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.

What we finally did

When we landed at Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, we were greeted by a gathering of friendly faces and flowers. Our names were lovingly scrawled - yet again - onto the traditional von Gohren family Welcome Home sign. A guarantee that you've really been somewhere.

Welcome Home.

Do you know what it is like to relax within the borders of your homeland, after having to justify your existence to a foreign government for a while? Try to remember what it's like being chased by someone on the playground, bursting your lungs to avoid the reach of their fingers, and the relief that flooded your heightened adrenaline when you reached "base". Now, France is not even especially hostile towards Americans. We did play cat-and-mouse a bit with the administrative details (see my posts from about a year ago) , but imagine what it's like for an Algerian here. Or an American in Indonesia. Or a Jew in Palestine. Or a Mexican in Minnesota.

Regardless of whether foreign governments have extended a robust welcome to us over the past year, we have seen it manifestly abundant in another sector - indeed, where one might hope to see it - the Christian church. As foreigners and aliens, we've always been given a little space under the tent - be it in Paris, Morocco, Bayonne, or Minneapolis. Wherever we've wandered, God has provided for us through His people who, largely, seem to be putting their Bibles into practice:

"Beloved, it is a loyal thing you do when you render any service to the brethren, especially to strangers who have testified to your love before the church. You will do well to send them on their journey as befits God's service." (3 John 1:5-6)

Our Minnesota stay began with what is indubitably one of the sweetest outpourings of Christian service in the world...Sunday Pancakes at the Lewises. There is something eternal (I'm convinced) about the combination of ten of thousands of tasty carbohydrates covered in real maple syrup, gallons of high-test coffee, and high-spirited discussion on life, the universe, and everything. All accompanied by the constant plop-plop of more pancakes on the platter from Mom's spatula and Ethan's nervous fussing over the perfect background music.

Actually, looking back at our photos, I'm realizing that our visit largely consisted of gatherings around tables, especially ones on the right and the one below. We enjoyed immensely weaving meals together in large kitchens with these things called a dishwashers that clean up after you. Imagine that! And having gone a year without so much as touching a briquette (we cannot have barbecues within Paris proper), Karl joyously took up his Dad's flipper, turning out marvelous salmon and burgers by turns. I'm glad to see he hasn't lost his touch. Here, we had a chance to catch up with his sis and our two nieces, and get them hooked on our favorite German card game, Ligretto. Boy, do those girls learn fast!

Other memorable meals included: a superb, jovial dinner at our friends' David and Steph's house with about a dozen of our dearest friends, carrying off the catering project of the century for a Spanish wine-tasting fundraiser, and grazing over nibbles and stories on my grandparents' front porch in Ulen.

Ulen?

Ulen is a place where family ties are so strong, that even the thinnest and most brittle of strands will draw you back after years of absence. A four-hour drive northwest from the Cities through soybean and corn fields will take you past the "Lena's Lefse, Inc." building, the liquor store with the Viking ship, and into town. You pull over, walk down the quiet streets, and the one pickup that toddles by eyes you carefully - who is that, anyway? If he asked, you could tell him. You could take him to the graveyard, and show him how a third of the people buried there are "cousins" of one sort or another. (Heck, you're probably related to the guy in the pickup.) My great-great-great-great-great grandpapa founded this place in 1886, and we never forgot it. We never forget anything - we write up our histories in a big, blue book. They may only have one gas station, but they've got a newly-renovated town museum, and the guestbook says they just got a couple of visitors from Paris, France.

It is a really cool museum.

You know, it's one thing to wander around the Musee Carnavalet, seeing historical objects and paintings from the French Revolution era. Fascinating, but no real personal connection. It's quite another to walk through a museum with your grandma (that's my Nana at right) , and have her point out the Civil War portrait of your great-great-great-great grandfather as a young soldier in the Union army, or his wife's lefse-making stick on the other side of the room. We spent over two hours in this remarkably rich repository. I could've stayed hours longer, soaking in all the history.

Across town, my great-grandma Blenda had been anticipating us for weeks. She still makes the best oatmeal cookies ever. As talented at storytelling as she is, as she wanted to hear all about our adventures in places like Morocco and France, so we swapped tales. And almost as good as history is the present - finding out who's having babies, bandying about ideas for the next wedding, talking about our strange life abroad, trading recipes. All of this fueled by the constant flow of coffee from the pot. When we left (a little too late in the evening, as usual) for the long haul back to Minneapolis, that caffeine came in handy.

I like how my great-grandma always insists on saying "bye, bye" instead of "good-bye", since "there's nothing good about it". Apparently, these were my sentiments exactly, as I burst into tears in the middle of the terminal last Sunday, waiting for our plane to return to Europe. After a good cry on Karl's shoulder, he asked me: "are you sure you want to go through with this?" I answered with a sniffle in the positive. He left and came back with a large hot chocolate from Caribou. Wise man.

7 hours of jetlag, that I can get over. Leaving home? I don't think we ever really get over that.

What we did....Part II

So, what do you get when you combine a couple of adventuresome friends, luscious homegrown fruits and vegetables, fresh baguettes and ripe cheese, a few bottles of carefully chosen wine, rollicking music, a rolling mountain range and deep draughts of countryside air?

You get Bardos.

Bardos is a place where people still live in houses with names, not numbers. You can mount a bicycle for a serpentine ride through the valley and get passed by more tractors than SUVs. Gardens give up an awful lot more goodness than one would expect this side of Eden, what with the sunshine seeping into every tomato and basil leaf stretched joyously to the sky. It makes for a short walk to the “produce aisle”. But do plan ahead if you’re going to need something else like cheese, eggs, coffee or meat – it’s a fair drive down the road to get into town.

Who are those friendly people, anyway?

Meet Paul and Beatrice Dick, our gracious hosts and guides to the magical French Basque countryside. These two know a good spot of land when they see one - and love to show it off. We were treated to a string of delightful lessons. Among other things, Paul taught us that every bottle of wine has a story behind it, and that a mountain of fresh basil leaves will make exactly two trays full of pesto. Beatrice proved that four salads can make a perfect picnic, especially if you are eating them at the Place des Quatre Salades. She also convinced us that coffee is the only respectable way to terminate a meal, and hot is the only right way to drink it!

At night, we watch as the Pyrenées fade and the moon rises large, sometimes orange. At some point during the gradual eventide, bats begin – quite suddenly - to frantically dive and swoop for their supper, snapping us out of our own afterdinner, soporific trance. Shadows dance all around, and as long as we grab a sweater and cafes, we’re good for at least another forty-five minutes on the patio. Life stories, future plans, and all that stretch in-between called the present. What a present.

And then there was Marciac.

Back along these country roads which border rows upon rows of field corn, somewhere in the midst of all that quiet, faithful industry - lies the tiny town of Marciac. Largely uneventful for fifty weeks out of the year, it awakens every July with the world at its well-swept doorstep. Thanks to Wynton Marsalis’ direction, this 30-year music festival has developed into a full-fledged mecca for jazz. We were fortunate enough to join the throng for one day, which included several afternoon sets by up-and-coming artists, and an evening show by Sweet Honey in the Rock and Wynton himself (see the blurry...I mean, impressionistic photo at left). This jazz giant modestly sidestepped the stoplight not a few times to showcase a young gentleman with unique form of percussion – his happy, tap-dancin’ feet. We stumbled to the van about 2 am, spread out our sleeping bags sous la belle étoile, and slept until the sun awoke us to head back home – but not without stopping for a croissant and café on the way back.

Other excursions included a visit to the historical site of a battle in 778 when Roland was thoroughly sent packing by the native Basques. Local pride in the Basque heritage is hard to miss, with both official road signs and angrily-sprayed graffiti displaying the strange-looking language from nowhere and everywhere. Great-great-great....grandchildren of those victorious warriors gather to dance at the Fete de Bayonne, and patiently teach the ancient steps to the one million visitors who gather in red and white to meet, drink, and be merry. We wandered and wove through the two-colored sea, trying not to lose our companions, all being similarly bedecked in festival array.

Too soon, it was time to stuff our party hats into the suitcase, and board the train yet again, bound for dear old Paris. To be continued...

(Merci mille fois, Paul et Beatrice!)