Tell My Mother I Miss Her So

"Out on the range, outrunning them trains..."
(Over there in Nantes, out running for trams)
- Ryan Bingham, "Tell My Mother I Miss Her So" 

If anyone wants to take a look into one of the world's greatest bureaucracies (I say this literally, haha), here's an excerpt from my visa-renewal request: 

"CHAQUE DOSSIER INCOMPLET SERA REFUSÉ SYSTÉMATIQUEMENT!!!"-Marianne ;)







RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE

RECRÉPISSÉ DE DEMANDE  DE CARTE DE SÉJOUR

Préfecture: Loire-Atlantique
Dossier No. : 2012SALARI
Entrée en France; 28/08/2012

NOM: M. GILMER
PRÉNOM(S): JOHN MARSHALL
Né(e): 19/05/1990 A: Alabama (États-Unis)
PÈRE:  GILMER  WALT
MÈRE: (WRIGHT) GILMER  ELISABETH
NATIONALITÉ: Américain

Life in le Système:

               It includes taxes, electicity bills, work contracs, visa renewal, insurance, and a collection of cards, codes, and calls. No one tells you that you're an adult, but somewhere between the Préfecture (Regional Admin. HQ) and University of Nantes' HR department, you better damn well start acting like one. Now I won't bore you further with excerpts from the various official documents I handled last Thursday in order to remain a legal resident of the Republic. They are legion, duplicate, and uniformly uninteresting (unless you love stamps). Suffice it to say that my dossier was accepted, and my papers, God-willing, are en règle. One thing, however, did stop me (and maybe you) in my (your) mental tracks about that excerpt: the official listing of my parents' names.

                Living across the Atlantic Ocean entails leading a life that can be (and often is) entirely separate from your existence back home, and with that separation (literal and figurative) comes not only the inconvenience of time differences and incongruous schedules, but the very real danger of forgetting who you are and whose you are (GiG). What a shame that would be for someone like me, the son of two incredible parents whose love and name(s) I've been blessed with since birth (I should thank them for that, too).

               To tell of the things my parents do (and have done) for me and taught me me to do myself (and for others) would require a novel twice as long (but only half as revolutionary) as Les Misérables. That said, since it is a story eminently worthy of the telling no matter the occasion, I'll see if I can pare it down to a (very) short story here, haha.

              When Lee and I were little, we used to sit around in our old dining/playroom while dad played the Jayhawks, Neil Young, The Band, Warren Zevon, and a dozen other bands that formed the basis for my taste in music and my love of the art. Of all the many songs whose words we learned by heart 15 or so years ago ("I'd run away with you, baby..."), my memory returns most often to "Heart of Gold."  As Lee and I were obsessed with the idea of sunken treasure at the time ("Shipwrecks" was our go-to show), I loved the song because I figured that it was the tale of a tireless miner questing for a mythical heart-shaped nugget of gold. My dad, as he often did and continues to do, taught me otherwise, but I secretly preferred my dubious interpretation. Now that I'm 23, however, I'm starting to come around. I realize that as appealing as however many thousands of dollars that "heart of gold" might be worth, the figurative heart is the real treasure, and, as I'm sure my dad will tell you, he found one in my mom (and was raised by a woman with one himself).

GILMER (WRIGHT),  ELISABETH:

                    Honey Dog might have been the most popular Gilmer, but it's safe to say that our mom is the most beloved, above all for the fact that she, more than anything else (except maybe laughing), loves (as Honey would have told you through barks, licks, and paw gesturing). I can count the number of people I've met who are as kind as her on one hand, and if I ever do anything sweet for anyone, I can assure you that it's because she taught me how. She's the sort of mom who will wake you up (and take orders) for breakfast daily; put notes in your lunches AND pack them all the way through senior year of high school (they were the envy of many, particularly their homemade peanut butter crackers that were often the thin brown line between me and total exhaustion at cross-country/track practice); and perform countless other acts of kindness for you without expecting anything in return (though she did raise us to always say "thank you" and "yes m'am, haha). She's the sort of mom who patiently put up with (and broke up)  full-blown twin fights and hundreds (actually, thousands) of middle/highschool/college breakdowns, arguments, and shouting matches. For my entire life she has, without fail, done nothing but love the people around her (even when they...we...don't deserve it), and I could write pages telling you everything else about her and not say anything more important than that. She sent me a package last year with two pieces of paper reading "Love you" (since the first note was late!).What a blessing it is to be her son.

GILMER, WALT:

                 Now Lee and I got our dad's eyes, his smile, (excellent) music taste, propensity for writing (and debating...and running), and a hundred other things genetic, recreational, and intellectual. Justin Townes Earle (whose concert dad took us to at the Saenger) wrote a song called "Mama's Eyes," and it's one of the most beautiful tributes to a mother I've ever heard from a man whose mother who never stopped loving him even when he "went down the same (rough) road as [her ex-husband and his dad, Steve Earle]":

"Now it's 3 A.M, and I'm standing in the kitchen holding my last cigarette.
I strike a match, and I see my reflection in the mirror in the hall, and I think to myself: 
'I've got my mama's eyes, her long, thin frame and her smile
And I still see wrong from right because I've got my mama's eyes.' "

                  As much as I like to empathize with songs, I have to accept that the song doesn't apply to me if we're being literal, as I do not have my mama's eyes (and have yet to go down the road of Steve Earle, nor do I have immediate plans to do so, haha).  That said, I think that to say that "I see right from wrong right" through my father's eyes is dead on. I can also edit written English on professional level with them, too, even if it did take him (and a few teachers) coating a dozen of my first essays in red ink to correct my proof-vision, haha. My dad's a lawyer, and as the To Kill a Mockingbird shrines around our house attest, is a living counter-point to lawyer jokes. Though perhaps not the best shot with a rifle in Mobile-Baldwin County (though formerly bespectacled like Mr. Finhch), he has been Atticus-like to his sons and has a near-perfect attendance record for cross-country/track meets and DBT concerts, haha. I think back to the lyic-filled letter of encouragement (which I read with our green eyes, haha) he gave me before leaving Sewanee and do my best to remember his (and Bill Mallonee's) advice about life. What man to have as a father.

BINGHAM, RYAN:
                 
                    If you've read all of this, then I thank you so much for taking the time learn about two people I love with all my heart and have the great fortune to call "mom and dad." Since I have indeed been "taken to France" (and have done my share of wine-drinking and dancing), I'd surely appreciate if everyone back home would tell my mother and father I miss her them so (and that I look forward to Christmas, haha).

(Lot of things I love about and in this picture, haha)

P.S: Next week's (early Halloween) "song of the week" for my students (complete with crudely MS Paint-ed photos): 

"Werewolves of London"-Warren Zevon 

(Does this count as a dog picture?)

Daylight

"While we still have the daylight, I might look these lessons in the eye...."-Jason Isbell, "Daylight"

               

                  (the afternoon sun at Arcachon's Dune de Pyla during my March break trip with Simon).

            It's been 8 months and 3 days since I last updated this blog, and despite the long trail of unpublished blog drafts and stopgap Facebook updates behind me, I must confess that I feel nothing but shame for having so utterly failed to maintain this site. As a matter of fact, the only other time I recall feeling this way was the day I went out to the Hodgson bike shed to remove the lock from my rust-flecked and flat-wheeled Trek and replace it with a sign reading "Donate to Sewanee PD." Neglect is voracious, and every day it's fed will only whet its appetite for two more. That is, unless you stand your ground, stare it down, and start typing (exercising, calling home, repairing your bike, or cleaning your apartment). So here I stand, and here I type, and if there's one thing I know for sure about life right now, it's that Nantes is running out of daylight.

           Indeed, with Day's gradual capitulation to the Nocturnal Empire (despite its glorious victory at the Battle of the Summer Solstice), it's hard to be an enthusiastic supporter of Fall. Though I suspect Pinterest, Instagram, and Facebook hashtags will beg to differ, I am inherently skeptical of a period of time that heralds longer nights and dropping temperatures. Still, we have a rakable ember of Summer left here in Nantes, and I plan on enjoying every spark, so without further ado, I'll stop waxing (now waning) philosophical about the seasons and tell y'all about the wonderful people I have the privilege of working with this semester.

           Returning from last year are my dear friends Colin Riley, Rachel Williams, and Shoshana Sullivan (Baltimore, Tulsa, and Jamaica), so between the four of us, we have a solid squad of  "veteran" lecteurs. not to mention several dozen inside jokes, a fine circle of extended (boy/girl)friends, one dog (Ty Loup, Rachel's beloved "House Wolf"), and a successful working year (and at least one KFC meal) under our belts.  We even have the great fortune to have Mhairi Mackintosh (Inverness) and Simon Scutt (Bath) in Nantes for another year, with Mhairi still teaching courses at the University (having her around the office is as good for morale as it is for the tidiness of our now "masculine" office). What a blessed peace of mind I had when returning to a city with such people in it, and what a pleasure it is to live and work with them (Louise Dixon and Katie Rose, we miss y'all all the time).

          I had thought that it would be statistically impossible for our 5 new coworkers to get along as well as we all had last year, but I can't recall the last time I've been so happy to be proven wrong; all 5 of our new lecteurs and lectrices are getting along like long-lost siblings. We have 2 from Ireland, 2 from England, and one from Spartanburg (and perhaps more importantly, Sewanee, haha). I'll write about them in order of their proximity to my apartment (still #1, Boulevard 94 Ernest Dalby, despite a flooded floor---now repaired!--- and a bomb crisis courtesy of late-war British strategic bombing---resolved without incident by the French EOD).

            First, past our shared Super-U there's Aoife "Wifi (password-protected)" Fitzgerald (if you can pronounce her name correctly on your first try, then you're either Irish or should take up Phonetics professionally). I got it right on my second try, haha. Ee-fah. She comes from outside of Limerick and is, along with Shaun, a living reason people love the Irish. She's teaching me how to banter as the Irish do....and perhaps speak Gaelic and (I can only hope) dance as they do, too. I must say though that I feel bad for her poor students who somehow think that her name is pronounced "wifi" (wee-fee, the French pronunciation of our word for wireless internet). I do love nicknames, haha, and Aoife's is readymade.

          Across the train tracks from me is Nicholas/Nick "Superman" Pawley (also a patron of our Super-U) who comes from Northampton (an otherwise fine city with a clown problem....story here). All it took was a few late night walks home (and a few close encounters with some of Nantes' less savory inhabitants) for us to forge our international bonds of fraternity, haha. He bears more than passing resemblance to Clark Kent and is the first lecteur I know of to get his students to turn in homework on time AND confront casual misogyny in pop music (#whydopeoplelikeRobinThicke?). We might be playing Gaelic football together, too, but more on that later. Good --some might say "super"---man for any occasion.

          Down in her Centre Ville chateau is Gabrielle "Gabby" Freeman, a Sewanee girl (a current trivia partner) I should have gotten to know better while we were on the Mountain together (I think we did say "hello" to each other at least twice, maybe even three times, haha). Gabby is the Sewanee chosen one of 2012, and it's great having someone else who understands my otherwise incomprehensible references to all the strange things we seem to do at Sewanee (haha, or is it Suwanee, Nick?). She was a camp counselor, too, and as all camp counselors know, we have our own little language. Gabby has taken up a position at our former bar-headquarters, Fleming's, so we try to end our weekend nights by paying her a visit.  YSR, Gabby.

          Down near a charming park called Procé one can find the abode of the bearded Kerryman, Shaun "Warrior of the Dawn" Brennan, our resident Gaelic football coach, law student, pugilist,  musical talent, and enthusiast of hurling, Breaking Bad, and sharing good food and literature.  He lives there with his bandmate, Emma, and together they are an incredible act that I suspect will take Nantes by storm (or rather by charm). Shaun, along with Gabby, Shoshana, and I wake up for the 7:00 AM train to La Roche-Sur-Yon (where I may or may not have spent a night sleeping on a bench after a perfect storm of failed plans), and Shaun's banter keeps us (or at least me) sane. I'm very much looking forward to many more shared meals, rounds of beer, and stories (particularly when I accompany him to Ireland for our Fall vacation). Here's to hoping I can learn to play Gaelic football, too, haha.

        Finally, a mere tram stop from the Fac is our side-burned friend and another Englishman (and trivia partner), Will Heslop, our resident artist and jack of all trades (one of them being wine, haha). Will's an expert with the perfectly-timed joke, wink, or appearance (usually by bike), and his only welcome departures are those that involve his turning around dramatically and leaping back into a party after opening the front door as if to leave. Will has graciously designed our first English Night posters, and I'm sure they'll be quite the hit (perhaps as much as the sideburns, should he keep them). I think Shaun, Will, and I will need to work something out for No-Shave November, as it should prove quite the showdown of Anglophone facial hair.

      What a group. I really am so thankful for each and every one of my coworkers, and that's not something you often hear in the working world. In any case, I should not neglect to mention les trois filles de Sewanee, Sarah Flowers, Anne Carter Stowe, and Katie Keith,  members of the Class of 2015, students of International European Studies, and wholly welcome additions to the lecteur social family, haha. We're working out a dinner night to ensure we "profite" from Nantes' culinary offerings more than we would on our own, and they're all becoming FC Nantes enthusiasts with me (even if we miss a game or two and just hang out on the field next to Beaujoire Stadium, haha). So glad y'all are here.

      So even as the sun sets on Nantes earlier and earlier, it's never a problem when the lengthy evenings are spent in the company of such a group. Still, as this is my last year in Nantes, I'm running out of, not into, time here, and in light of that and the lessons of the past 2 months I've lived (and grieved), I must make the most of the time I have here, day and night, among such excellent friends.  Part of that, as I see it, involves writing about these people and the things we do together, so as I promised Anne Carter, I'm restarting this blog. I'll share with y'all the best things about my (our) time here (and sometimes the worst, haha). By way of apology for 8 months of delay, here are some long neglected pictures I owe y'all. I hope you like them (there are 3 Golden Retrievers, so I'm playing with a few too many aces, here, haha).

Bien Cordialement,

John

(Beloved by textbook writers everywhere,  Bordeaux's most famous sculpture, the Monument aux Girondins, revolutionary Republicans)
 

                                         

(Simon and me at Pyla, rare photographic evidence of our having been there and my being in France, haha. It was a wonderful trip.)

(The Pont d'Avignon...from the song, haha. Great to see Aunt Margaret and Uncle Phil in the (weakly) fortified medieval town)

(A picture taken from the (Anti-)Pope's Fortress at Avignon)

(A view from the rocks of Les Sables d'Olonne...it's not Gulf Shores, but not at all without its own charm. So glad our old crew got one last vacation hurrah somewhere like this, even if we never did find Yombo, haha)

and finally......Two French Golden Retrievers

(No caption can do these creatures justice. This Golden was helping his master "fish" for rocks, haha)

(Not bad camouflage at all, haha. He boldly hiked to the top of the 112 meter dune and then settled up here to think dog thoughts, perhaps wondering just how many smells are in that forest)

and a bonus Ty Loup picture:

(A "fetching" wolf indeed, haha)

And finally, our American Honey dog, forever Queen of the Monkey Grass, Shredder of Kleenex, stealer of hearts and socks, and winner the "most popular Gilmer" for 14 years

(We miss you, sweet girl). 

Moonshiner

Let me eat when I'm hungry. Let me drink when I'm dry. 2 dollars when I'm hard up, and religion when I die. The whole world is a bottle, and life is but a dram; when the bottle gets empty, Lord, it sure ain't worth a damn...

-"Moonshiner" (Unknown author, made popular by Uncle Tupelo and Bob Dylan)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppiol9oetOk

In the Book of Mark, Christ tells his disciples that "the poor will always be with you, and you can help them whenever you wish." Even atheists would agree with this if they were to spend a week in Nantes. Until I was reminded of that yesterday, however, the last time I had shared a long conversation with a homeless man was back home in Mobile's Bienville Park.

America

My friends were understandably horrified that I would answer when a dark figure begged us to "help a man out," but trusting my safety to the streetlights above and my feet below (thought encumbered by dress shoes), I asked the man what I could do to help. I'd meet my group at the next bar.   

My memory fails me as I try to remember his name (I think it was Charles), but I doubt I'll ever forget his story. He wanted money; I wanted to know why. Before I could ask, he fired off a question of his own:

"Y'all been at a party?"

"Yes sir, it's called the Nutcracker Ball. About as fancy as Mobile parties come," I said.

"You have fun?"

"Yes sir, and everyone's heading out to the bars now."

He nodded in approval, and I took the opportunity to ask my question:

"How'd you end up out here?"

He smiled, and I half expected the stock "Hell, even I don't know." He surprised me.

"I joined the Navy when I graduated high school...."

"What'd you do in Navy?" I asked, my own voice rising with scholastic enthusiasm

He was a fire control technician on a destroyer in the early 90's, a seaman who helped to control the vessel's "Close-in Weapons System," a defensive tool called Phalanx (it's a effectively a massive, computer-targeted machine gun that shoots 75 20mm bullets a second to detonate an incoming anti-ship missile before it can strike the vessel). He said he enjoyed his work and the places it took him, and we bonded when he said how much he had loved the short period of shore leave he'd had in Provence and that he sometimes thought of trying to go back. His final year of service ended sometime during the Clinton presidency, and since his job was already being replaced by computers, he didn't reenlist.

His story went on, taking turn after turn for the worse. His mother died shortly after he left the Navy, and when he went back to his family homestead in Selma it had already been stripped clean by thieves (after copper wire in particular) and was no longer inhabitable.  He had no money to repair it and no money to rent a place to live, so he joined a carnival that was hiring and spent the next few years of his life working as a manual laborer. He hated the menial minimum wage work and described the people who ran the show as "crazy." He ended back up in Mobile soon enough and took to the shelter/labor finders circuit. He said he'd stopped drinking and had rarely used drugs. I believe that to be true even today; clear eyes and decent clothing testified on his behalf.

I told him that I wished I could buy him a nice dinner, but since it was 12:30 at night, I would just give him $20 instead. He was speechless for a moment and then simply said "You're a good man, John." I told him that I was only going to spend that on overpriced beer and that I knew he could make good use of it. "You're a good, man, too," I added. We shook hands and said goodbye. For a moment, there we stood: I in my Mardi Gras ball tuxedo, and he in his Goodwill shirt and work jeans on a cool December night. I had made a trifling sacrifice, but I hope that I can at least grant him the dignity of having his story told here.

That experience did nothing to prepare me for what happened a year and a month later in Nantes, France.

France

 My Saturday began with misfortune; the family laundromat I frequent (run by a kind old Chinese man who cordially asks how my laundry and I are doing whenever we cross paths) had its payment terminal crash right after I finished loading my laundry and detergent into machines 12,13, and 9. I also managed to spill fabric softener all over hands at some point, adding floral-scented insult to injury.  Half a Nalgene bottle of water did little to remove the film of soap from my hands, and I had to hold my laundry bags in a deathgrip during the half-mile trek to the inferior "Lavolux" (there's no luxury there, I assure you).

With my laundry reloaded at last in two of the (foul-smelling) Lavolux's semi-functional machines, I'd finally settled into reading a characteristically sordid passage in Cormac McCarthy's Suttree about kind, but disgusting drunkards. Then, as if magically summoned from the alcoholic aehter of McCarthy's Southern Gothic universe, two haggard Frenchmen---one disheveled and unnaturally plump for a homeless man, the other emaciated and jaundiced---staggered into the tiny coin laundry carrying bread, Camembert, and Old Nick white rum in a reusable grocery bag. They reeked, their cheese reeked, the laundromat reeked. Everything reeked. After several heroic pulls of their milk-white liquor, the first thing they asked me after "Do you have any friends here?" was "Would you like to eat with us?" A kind offer excepting the fact that I despise Camembert and was already feeling ill. Then, just as I began to think "Well maybe they aren't so drunk after all," it happened. The larger, more coherent of the two coughed, sputtered, and then vomited all of the rum he'd been drinking into the sack he from which he had just removed his lunch.

Now I've been in the fraternity world, so this was not my first rodeo, but I nearly followed suit into my own grocery sack when he, at last finished vomiting, blew his nose into his. "These are literally Cormac McCarthy characters" I thought to myself. I confirmed I was not dreaming as I mentally recited a line from Child of God that depicts---in vile detail---a moonshiner blowing his nose on to the ground. Mustering my last reserve of calm, I suppressed my nausea long enough to escape the laundromat in good order. I headed to my kebab restaurant to buy two bottled waters, ran back to my apartment to grab paper towels, and then returned to the Lavolux with my cleaning supplies. He was grateful and entirely unashamed. Once again I heard "You're a good man," only this time it was slurred and in French. The sickly man agreed.

I managed to pretend that this all hadn't happened, and the three of us spoke as my clothes dried. The fat man first asked (appropriately) about my book and was disappointed when I told him it wasn't in French. He set about eating his lunch while I spoke to his companion. The jaundiced man told me it was his birthday today (something his friend didn't seem to acknowledge) and that he wanted to know what I thought of the war in Mali. Before I could articulate my opinions, however, he began telling his own story about his time in Bosnia serving during the NATO mission in the early 90's:

"I was there in Sarajevo. We were there to help people...everyone forgets that, but we were there to help people. I was there to help people...."

He trailed off, and soon our conversation drifted once again back to their lunch offer.

"Eat, it's the best kind!" the first said. I tried to refuse politely. "Eat!" My final reserve of patience wavered, and I tried one last time to decline. "I will be insulted if you don't eat." Now the Camembert covered bread was nearly in my face, and my patience shattered.  "I think that unpasteurized cheese is disgusting, and I cannot make myself eat it. I apologize." I collected my half dry clothes and prepared to leave as he stood there, shocked that someone would refuse his cheese. I composed myself, apologized again for rejecting the cheese, and wished them a final good luck and farewell. "If you ever end up on the streets, find us. Good luck and take care." was their reply.

I walked home and struggled to conjure up images of the former soldier in his uniform, healthy and strong, rifle in his hands and his nation's flag sewn on to his shoulder. The distorted images that came to mind were of that same man, sallow and feeble, bottle in his hand and someone else's discarded jacked around his shoulders. I thought of Twelfth Night's pitiful drunk knight Sir Andrew Aguecheek, poor and alone (exploited by the one man who could pass for his friend, a fat knight named Sir Toby). "I was adored once, too," he says, and no one but the audience cares. 

Sometimes comedies aren't funny at all, and I guess that applies to everything from Shakespeare plays to this lowly blog.





   

   

"Do You Hear the People Sing?" (Yet another French Revolution)

"A la volonté du peuple
Et à la santé du progrès,
Remplis ton cœur d'un vin rebelle, et à demain ami fidèle!"-Claude-Michel Schoenberg,"à la volonté du peuple" (Les Misérables) 

"To the will of the People, 
and to the safety of progress,
Fill your heart with a rebel wine, and until tomorrow, faithful friend!" 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRp-Opp2Peg

The Storming of the CDG Customs (January 12th, 2013)

Angry Frenchman Leading the People  by Delacroix, ruined by Gilmer

06:45: Disheveled and heavy laden, the weary travelers of Flight 2043 JFK-Charles DeGaulle filed out of the Boeing 747 and into the artificial light of Paris’ largest airport. For most of the bedraggled mass, freedom was in sight; the City of Lights shimmered through the terminal’s plexiglass windows and with it the promise of fresh food and plein air.  Yet one final obstacle stood, implacable, between these pilgrims and their promised land: a customs checkpoint. I was among that multinational band when it reached the bastion of French bureaucracy and will endeavor, God willing, to chronicle the heroism and sacrifice of the brave men and women who tried to storm it.  

Know first, dear reader, that we approached the checkpoint in peace, thoughts of insurrection drowned out in a haze of fatigue and vague recollections of in-flight films, and in peace we marched through the maze of queue barriers that led us onward. In an instant, however, our progress halted. From my vantage at the head of the crowd, I saw the cause; an agent of the airport---a pawn of the oppressor and an enemy of progress---had sealed off our line’s exit. With a callous sweep of his hand he barred the way to liberty for dozens of men, women, and children who had patiently waited for a half hour for the chance to present their passports and be admitted into the Republic. As his fabric barrier snapped taut, righteous indignation sparked and flared (cue the Youtube recording). “This line is closed!” he cried out to those he had wronged “Go back to the beginning! This line formed incorrectly!” The crowd held fast, and from it revolutionary voices fired back in the bold tradition of Danton and Marat: “We will not go back!” “Let us pass!” “Get out of the way, you bastard!” To their cries I added my own “This is your fault, not ours!” Seeing his authority rapidly eroding, the agent summoned his partner, and together they repeated their orders to the seething crowd. They had challenged the will of the people.  

“FORWARD!” shouted a middle-aged Frenchman at the head of the line as he cast down the barrier, and like Liberty incarnate he led the crowd of aspiring National Guards(wo)men towards their rightful place at the customs checkpoint. Oh how glorious victory was in sight at that first charge! The agents fled before our wrath (presumably towards Austria)!  Yet, what match were our passports, approved carry-on items, and rolling suitcases against the armed security guards who had closed ranks in place of the routing ushers? Despite our fervent hopes, those soldiers---relics of the Ancien Régime---did not defect to our side. The revolutionary tide was checked, and Liberty himself was captured and sent to the back of the line. With our leader fallen in battle, the mob gave up the fight ignominiously. I, too, surrendered the place I had secured at the front and withdrew to the middle of the newly-forming line.  I tell you these things with a heavy heart; would I were to have fallen to the back of the line among the others who strove for freedom. To their memory I dedicate this blog post.

Fin 

P.S:

Haha, I doubt anyone had as much fun reading that as I did writing it, but I can assure you that it’s at least 73.6% true, and it was exhilarating to be part of what I can only describe as a near riot in an airport. Word to the wise: don’t ever think that a fabric “crowd-control barrier” will hold back pissed off travelers (particularly the French) any longer than it takes them to call you and your entire family every hate slur that has ever existed in their respective languages. 

All that said, please forgive me for having taken a 2 month hiatus...taking care of final exams, grading, and Thanksgiving/Christmas plans distracted me. Oh yeah, and there was that whole thing about my laptop breaking for the entire month of December; that might have played a role in it, too. Haha...

As I write this, all is well here in Nantes, and my coworkers and I are all gearing up for another round of classes (which started this week). I'll post more about them---my classes and my dear coworkers---as soon as my shattered revolutionary heart mends. In the meantime, please accept these recent pictures of Nantes-beria (snow is almost as much a novelty here as it is in Mobile) :

View from my apartment...I was caught out in the snow when it first began to fall and used bar matches to light a  newspaper on fire for warmth; it was extinguished almost instantly, and I started thinking of myself as less of a survivalist and more of a dumbass.

Stalingrad-Dalby Intersection

It takes more than snow to stop TAN, a weekly strike/protest for example.

Winterfell on Nantes

The long walk to the Fac ("Uni" in French) 

A cute, misspelled quibble---Ayrault=the socialist prime minister, porc=porc spending---on "Death to the Airport," a massive grassroots movement that opposes the construction of a new airport in Notre Dame des Landes...I like to think that they would have opposed the ushers at CDG, too. That second piece of graffiti mocks the "Socialist" government of Hollande for "expelling and suppressing" like a fascist government (the French are rarely satisfied with anything the government does)  

Louis XVI as a snowman, Pre-Revolution.

Post-Revolution.