Hold On/We Take Care of Our Own

"So bless my heart and bless my mind
 I've got so much to do, I ain't got much time"-Brittany Howard (The Alabama Shakes), "Hold On"

"Wherever this flag is flown we take care of our own"-Bruce Springsteen, "We Take Care of Our Own"


Beloved family and friends,

It's been almost 3 weeks since I last posted, and for that I sincerely apologize! The whirlwind of Obama's reelection and several nights out with my colleagues have blown me more than a bit off schedule with this blog. I now write to you with 2 additional songs-of-the-week under my belt, both anthems that seem exceptionally apropos during the post-election period (particularly with all these insane petitions about "secession" that 900,000 people have signed around the country). I figure it couldn't hurt the French to hear them either.

Halloween has passed (I dressed up as Prince Madoc, the patron saint of Lecteurs, haha...our Blackboard registration system bears the same name. His remarkable legend is linked below...it involves Mobile and Lookout Mountain, two of my favorite places). My beard was shaved the following night as I embarked upon my own "No Beard November" challenge at the behest of some of my dear coworkers.... I've also had a beard for the overwhelming majority of the past 4 years and agree that it might be time for a change.

With October gone, Thanksgiving and frigid weather is upon us (this "song" gains a million views every 2 days....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSBq8geuJk0). The "end of the world" is supposedly in about 36 days, and with music like this and 6:45AM freezes like today's, I don't really doubt it, haha.

My life is oddly consistent in spite of all of these changes, and the tutoring work I've taken up outside of the University has kept me even busier (although I do spend far too much time reading American news and wading into American Facebook debates). Most of the stories I have to tell include lecteur-specific humor (often incorporating Franglais---"let me retirer some argent really quick"---and broken English phrases we hear daily such as "I am very agree").  That said, I won't be the guy who says "no bro, you had to have been there to get it."

A brief list of things I've experienced since I last posted:

1. Heard the expression "Nights are for drinking not for exercising!" at least 10 times from different French people

2. Listened to Obama's victory speech with a collection of random French students at 7:40 AM last Wednesday "Il a gagné!!" They didn't even have to specify who "he" was.

3. Taught rudimentary swing dancing to those same dear coworkers (mercifully there were no pictures of this).

4. Had a student refer to the film "Friends with Benefits" as "Sex with Benefits" for the entirety of a presentation.

5. Had one of my Ghanan students make me profoundly happy, sad,  and homesick (that's apparently possible) when he said "Where I'm from, people...they take care of each other, they are there for the good and the bad, to celebrate or cry with you. In France, this is just something they pretend. I asked a man for direction in Paris and he tell me to find a map or go back to my country." French society as a whole doesn't quite live up to the big revolutionary game it talks about solidarity, particularly when it comes to solidarity with people from countries not called France.

6.  Found all of the Inter-Library-Loan books I hoarded in their original forms...and proceeded to hoard them all over for what I can now safely call "pleasure reading" rather than "frenzied, Subway and Red Bull-fueled nightmare reading." Felt like I'd met old friends again (I think that was written on a lower school library propaganda poster)

7. Watched Alabama lose its first game; I wore my Alabama shirt all next day anyway. Roll Tide in victory and defeat.

8. Made plans to visit my old host family this weekend. 2.5 year reunion, long overdue. I'll surely have some stories to tell next week!

9. Found an old computer game that lets me play through ancient French history as "The Duchy of Brittany;" it's a good excuse to learn French geography.

10. Taught some of my Master's students the idiom "That dog will hunt!" It's all for you, Lil P.

11. Was approached by a group of French high schoolers who declared that I looked like Ryan Gosling (I'll attribute that to the beard rather than a notebook of letters).

12. Was surrounded by a group of my students at an "English night" (a popular tradition that allows students and lecteurs to go to a bar together...it's about what you'd expect) all wanting to discuss zombies and the apocalypse with me (my references to the Walking Dead appear to have shambled around the department).

13. Explained to my students for the 50th time that "Prospecting" means looking for precious metals and oil, not jobs. It took showing some of them Toy Story 2's Prospector Pete to clarify.

303. Is my favorite number and where I will arbitrarily end this list.

I promise to write again sooner!

Here's to believing that America does indeed take care of its own.

Wherever this flag is flown (or worn),

John

(The French are obsessed with American flag scarves...)

P.S:

Bearded 1000-yard stare

Remembered my laptop's webcam function after I became beardless

Prince Madoc
(http://www.museum.state.il.us/exhibits/lewis_clark_il/htmls/il_country_exp/preps/legend_madoc.html)

"Prince Madoc's Sword" 

Like a Rolling Stone

             
"A rolling stone gathers no moss"-Publius Syrus (attributed)

A picture taken from the top of Nantes' only skyscraper, the Tour de Bretagne (my picture pales in comparison). Several of us went to the bar at the top called "Le Nid" (The Nest); view's only thing you get for free, but what a view it is...

House Wolves and Tram Duels

Unlike the girl in Dylan's epic contribution to rock and roll (Edie Sedgwick?), I'm trying to take the ancient wisdom of that age-old adage to heart. As much as I do love fast-moving things, I'm doing my best to establish a life here, whether it lasts one year, two years, or indefinitely. Ha, as the British might say, I'm getting stuck in.

I have much to report, but I'll save the text heavy posting for next week (my first holiday, Toussaint, French All-Saints). One amusing encounter I must share though comes from my time on the trams. As  I was riding home from meeting my friend Rachel's wonderful new dog, Ty Loup (Ty=house in Breton Loup=wolf in French, fine name for a fine dog), I found myself surrounded by a pack of drunk French teenagers. One of them politely asked me if they could take over the previously empty tram car where I was situated, and after smiles and back pats, his friends were involved in what I can only describe as something resembling combat in the Thunderdome of Mad Max lore. Two of the group were swinging from overhead handrails, kicking each other while the others chanted (about like this, only in French http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmRAiUPdRjk). The TAN officer near the conductor's compartment took a single glance at the mortal combat and shot me a look, a mixture of fear and disgust, that practically cried out "I don't get paid enough for this shit" as he retreated into the compartment and sealed the door. Haha, Vive la France, a fine place to root oneself.        

As for their game, I can't tell you who won, but considering that they were all drunk and riding illegally, "when you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose."

Cordialement,

John



P.S:

(A more terrestrial view of the same bridge, the Éric Tabarly)

("Armored" blinds deployed)

(Our entry gate)

(Outside corridor...the closet that once held the rat is ahead to the left)

("Living Room" haha...)

(My purple and white bed arrangement...I burned my beloved Sewanee blanket in a dryer, so it doesn't "glow" like it used to, but it's still warm).

 (Far cry from five star dining, but this is the staple of my diet)

 (Rebecca and Jonathan's blessings, my Cheerios, and Mr. Hyde's Sewanee shot glass...blessings indeed)

(My secret supply of peanut butter, an exotic commodity in France that I'm saving it for fellow ex-pats. Good vintage on those Cliff Bars). 

(Easley and Dan Dan....)

(:37....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7X5s5vacIU) 

You Never Can Tell

"C'est la vie" say the old folks; it goes to show you never can tell."-Chuck Berry, "You Never Can Tell"

In Medias "Race"

Laptop case slung over shoulder and backpack firmly secured, I stand centimeters away from the green and white doors of Nantes' Line 1 tram and try to avoid elbowing any of the 8 Nantais within breathing distance. Through the Plexiglass windows I track my Line 2 connecting tram as it glides towards its platform across the way and can't help but mumble "shit."The phonetically immaculate female voice chimes "Commerce," and I prepare to charge. Ten seconds left....I sweep my gaze over my fellow commuters, and our shared situation is unspoken but wholly understood; each of us must make it to that connecting train or arrive late to our respective jobs.

Zero. I look to the French student directly next to me, smile, and say "rock and roll" as her thumb mashes the orange door control button. The doors open, and we leap forth like horses out of the starting gate. I clutch my bulky laptop to my chest like a square-shaped rifle and sprint the 200 meters to the Line 2 platform.  40 seconds later, I'm sweating before class and missing Sewanee cross country, but at least I'm on time and on the correct tram. Most of my fellow sprinters make it, but this time there's also the last place finisher, le pauvre who desperately presses the door control button only to find that his efforts were in vain; sacrifices must be made in the world of mass transit...his only consolation prizes are a ride on the next tram and a 20 minute wait. (Makes me think of the ending of Von Ryan's Express, and no, I don't believe it's possible to spoil a movie from 1965, haha: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCqHfqhoMqo)

That's the average Wednesday and Friday rush for me. My imagination always seems to turn things as mundane as morning commutes into epic struggles, but it does make for a better story (I have, for the record, witnessed a drug deal on the tram; oddly enough, it's a rather boring tale). Speaking of epic transit stories, seeing ticket-less people flee from the conductors is always perversely entertaining (I've only fled from them once; now I have my papers "en règle" as the French say). Still, when I see the ominous pack of trench coats board the tram---agents of TAN's bizarrely named "Greeting and Notification Service"---I secretly pretend that they are Gestapo officers hunting for Resistance operatives or escaped Allied POW's (and my heart sure as hell pounded during my one and only getaway from them...there's a scene from the Great Escape that comes to mind).

All that said, I still laugh when I imagine myself on the tram, a Mobile kid packed in with the dozens of assorted French folk, "stuck like a duck in a pen." Smells range from unspeakably vile to oddly pleasant, but I won't waste any more time on stereotypes. Suffice it to say that people are people; "C'est la vie" say the French and Chuck Berry. Still, the fact that I'm now a rush hour tram commuter does indeed go to show you never can tell, haha.  Now if anyone can't already tell, I settled on Chuck Berry's iconic tune for my third "song of the week," and seeing several of my students imitate the Travolta-Thurman dance in their chairs at the beginning of class confirmed that it was a worthy selection. I'm not sure if I'll continue the "song of the week" tradition indefinitely, but I think I'll try to find at least a couple more good ones for the semester. I'm thinking I'll play "Homecoming King" for one advanced class whose questions about Homecoming became a minor infatuation when I told them I had been a Homecoming King myself. Nothing like a good satirical song about the whole process to confound stereotypes, haha. I think Sewanee's is at least a bit more dignified than a high school affair, and I look forward to seeing which 2013'er's will ascend to the Prom Queen-Throne this year.  

Anyway, there have been some issues with my classes, most notably when a pair of guys announced that they wanted to choose "sex with a condom" vs. "sex without a condom" as their "serious" debate project. I almost publicly executed their grades, but I managed to retract my claws and instead gave them a disgusted glare and a warning to "drop what you're saying immediately." No one in the class laughed, so they aren't even passing as class clowns. I hope that I don't have to make good on my original plan to kick them out, but I'm not wholly convinced that this will be the last I hear from those two. Fortunately, incidents like that represent a statistically insignificant portion of my time teaching.  Things are going rather well, and, as I realized last Wednesday, I've already begun to grow into my role.

Last Wednesday was our monthly "English Night," a gathering at a local bar called "Délirium" where the only rule is that everyone make an effort to speak English (it sells the whole line of those high-powered Delirium beers...Tee, if you're reading this, you'd probably think the owner was Willy---Guillaume?---Wonka). It was on the Délirium porch---where I'd escaped from the mass of people crammed in the sweltering interior--- that I abandoned the "Am I a teacher?" attitude in favor of  "No, I'm definitely a teacher." About 10 of my (drunk) students surrounded me (just when I thought I knew no one there but my coworkers), and soon I had met boyfriends, girlfriends, and other members of their respective entourages after the introduction: "This is our teacher! He's the one from Alabama!" It's a tricky task being both an educator and a friend, especially considering we are almost all the same age (+ or - 3 years), but I think I've built my "authority wall" high enough to last a semester before it's worn down by all this fraternizing (It's hard not to be  be friends with the girl in one of my advanced classes who wants to do her cultural presentation on the Walking Dead or American survivalist culture--she couldn't decide---a student after my own heart). That said, I made sure to assert myself intellectually (lest they stop treating me with academic respect) by challenging them to French history duels. They quickly accepted that I was indeed a better student of their history than them somewhere between Vercingetorix and the Eiffel Tower; "Honi soit qui mal pense" à French Studies at Sewanee, haha.

I'm getting around to venturing out of Nantes and will surely post about any interesting travel-adventures. In lieu of my actual pictures (which I promise are coming!), please accept a Fictional one as an IOU:

Cordialement,

John


P.S: I recently learned that the product "Velcro" is a hybrid (portmanteau) of "velours" and "crochet," "velvet" and "hook" in French. Cute little trivia fact for you...I reckon that cute little trivia facts represent something like 90% of my total knowledge.

Rocky Top, Tennessee

"I've spent years of city life trapped like a duck in a pen!
All I know's that it's a pity life can't be simple again!"-Felice and Boudleaux Bryant, "Rocky Top"

"J'en ai marre de la vie urbaine, piégé comme une poule dans un parc! 

La vie ici n’est guère si simple, et c’est ma dernière remarque ! "-John Gilmer (translator), "Le Rocky Top" Haha... 

Well I've done it; I've taught my first official classes, and I loved almost every minute of it (barring a few predictably awkward silences). I played the entirety of "Sweet Home Alabama" complete with a French translation as my introductory activity, and it was a success with every class---first years to masters students.  I've decided to establish a "song of the week" policy because it seems to me that, beyond my loving music, such an activity offers several benefits: it provides structure, cultural immersion, an aural learning opportunity, ready-made translation work, and, of course, a damn good way to keep everyone's attention (particularly in my 8am/9am courses when only caffeine, my sense of duty, and, most importantly, Lynyrd Skynyrd are keeping me from sleeping at my desk).

So in keeping with that plan, I've selected "Rocky Top" as my second week song. NB: This is not an endorsement of UT football, but rather a tribute to the state I've grown to consider my second home. If anyone's interested in hearing my "cover" of it, just tell me, haha. I kept most of the rhyming and meter intact in my translation, even if "moonshine still" is entirely untranslatable in French.

Anyway, after the "Sweet Home" experience, I transitioned to my main actvity for the first day, "2 truths and a lie,"a venerable old game, ever popular in the summer camp circuits. Here were the 12 statements I composed about myself in an effort to give them some material to work with (and perfect an occasionally self-depricating standup comedy routine that scored massive laughs by my final class when it had been refined):

1. I'm an indentical twin. (T)
2. I love cats. (F, in the extreme)
3. I can speak German fluently. (F, just enough to deceive people into thinking I do)
4. I dressed like this daily at my University. (T, plus ties)
5. I was once asked to be the "Golden Snitch" in a game of "Quidditch." (T)
6. I can play the violin. (T, but poorly)
7. I wanted to be a teacher when I was young. (F, doctor, I fix broken english not broken bones, lol!1!!)
8. My hometown, Mobile, was once a French colony. (T, the Monarchy, not the Republic)
9. I have never watched the show Breaking Bad (F in the extreme again; I also use this time to point to New Mexico on my map)
10. I've won the lottery.  (T, 50 dollars....better than nothing!)
11. I ran 16 kilometers last night. (T, look for the dude running at night with a headlamp, possibly lost)
12. I've broken 3 bones. (T, weren't no fun....)

Each one was paired with at least one story that taught them a bit about me. For example, 2. "I love cats" was followed by my confessed affection for the cat who lives between the library and Language Center, "Butch." Clearly a cat who lives at a University must be intelligent and refined; he even lets people pet him without demanding food.  With number 8. I'd score laughs by making fun of Mobilians for saying "Petty Boy" island" instead of "Petit Bois" and the young John Gilmer for thinking "Dauphin Island" was "Dolphin Island" for longer than he'd care to admit. I think I landed enough of my jokes to say that I passed as a professor-comedian; I even kept a class of 20 girls laughing for the entire hour (drawing a cat face in the word "cat" has had the highest success rate, haha).

At any rate, I've heard so many hilarious little comments from my students already that they are almost numerous beyond recounting: the girl who hesistated to pronounce the "a-cola" suffix of "coke" when describing something she was addicted to, the girl who annonced that her boyfriend was "married" when she was trying to say a "mariner," and the girl who proudly announced that she had already dated a boy from Alabama (apparently they met when he was at the Naval Academy and she in DC...she did not recall what city he was from, leading me to believe that her definition of "date" is far more liberal than mine, haha). One guy told the class that he'd met the Queen of England and was met with laughter, only to recount an amazing story of how he, as a child, had nearly been able to shake her hand. Ha, and of course one girl joked about being afraid of butterflies only to have another announce that the "fluttering monsters" scared her to tears. Oh yeah, and one girl was traumatized by the movie ET; thanks a lot for that scene with the Fed's in space suits, Spielberg.

I also have the female Judo champion of Senegal in one of my courses, haha.

Anyway, never in my life since I was the "Trivia Lord" of Camp Alpine's "Hunter Hollow" have I found my breadth of random knowledge so useful. I can make use of everything from French history, Latin, linguistics, animal facts, anatomy, and geography to  Game of Thrones, video games, Breaking Bad, English-speaking musicians, and The Simpsons. Ha, the two places I've almost always been comfortable have been the classroom and the bar trivia arena; looks like I've finally found perfect overlap. In fact, the only thing that's really changed in my life is my location in the classroom and a dramatic increase in my use of MS Excel.  

Find attached a video of Jules Verne's mechanical elephant that I might prove my loyalty to Alabama football despite my love for "Rocky Top" (particularly the Flying Burrito Brothers version). Hope everyone who's reading this is doing well, whatever your coordinates, and I hope to write again soon.

Cordialement,

"Monsieur Gilmer" (I really need keep telling them to call me John...)


P.S: "Now my fur has turned to skin, and I've been quickly ushered in to a world that I confess I do not know, but I still dream of running careless through the snow..."-Blitzen Trapper, "Furr"

That line has never resonated with me as much as it does now; Sewanee memories are beginning to feel as distant as home these days, and I must confess that there are moments when I'm running along the Loire that I wish it were a dry creekbed along the Mountain Goat Trail. I don't run with my pack anymore, and while I've embraced the inevitable (ever encroaching...) reality of growing up, I sometimes long for those glorious moments blazed out in finish chutes, "young, and wild, and free, like Texas in 1880."

(Despite the trunk-hose, I was extremely disappointed to find that it is powered by wheels, not its own mechanical feet....RTR anyway)

                                          

 (and there's Waldo)

Sweet Home Alabama

"Singing songs about the Southland, and I miss Alabama once again..."-Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Sweet Home Alabama"

"Goooodbye, Ah-lah-bama!!"-Drunk French students, upon our parting ways.


I've now been in Nantes for over 3 weeks, and although the title of this post seems to point explicitly towards homesickness, it's rather a reflection on how I don't feel like I've truly left it (I have begun to miss my highly diluted Milo's sweet tea and my dog, two things I've found unwilling to talk to me on Skype). In fact, being in a foreign country has allowed me to appreciate more fully my own cultural identity and better understand the whole "You can't take the South out of the boy" adage, a formidable contender on the list of "Quasi-Philosophical Things Southerners Say." (Sadly that list also includes "Heritage not hate" as well as the perennial contradictions "Love it or leave it" and "Not my president").  So while I'll leave the anthropology to Andrew Bradshaw, my former classmate, current roommate, and loyal anglophone ally, I do want to take some time to share--in brief---how national identity has stood at the forefront of almost all of my social encounters in France.

First, I must say that the French seem to think I'm Irish; perhaps it's my beard, perhaps it's the cadence of my voice, or perhaps they just wish I were Irish. Whatever the case, I've had 4 different people make that mistake, so I take it that it's a common first impression. That said, once I explain that I'm from America, the next question is always "Where?" For a one word question, this is surprisingly difficult to answer. Why? The French map of the "United States" tends to include only New York, Florida, Texas, California, and Louisiana (mostly, I'm sad to report, because of the HBO show True Blood). The rest still looks about like one massive "Lousiana Territory" in their imagining. In light of that, I stick to saying "I'm from Mobile, Alabama, to the west of Florida, on the Gulf of Mexico (so it's near Mexico?)...it used to be a French colony (blank stares)...and there's a song about Alabama; do you know it?" Then the smiles appear, followed quickly by accented humming of the first notes of Van Zant's anthem and one or two people insisting they can play the song on guitar (which receives a surprising amount of playtime in French bars).  My driver's license proves my claim, and the crude map of the region I've sketched in my notebook confirms that Mexico is not actually a ferry ride away. Soon everyone in the entire extended group wants to demonstrate his or her pronunciation of the state (and sometimes buy me a drink, a kindness and I'd argue universally-appreciated diplomatic gesture). In one encounter, my name became "Alabama," and after some anemic protesting, I accepted it with a strange mixture of frustration and pride.

For my English-speaking friends, my accent is something of a novelty, much the same way that theirs are to me. Indeed, our lecteur group represents a variety of following accents: Jamaican, English (Coventry), English (Bristol), Scottish (Inverness), Canadian (Nova Scotia), American (Oklahoma), American (Maryland), and mine, American (Alabama). For the record, I could listen to Our Scottish lectrice, Mhairi, read the dictionary if that gives any indication of how lovely I find her accent. As for mine, when I was asked if I could speak without it, I quickly realized that--short of imitating one of theirs--I couldn't. Much like my practice of to holding open doors, wearing "class dress," and never taking a seat on the tram, my accent is an outward manifestation of an essential part of both who I was raised to be and who I really am, and as Mr. Isbell's narrator would agree, some things "ain't never gonna change."  Ha, and while the closest I'll get to eating Alabamian food might be Cassoulet at Nic and Elvire's, I don't worry much about "uprooting" myself these days. (Cassoulet is a traditional dish from southern France consisting of variety of meats mixed with white beans served, in our case, with Dutch beer, American Music, French wine, and some of the world's best of company, haha).

Anyway, I suppose it's appropriate that I've found myself in what many Bretons consider the heart of Bretagne (even if departmental maps disagree), a part of France typically considered "too religious," "anti-government," "plebian," and "backwards." I suspect that after this year I'll be rearing to defend another misunderstood region against geographic stereotypes. On a more practical note, classes start this week, so I'll first be trying to come up with clever ways to trick French students into learning my language; any help would be much appreciated! Ha, I have half a mind to play "Sweet Home Alabama" during the first 30 seconds of my first classes. We'll see...

Pictures will follow soon along with any amusing anecdotes I think y'all might like to hear. Here's to hoping that I pick up the French accent quickly and hold on to my Southern one faithfully.

Most cordially (my favorite French epistolary closer, "cordialement"),

John

P.S:

1. Although the Breton flag flies proudly over the Castle, "Bretagne Will Rise Again" has yet to catch on in Nantes. Still, the French military has traditionally been concerned about the loyalty of troops levied from what used to be an independent realm.

2. Elvire's younger brother, Clément, consoled me with the following Game of Thrones reference when his friend Geoffrey drunkenly made fun of my French accent: "His name's Geoffrey, and when he drinks he belongs on Game of Thrones"

3. Thanks again to Nic and Elvire's generosity, I now have a fouton that fits perfectly in my apartment. Andrew can confirm that it is rather comfortable.

Exploring the Canals

Ha, forgive the decidedly amateur quality of these clips. I'm still working out how to use my camera. I find this sort of stuff fascinating and will keep posting pictures of intriguing things I run through/over while I'm Nantes: 

(Approaching the canals)

(The Spider Colonies; I suspect Shelob dwells at the end of the last tunnel...)

("Nymphea," Lady of the Canal)

(She moves, too....about the closest thing to a water nymph I'll ever see this side of Shakespeare, haha)

(The mysterious canal-tunnel that runs past the Castle; it's almost completely subterranean)

Ardet Nec Consumitur

"Ardet nec consumitur (Burned, not consumed)"-Motto of Belgium's Grimbergen Abbey


Shame, Success, and Solidarity....and the Crimson Tide.

The calendar would be "at pain" (ha, how the French literally say "hardly able") to express just how much I've experienced in these past 10 days. A far from comprehensive and haphazardly organized list:

1. I've been humiliated by a beautiful French bank teller for attempting to transfer money I didn't have in the proper account (though in my defense, it's hard enough to talk to a woman like that English, much less attempt to conduct business affairs in a foreign language with a frustrated queue snaking out the door behind me).

2. I've been supported immensely by Nic and Elvire Stefanni, the former lord and lady of Sewanee's Maison Française, who have helped me to set up my internet and bank account in addition to loaning me several highly useful household objects (not the least of which is the Final Fantasy VII soundtrack). They've also reminded me of the importance of Solidarity, the social consciousness and interpersonal loyalty that the French proudly uphold as their national heritage. After 8 years of studying the culture and admiring many of its principles from afar, I hardly need convincing, haha.

3. I've mistaken butter for cheese and remembered just how unspeakably vile I find unpasteurized dairy products; I'm told they're an acquired taste, but the only thing I've acquired is a renewed suspicion of all things that smell foul. Kebab on the other hand has become a staple of my diet, and my 5 days in Morocco has given me just enough conversation material---Marrakech DOES have the best orange juice on Earth--- to befriend a barber and a restaurateur near my apartment; two fine allies to have as a recent graduate still waiting for his first paycheck.

4. I've met and spent several days with my intelligent and charming co-lecteurs/lectrices and discussed---in our Irish, American, Canadian, Scottish, English, and Jamaicans accents---the different reasons we're gearing up (some for a second time) to help Nantes' university students speak our native tongue...in whichever intelligible accent they prefer.

5. I've helped to "captain" a miniature electric boat along the Erdre river (a fine idea, Louise) and become acutely aware of how much leaving Alabama behind has left me saying "y'all" a bit more frequently and taking offers to do nautical things a bit more seriously.

6. I've nearly become a legal resident in France pending a medical examination, presumably one to ensure I haven't already infected Bretagne's population with some unspeakable Americain plague...Breaking Bad has spread here with a vengeance, so I think it's safe to say that US culture is infectious (even 25 year old's with menacing glares blare "Call me Maybe" from their little Peugeots).

7.  I've impressed that same bank teller with my French on my second visit, and in return received far kinder treatment that included a pointer about how to write my 7's correctly in France and a rather heart-warming smile.

8. I've stayed up all night to watch the Tide drown a whole field's worth of Wolverines, and I've spent many more hours seeing the Loire's strange little current flow through Nantes during my night runs (I take my camera with me sometimes if I find things worth taking pictures of; I'll post more shortly).

I'll stop there because the figure "8" does a fine job of illustrating the motto of my new favorite Abbey-Brewery. I've always appreciated good stories no matter their origin, so I'm not even remotely ashamed to say that the title of this post (and perhaps its theme) comes from an Abbey that functions as a brewery (I'm growing rather attached to their "Blanche" variety).

Grimbergen Abbey has burned down 4 times since its first construction several hundred years ago, and each time catastrophe struck, the monks rebuilt it. After the second burning they adopted the Phoenix as their emblem and "Ardet nec consumitur" as their motto. I've surely been burned a lot these past 10 days by the trial and tribulations of adjusting to life in another country. The French say "in forging we become forgers," so I'm working to make sure all this heat never consumes me, but rather improves me. There's still shit to pull myself from, but now I've got a dozen pairs of hands helping me do so.

From the ashes (yes, smoking is probably still France's #1 recreational activity),

John


P.S:

(Breaking Bad has at least one loyal graffiti artist)

      ("I AM THEREFORE I TAG" Not sure what Descartes would have to say about this one, haha...)

(I laughed out loud at the picture of this pig at a farmer's market; no explanation beyond the self-evident one)

(All of that was once water; Nantes has paved over several tributaries of the Loire; underground canal pictures to follow)

(My favorite view from the Castle of the Dukes Of Bretagne; the French know how to spend their Sundays)  

Puisse le sort vous être favorable

"Puisse le sort vous être favorable."-Hunger Games in French...thank you kindly, Delta. 

Life on Stalingrad and "Ernest Dalby"  (29/8/2012):

I've spent 20 hours in the air(ports) and 20 hours of unconsciousness and stupefaction out in my apartment. Awake and mobile once again, I've secured both the time and le "Wee-Fii" necessary to make my first post....from Nantes' very own Corner Bar.  I shopped for random toiletries with Chuck Berry's "C'est La Vie" blaring (and a young French dad dancing with his little daughter to it), and I'm now sitting in a bar listening to what would classify as American indie rock in a French bar; at least the accordion outside the restaurant I settled on was certifiably French.

I'll post pictures of the apartment I've most thankfully inherited from the Moody's, but suffice it to say that it's a bit bigger than the size of deluxe room in the (old) Cannon, and the shower's about the size of a discount coffin. I'm already in love with it, haha, perhaps because of the fact that the building itself is protected by a large red gate and my windows by the ever-popular slated metal "curtains;" zombies and burglars would have a hard time sacking my little Rent-A-Château (the real Castle here is rather impressive, an ancient bulwark in the defensive network that once protected the Duchy of Bretagne from the early Kings of France)

My apartment is situated about 400 meters from an "arm" of the Loire in what I'd consider a normal quartier (though one specially graced with a Super U, a French supermarket).  In a generous gesture of respect to (itself and) the world, the French seem to name their roads after heroes, national and international, and historical victories, so I live in Apartment 1, 94 Boulevard Ernest Dalby (apparently a minor socialist hero) next to Boulevard de Stalingrad. Huzzah. Ok, since I've only purchased one beer here, I feel like I'm becoming a free-loader in the Bar du Coin, and neither my wallet nor my jet-lagged brain are interested in anything else for tonight. Tomorrow I'll confront all manner of bureaucratic obstacles, and I can only hope I can learn how to "demerder," a colorful term the French love dearly, "to remove oneself from the shit."

Hope to post again soon.

On les aura!