives here from the good folks at the BBC:

Strikes in France

Priorities

Ah. Settling into my sunlit apartment, freshly-brewed cup of coffee steaming next to me, and a thick slice of grainy, chewy bread smothered in blue cheese so fine it tastes like candy. It is Sunday, a fine morning to finally update the blog. I think I'll...

My eyes fall on uncorrected homework and unfinished lesson plans. Dishes. Paperwork. Errands. Books to read before the semester's up. Things come in piles these days.

All that to say, I'll be taking about a three week hiatus from lifelong fling. Recreational writing is taking a back burner for a season. But don't worry - things will still be simmering. See you at the beginning of December.

Stop and smell the pipe smoke.

The strangest things can happen sometimes, if you are willing to let them.

In the space of time that it takes to see the dentist, or see a movie, or to see a friend for a cup of coffee, I was in fact doing none of these things yesterday. The air was bright and cool in-between the buildings, and my feet irresponsibly led me from one side of the narrow street to the other, dipping into blues and greys. I had to dodge a few people, but mainly my eyes were busy scanning and recording every angle and dip and hue, every golden wall that struck it rich in the late sun. After a while it became arduous to remember it all, so I tried to capture my found pleasures with a cheap pen and scrap paper. No luck. Note to self: buy a camera or art supplies. Or both.

Sometimes, within a such a space of time - separate somehow from the before and after - the heightened senses can pick up on something extraordinary that would, on any other day, slip through the ordinary cracks in the sidewalk. Tastes, sounds - especially smells.

Pipe smoke, for instance. It wasn't quite a week ago, when I found myself walking beside a portly gentleman with an impressive wonder of carved wood gracefully dipping in front of his equally-impressive wonder of a chin. I had to shake off my little fancy to follow him. That day - every minute pressed and squeezed for optimal performance - did not allow me to follow the delicious odour which trailed behind him in thin wisps.

Yesterday, however.

Yesterday, I had afforded myself the luxury of no particular aim for a couple of hours, and with all my senses acutely reminding me of this achingly beautiful world I live in, there and then I formed the conviction that I would like very much to visit a certain museum in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, I was not sure of its location. It was precisely at this opportune moment of reflexion that I caught a whiff of it again.

Ceci was unmistakably une pipe.

I think if I hadn't been brought around, partaking of a repeated pleasure, the first pipe probably would have faded, been forgotten. But here it was again, in living colour, and enriching all the world around me with wonderment. The two experiences stood towering in my memory, like solid pillars of cloud. I simply had to follow. Parallel to my singular delight at this second chance, another fanciful thought flitted through my mind. Would these delicious threads pull me to my desired destination? In a moment, it seemed inevitable.

Now, please understand that I did not want to alarm this poor gentleman (who was not portly, by the way, nor did he have a chin that is worth writing about, but was a rather ordinary-looking person), but I do not believe that he suspected my odd proceedings, for he continued to whistle and puff through his sunny walk as blissfully unaware as any stalker could hope for.

With a start, I came to my senses - the sensible ones, that is. Following complete strangers around, and in broad daylight? I scolded myself for indulging in such irrational behaviour, and took my gaze off of the back of my poor Pied Piper's head. Several brisk steps later, I had brushed past and was heading, with businesslike resolve, for the Musee Cognacq-Jay before it closed. The spell was broken.

Exactly fifteen slow minutes later (I checked my watch), I stood fuming at the maze of dead ends, narrow passageways, and badly-positioned tourism signs that make up the 4th arrondissement. The wind had changed, and my sails hung limp. Dragging my feet, I turned an unfamiliar corner- only to pick up the scent of a familiar ghost. There he was, strolling in front of me as always, whistling and smoking by turns. He ducked left into a new street. What did I have to lose? Around the bend, he was squinting at a small stone plaque, pipe in hand. I approached - nonchalantly, of course- and read with great surprise the name of my long hoped-for harbor. The very doorstep. Though he could not say the same.

"Excusez- moi, est-ce que vous connaissez ou se trouve le Musee Picasso? Je ne suis pas de Paris."

I was half-surprised that this phantom - angel?- had removed its mouthpiece and was somehow addressing me directly in a very warm, human voice. It was certainly French - though "not from Paris," by its own cheerful admission. Did I know where to find the Picasso museum. Could I point it out to him. Flustered and shy from the sheer irony of it all, I finally offered the use of the map in my bag. * A few brief, cordial exchanges later, the smoldering herald was on its way, leaving a whisper of fragrant thanks behind.

Merci, indeed.


* Yes, I did know that I had a map. But what would I write about if I always relied on that?

A wing and a prayer

One of our main philosophies in our life together is that we're called on to take a ride on a wing and a prayer from time to time. This is the principle of lifelong fling: operating on spontaneity and a heavy dose of the grace of God, and letting the potent combination take us where it will.

So, rewind the tape about a week and half.

-Ab, did you see that JF has a few train tickets that he can't use?
-Yeah, I thought about it....we probably have flexible enough schedules.
-I wonder how many tickets there are...
-I think it's just for one person.
-Oh.
-And another set of tickets would be too pricey. I guess...
-I really want to use those tickets.
-You mean...by yourself? (understood: without me?!)
-Well, yeah.
-But...

But...but...what? How can you argue with a husband who clearly loves adventure, happens upon windfall means for a trip, and all but promises to bring back wine from Bordeaux? After struggling a while with the fact that fate had not sent me an invitation to the same party, I finally waved the white flag of surrender, and Karl was the proud owner of train tickets from Paris-Nice, Nice-Bordeaux, and Bordeaux-Paris.

He initially conceived of this trip as streamlined bike camping on a road bike: stuffing his panniers with bivouac, cheese, and bread, while visions of toe clips danced in his head. As the departure date approached, however, frantic searches for a decent ride turned up little fruit. The good 'ol townie - clunky racks, lights, and heavy pedals & all - would have to do. At least for this time around. One borrowed Thermarest, a cheap tarp and set of tent stakes, some layers of clothing, and a first aid kit rounded out the supplies, and the man was ready for his 5-day escapade.

Excerpts from a wife's text message archive...

Day 1

Woo-hoo! Both the bike and I made it on the train. Pretty smooth. Thanks for the food. Aix-en-Provence looks pretty cool. This energy drink I bought is nasty. Word.

Anyway, pretty wet today. Bike works ok. Bag on rack not super graceful. Nice coffee shop guy gave directions to camping near Antibes. He said the way to Italy wasn't that good. Not sure I believe him on that point. Regardless I'll go up into the hills and a little bit further east. Cool picture I took of the moon rising over a storm behind the city. Word.

Day 2

Yeah, it's sunny in Beaulieu-sur-mer. It wasn't in Nice until about 19h, but really cool there. I camped closer to Monaco between a huge cliff, a sandwich shop, and the water. Now maybe Italy and camp in the same place, or back to Nice and camp on the west side - where the guy said to in the first place. Time for sunscreen either way.

Day 3

Yup...rolling through Nimes and I'm sure it's fun but hard to say why that'd be true by the looks of it. Not as graceful for the bike storage but okay and normally they charge 10 E and just have space for 6. Shower and wash pants would be good soon. No formal tourist activities just biking, grocery store, camp, rinse, and repeat. The Cote d'Azur is road-bikers heaven, I must say. Sometimes the wind is pretty firm but the coast turns and then it's tailwind. Bought an International Herald Tribune and gazpacho. Makes for an interesting mood. Tranquille.

Day 4

Nah...No Italia. I made it to Monaco though. It's like Aruba with more Bentley dealers and fewer hotels and casinos but not that crazy or big. Smaller towns usually seem more fun but unless I had a gig I wouldn't come back. Can't complain about the Cote d'Azur though. Just saw an awesome seagull fight. Will try to find some music in Nice. Word.

Ah Creon...you are the sleepiest French town I have ever seen. Found an ok-for-this-bike piste (trail) that leaves Bordeaux to the SE and goes pretty much east. Cool old stuff to see or so says the tourist office map. This morning I went to the market and got some food. There was this guy with an idea I thought was great: sell half and full liter quantities of higher quality box wine in bottled water bottles. So I got a demi of merlot and a reserve for 2.40. Yes. More than a full bottle of wine, already in plastic for safe bike transport. Did you have a cool weekend? Saturday in Bordeaux was ok but live music is banned after midnight, so I missed it. Oh well. Sweet dreams. Word.

Day 5

Well, I'm down to 70 centimes, but I've got my bases covered with food and such. Dodged a few rain showers finding bridges and shacks at the right time. We'll have to come back here because there are a lot of good bike paths through wine country and its not hilly. See you tomorrow.