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)