Good Times

I have been so preoccupied tying up the loose ends of the school year and making plans for the next, that it has been impossible to sit down and be contemplative enough to update the blog. However, I would like to share a few photos from the terrific times that we recently had with my Mom and my brother Seth. They were recently in town for three weeks, and we lived it up!

Seth is amazed by Foucault's Pendulum.




Mom and Seth trying to be saintly in the Cluny, the museum of the Middle Ages.






Seth showing off his karate in the Arenes de Lutece, where Roman gladiators also used to fight. I doubt they had moves as cool as my bro.

Seth and Karl descend apprehensively into the Catacombs. It looks as if Seth has caught a glimpse of the first skeleton...of hundreds of thousands to come!!!




Mom (Robbie) looks cute and Parisian as we indulge in our favorite pastime - sitting at cafes.




Our other favorite pastime - making dinners. Here, we are drying homemade pasta on our clothes-drying rack!





Picnic in the Jardin des Plantes. Abbey and Seth discover a new favorite: "bean bean" salad. Later, we explored the Marie Curie Museum. Fantastic tour, and Mom got her picture taken next to Madame's lab coat. We even got exposed to radioactivity, which was especially exciting.








We even took a train out to Giverny on the nicest day of the year, which yielded long lines and hot sun, but also lovely flowers, and a delicious lunch.

Miss you guys, and can't wait to have some more good times!

Love Ab and Karl

Stones Crying Out

As I have probably mentioned before, Paris is like a living, three-dimensional history book. The street names are reminders of the great men and women who have made their mark in literature, art, medicine, and other disciplines. We stand daily upon strata of stories, zig-zagging their way back through the centuries. This is true of anyplace in this world, but it is more transparent in some cities than others. Here, the stones answer back with full, rounded tones, the same sounds made by a thousand and one boot heels echoing throughout the passageways of this ancient town.

Intent upon encountering something of the past, I strapped on a pair of boots and set out yesterday with a view to get a clearer picture of the sixteenth century in Paris. Specifically, relating to the publishers and writers who were busily putting a relatively new invention called the printing press through its paces. Since the starting point for all things in France is point zero in front of the Notre-Dame, I decided to head there first.

Upon my arrival, I noticed other markings embedded in the pavement: a church over here, a former road over there. Now, things were starting to take shape. On two plaques at the east and west end of the plaza, I found the ghost I came to haunt: the Rue Neuve Notre-Dame. I love this. Rue means street, and neuve means new, so you can see how ironic it all is. (Incidentally, the Pont neuf, or "new bridge" is the oldest in Paris.) Unless this is an outline for a future plan for construction. I can just see the campaign now: "Haussman's shortsighted plan for wide streets only encouraged auto traffic and pollution. Let's bring back the narrow streets of the Middle Ages!"

Right. Besides disease-ridden rats thanks to the plague, sewage, and other nuisances, this medieval street was home to a great many publishing houses, all crammed together and churning out the books and pamphlets on demand. This is why I find idyllic images of jolly workmen in large, airy workshops with windows, loading up the press with movable type rather funny. Maybe those were German workmen. Parisian shops had to be tiny, at least given the dimensions I found underfoot.

Speaking of which, if you descend into the Crypte Archeologique exhibit underneath the Parvis Notre-Dame, you can see the basements of these brave businesses. I always wonder how many contraband copies of banned books were kept nestled between those stones. If only these walls could speak! And yet, in some sense, they do. Historians have dug into manuscripts, ledgers, and licenses to discover, for example, that a guy named Vincent Sertenas had a shop under the sign of "Saint John the Evangelist". Grab your copy of "L'Amie de court" quick - they're selling like hotcakes! (Must be that hot chick on the front - works every time.)

Clearly, Rue Neuve Notre-Dame was a hustling and bustling quarter of the big city, where men with inky fingers came and went, toiling in the hovering, motherly shadow of the Notre-Dame cathedral. The poets whose lines were defining the framework for literary, historical, and religious revolutions would also duck under the low doorways to chat and negociate. Some of those printed words would soon condemn them to prison, exile, and even death. Clement Marot, whose name some of you might have heard me intone a time or two, was one of the king's favorite bards. That is, until the poet began dabbling in Bible translation into French and consorting with heretics, or "lutherites". Quick as a wink, he landed himself in the infamous Chatelet prison (as a prison in the Middle Ages at right, and below as a theatre today) , on a charge that he had eaten bacon during Lent. Uh-huh. What about all those books of his they seized and burned? Fortunately for Marot, he was a poet. And poets have a way of coming up with fabulous poetry out of misery. He did get out alive, but only to be soon driven into exile. He died in Geneva, hanging out with John Calvin. I suppose it could be worse. His editor and friend Etienne Dolet was tortured, strangled, and burned at the stake by the flame of his own books in 1546. This horrific incident took place at Place Maubert, which is not even a ten-minute bike ride from our apartment.

The power of the pen. Sometimes I wonder about the interval of time between ink and blood spilled on the cobblestones. And an old lament comes to mind..."what have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground."

Risen

Jesus having been risen indeed, we found a sufficiently compelling reason to rise ourselves at 6 am a few Saturdays ago and board an enormous coach bus full of French preteens bound for Chartres. Karl had a gig with a youth choir with energy to burn - and sugar too, judging from the bags of candy good-naturedly passed 'round during the rumbling hour-long voyage. It must have been Easter or something.

Our friends Charles and Magali direct this exuberant group of kids to sing and dance for the glory of God all over France. Karl has now become a fixture in the talented band, playing organ and keyboard parts. This project has recently taken them to Nantes, Chartres, Paray-le-Monial, and will soon bring them further afield. Sometimes this "in-house" roadie gets to tag along.

The day began and ended with chill and rain, with a very short burst of sun in the afternoon. This is typical French weather for March, called "giboulee de Mars", which I might translate as "stinging bits of cold interspersed with equally stinging bits of sunshine". At any rate, not the most promising weather for a festival. Still, the main event was safe under the tent.

The drizzle did put us in the proper mood for the somber atmosphere of the famous Chartres cathedral, which was all dressed up in its mourning veils for Holy Saturday. I dragged another supportive-yet-bored band wife (I mean, roadie) along with me to glimpse the glorious windows. The Bible and other stories laid out in brilliant, gem-like designs. Speaking of which, if you ever get the chance to visit a cathedral with a jeweler, jump at the chance. It's simply fascinating to see large-scale design through their eyes. My companion was equally fascinated by my interest in French medieval literature. How on earth does an American come to study such things? (I have no idea.)

The excitement for the evening's performance built and built, even as the darkness fell and the wind picked up to near-Minnesota bitterness. Cosy and snug in the warmth of a crowd, I watched as Karl and Charles and the band, and a crowd of smiling young bouncing people poured out their best to a full house. They did spectacularly, every one of them from the smallest to the greatest.

The bus was...a little late. We didn't get back into Paris and snug in our warm beds until 2 am or so, so Easter morning was a smörgåsbord of "fat morning" (grasse matinee in French, which means sleeping in) and refreshing victuals for breakfast. Happy (late) Easter everyone!

Vendredi Saint

It is Good Friday, and I would like to share a piece by my favorite poet, Clement Marot. This is just a translation, but I'll include the original at the bottom for those of you who read French. My favorite part is when he says that "Death which our Saviour does quell" ("Ainsi la mort, qui le Sauveur oppresse"), which is ambiguous as it sounds. Is Death oppressing Him, or vice versa?

Maybe we find out in "three days".

Good Friday

Grief or joy, I have both unsurpassed
Grief when I ponder the somber day that passed
And see my Redeemer, hung on the cross
Or utmost joy, when by his blood-poured loss,
I am saved from my infernal fate at last.

Then I will laugh; no! Sorrow is my stance.
Sorrow? Yes, I say, with all jubilance!
In fact, I don't know which to hold fast:
Grief or joy.

Both are good, as God has taught us well;
And so Death which our Saviour does quell
Makes in our hearts both grief and joy descend.
Till our death, at last, renders us to dusty end,
And one or the other, will bid us farewell,
Grief or joy.

Du Vendredi Saint

Deuil ou plaisir me faut avoir sans cesse:
Deuil, quand je vois (ce jour plein de rudesse)
Mon Redempteur pour moi en la croix pendre;
Ou tout plaisir, quand pour son sang epandre
Je me vois hors de l'infernale presse.

Je rirai donc: non, je prendrai tristesse.
Tristesse? oui, dis-je, toute liesse.
Bref, je ne sais bonnement lequel prendre:
Deuil ou plaisir.

Tous deux sont bons, selon que Dieu nous dresse:
Ainsi la mort, qui le Sauveur oppresse,
Fait sur nos coeurs deuil et plaisir descendre:
Mais notre mort, qui enfin nous fait cendre,
Tant seulement l'un ou l'autre nous laisse,
Deuil ou plaisir.

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.