Final, final thoughts: France, and the year in summary (by Yvette)

I’ve been determined for some time now to type up my final impressions of the road, I jotted down notes to this end on my flight home Paris > Los Angeles. But I’ve been reveling in being home, so only now (nearly 3 months later) I sit down to reflect on the last legs of our trip. (This is likely to be another epistle of hoarded thoughts.)

France . . . love it as an idea, a country, the language sounds musical, the sights are abundantly cute, the art is phenomenal, the quality of life magical. France was made so much more welcoming to us with the generosity of friends who offered that we could stay at their apartment in Toulouse. And so we got to know this beautiful little city. Toulouse—where the accent’s a bit “southern,” the sun warm, the brick streets and buildings soulful. Jacque (Neil’s mom) spent a few weeks with us—very nice to reconnect, have time to enjoy things together, to share impressions. I studied French for 3 weeks—enough to be convinced I can conquer French for real if I ever choose to, despite fellow student’s accusations that I was speaking “Fragnol” given my generous sprinkling of Spanish words into my new French!! The structure of 3 hours of language class is just perfect to feel like one is accomplishing something, while still being able to do some art, take naps, eat well, etc.

A few highlights from our France experience:

• Like other places, we probably most enjoyed the time we “parked” it, lived normal life, and made friends. Annie and Jacques (friends of those whose apartment we lived in) were ever-so-generous to share family with us, feed us, take us to beautiful nearby towns. Also, Stephanie and her parents (who we’d met in Muang Sing, Laos!!) generously invited us to their home, shared art classes (Stephanie), and gave a personal tour of the Airbus 380 test plane (which Allan works on)—very impressive! And we made good friends in our Thursday night sculpture class—always facilitated by lively music, a bottle of wine, some crackers, and plenty of clay to sculpt while chatting (or at least oohing and aahing, language barriers notwithstanding).

• The “transhumance” festival of Aubrac, celebrating when the cows migrate to northern meadows, was very amusing. Some cows wore flowers (picture a small Christmas tree mounted on a cow’s forehead, you’ll get the idea), some wore a French flag. None of the costume options were very dignified for the cows. Add lots of booths to buy things at, costumed dancers, accordion music, and long speeches. . . and a good time was had by all.

• The Les Stes. Maries de la Mer festival was colorful and interesting. This is a Roma / gypsy town, and the festival is to celebrate Saints Marie and Sarah who came from the sea to bring Christianity to France. So the festival starts at the church (except for those dancing and reveling outside), the saints are carried to the beach accompanied by horses and people in procession, carried into the water and then put on a boat out in the surf (whereupon they’re much less-ceremoniously returned to the church). Add a few sprinkles of yoga-performing tourists on the beach, wet clothing, gypsy bands, dancing, and perhaps some psychosis (or just extreme religious piety?). Once again, tho, better get your lunch by 1:30pm or it’s only sandwich shops for you (Neil had ice cream for lunch, I found a salad).

• One of our last hurrahs was to visit and volunteer at an organic goat farm in Florac—La Ferme de la Borie. Jean-Christophe, a hard-working, goofy, grinning, optimistic French man who stirs his coffee with his butter knife and scratches his head with his fork, bought this farm 10 years ago (after neglect since WWII), rebuilt the buildings, and manages 150 goats, 2 cows, chickens, pigs, 2 dogs, many cats, numerous bee hives, several interns and staff, and guests. What a delightful place. I got to lead (??!!) the goats to the milking barn, milk them, then help with various stages of the cheese-making process (all stages are smelly, and they get progressively grosser—the longest-aged cheese back in the caves must be turned and checked for humidity and worms, never mind the gnats, moths, mouse terds—hey, it’s organic!!) Neil fixed fences, pruned trees, hoed the garden. And in the evenings we were rewarded by fresh food warmly shared around a large table—lots of opportunity to practice my French!! And the cheese “plate” each night, let’s just say it was a plank (two people required to bring it to the table) laden with all goat cheeses imaginable.

So how do I sum up my thoughts on the year? This is one thing I’ve been mildly worried about all year—would it be worth it? Would it be productive? What would I have to show for the year? What would I learn? I’m practicing letting all that go—except to the extent it helps me live more intentionally, spend my time more proactively, be proud at the end of each day. So here are some final thoughts in that spirit.

When we considered this year, I worried about how self-absorbed it seemed (many of you are familiar with Eat, Pray, Love—and some have assessed her experience as self-absorbed, too). A friend encouraged me to think of the year as contributing balance to the world, for those who couldn’t take the time to have an experience like this. During this year, I’ve tried to make friends, to build community, to become and remain connected with people in far off places (just yesterday I emailed back and forth with Bolivia x 2, Laos x 2, Syria, France—phew!) Studying language facilitated this both by the practical aspects of communication, and in the symbol of investing enough to try, of honoring the mode of communication in each country. In each country we were proud to set up housekeeping (however simple) and offer food and friendship (which meant, again, the practical things like buying a pot, cooking on a bad stove, borrowing dishes to serve a crowd, etc.) Building community around the globe has its own importance, I believe. Equally importantly, I’ve tried to share thoughts with friends back home, especially helping to increase understanding of the specific places we went (Laos, Syria, Bolivia, France)—countries and people groups which are slightly “suspect” to many Americans. Finally, I hope I’ve inspired people to look up from a busy life and consider stepping out of the norm for a bit to gain some different perspective.

So I know I’ve broadened my horizons, and I hope I’ve broadened horizons for other people, too. I resonated significantly with this poem I found in a Pablo Neruda book that Grover, one of my Spanish teachers in Bolivia, lent to me:

Poet’s Obligation

By Pablo Neruda

To whomever is not listening to the sea

This Friday morning, to whomever is cooped up

In house or office, factory or woman

Or street or mine or harsh prison cell:

To him I come, and, without speaking or looking,

I arrive and open the door of his prison,

And a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,

A great fragment of thunder sets in motion

The rumble of the planet and the foam,

The raucous rivers of the ocean flood,

The star vibrates swiftly in its corona,

And the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,

I endlessly must listen to and keep

The sea’s lamenting in my awareness,

I must feel the crash of the hard water

And gather it up in a perpetual cup

So that, wherever those in prison may be,

Wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,

I may be there with an errant wave,

I may move, passing through windows,

And hearing me, eyes will glance upward

Saying: how can I reach the sea?

And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,

The starry echoes of the wave,

A breaking up of foam and of quicksand,

A rustling of salt withdrawing,

The grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea

Will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

(Essential Neruda: Selected Poems, Edited by Mark Eisner)

Often, up close, the days didn’t feel very profound. It’s easy for me to get stuck in the practical things, even beyond what’s necessary. Hard to carve out time to paint a picture when I’ve not painted before, or learn an art form when I can’t talk to the artist, or go to a dance class when I feel silly all day by my foreignness alone. Easier to deal with practical matters like buying a pot, or cleaning the bathroom, or looking up baking soda substitutions, or studying my verbs. Another piece of literature I like explains this side of the practical vs. expressive tension I felt this year:

One More

By Raymond Carver

He arose early, the morning tinged with excitement, eager to be at his desk. He had toast and eggs, cigarettes and coffee, musing all the while on the work ahead, the hard path through the forest. The wind blew clouds across the sky, rattling the leaves that remained on the branches outside his window. Another few days for them and they’d be gone, those leaves. There was a poem there, maybe; he’d have to give it some thought. He went to his desk, hesitated for a long moment, and then made what proved to be the most important decision he’d make all day, something his entire flawed life had prepared him for. He pushed aside the folder of poems—one poem in particular still held him in its grip after a restless night’s sleep. (But, really, what’s one more, or less? So what? The work would keep for a while yet, wouldn’t it?) He had the whole wide day opening before him. Better to clear his decks first. He’d deal with a few items of business, even some family matters he’d let go far too long. So he got cracking. He worked hard all day—love and hate getting into it, a little compassion (very little), some fellow-feeling, even despair and joy. There were occasional flashes of anger rising, then subsiding, as he wrote letters, saying “yes” or “no” or “it depends”—explaining why, or why not, to people out there at the margin of his life or people he’d never seen and never would see. Did they matter? Did they give a damn? Some did. He took some calls, and made some others, which in turn created the need to make a few more. So-and-so, being unable to talk now, promised to call back next day.

Toward evening, worn out and clearly (but mistakenly, of course) feeling he’d done something resembling an honest day’s work, he stopped to take inventory and note the couple of phone calls he’d have to make next morning if he wanted to stay abreast of things, if he didn’t want to write still more letters, which he didn’t. By now, it occurred to him, he was sick of all business, but he went on in this fashion, finishing one last letter that should have been answered weeks ago. Then he looked up. It was nearly ark outside. The wind had laid. And the trees—they were still now, nearly stripped of their leaves. But, finally, his desk was clear, if he didn’t count that folder of poems he was uneasy just to look at. He put the folder in a drawer, out of sight. That was a good place for it, it was safe there and he’d know just where to go to lay his hands on it when he felt like it. Tomorrow! He’d done everything he could do today. There were still those few calls he’d have to make, and he forgot who was supposed to call him, and there were a few notes he was required to send due to a few of the calls, but he had it made now, didn’t he? He was out of the woods. He could call today a day. He’d done what he had to do. What his duty told him he should do. He’d fulfilled the sense of obligation and hadn’t disappointed anybody.

But at that moment, sitting there in front of his tidy desk, he was vaguely nagged by the memory of a poem he’d wanted to write that morning, and there was that other poem he hadn’t gotten back to either.

So there it is. Nothing much else needs to be said, really. What can be said for a man who chooses to blab on the phone all day, or else write stupid letters while he lets his poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned—or worse, unattempted. This man doesn’t deserve poems and they shouldn’t be given to him in any form.

His poems, should he ever produce any more, ought to be eaten by mice.

(A New Path to the Waterfall, by Raymond Carver)

So how does it feel to be home? Very comfortable. Of course I’m grumpy at a few aspects of my own culture as I re-enter it. I was grumpy at other cultures when I was in those too. But I re-enter home certain that American culture is firmly my own. Feels like an old glove, not even that exciting, just familiar and grounded somehow. I’m reminded anew to be grateful for the government in my country, not because it’s anywhere close to perfect, but because I truly can disagree without fear, my rights are clear and protected, and I get to vote. I feel so rich in my own home (scads of space, furniture, beauty, things), and our own self-installed plumbing / tile / wiring / utilities are palace-quality in relation to much of what we’ve seen, and English is just so easy after Arabic, Spanish, French. And, it’s been just great to re-join our long-time community here in Seattle.

To finally close out the year also means returning to work—something I hope to find in the coming months. Our next big adventure (not quite accomplished this year) is to start a family. Thanks to each of you for your interest in our trip, and thanks for traveling with us!!