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            It's been 8 months and 3 days since I last updated this blog, and despite the long trail of unpublished blog drafts and stopgap Facebook updates behind me, I must confess that I feel nothing but shame for having so utterly failed to maintain this site.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. 

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)