The Sweetness of Sleep

I came home yesterday, Sunday, July 27, I think it was. Yes, it was. My week is confused already. Instead of coming straight to San Francisco, I stopped in Boston for a couple of days. I’m glad I did, because it took off some of the Jet lag. But I was still tired when I got home. I had about 4 ½ hours of sleep the night before, and had been on the plane all day. I didn’t sleep much. Maybe because of the coffee. But I did watch a lot of TV. I don’t own a TV, so I thought I might as well. I saw “Super Troopers” on the Comedy Network. I watched Scrubs, the X-Files, Law & Order, and the Tour de France. Also the Weather Channel. I didn’t do much reading. But I had a friendly seat-mate, so that made things interesting. He was out to SF for a business trip. I told him about the Exploratorium. When we landed, there was a back-up of planes, due to weather delays in New York City. So we waited on the tarmac for about an hour, or nearly, before docking into a terminal. I never really had lunch, but rather subsisted on Jet Blue snacks. I think I tried about everything. So then I got by baggage. I got on the BART, and 40 minutes later, I was in Berkeley.

It was kind of surreal coming home. There was the rose garden, the fountain. Just as usual. But I was different. I didn’t feel quite like the same person. But then again, I realized, I was delirious from lack of sleep and a 7-hour plane ride.

So I hauled my things upstairs and went to check out the different rooms of the house. It’s good to say hello. My housemate/landlady was not home, which was just as well. I wasn’t quite in the mental mood or condition for talking. I just wanted to go to sleep. Actually it was more than a want or a desire. It was more like a physical certainty that the next thing on my list was sleep and nothing else. Nothing, that is, except ice cream. I had a major craving for a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream. Luckily, I discovered in the freezer some Breyer’s vanilla, which I had meant to eat before the trip, but didn’t. It was just enough for one bowl. I considered that it was now over a month old, but I didn't care. It wasn’t even frosty. I poured maple syrup on it, and let it soothe my travel-wearied soul. After that, I was ready for sleep.

Just a little nap, I thought. Maybe two hours. Then I would wake up and do some grocery shopping. Maybe go for a run. That was at 4:11 p.m. The next time I opened my eyes, it was dark. I checked the clock. 9:30. My roommate was home. I didn’t feel like going downstairs. I went back to sleep. I woke up several times after that, but I made myself stay in bed until 8:30 the next day. It’s not like I was going to get anything done in that time. And anyway, I obviously needed the sleep. It was a taxing trip. In so many ways. After a while, I think I even ran out of dreams. Sixteen hours is a lot. But it was good. And in the morning, I did go grocery shopping. I ate my lunch, and here I am.

I have a backlog of things to post, but for now, let’s just say I am home, I am safe, I am happy. I did my traveling. I got my France. And I my Ikea bed was here to welcome me.

LuckyTown

I believe somebody mentioned that I was lucky. Well, as luck would have it, two days ago, I went to Lucky Town.

I didn't ask to go there. My family just said, okay, we are going to Glückstadt. It was grey and dismal. It didn't rain, but it was threatening. The wind off the water was chilly as we walked along the dykes, trying not to step in sheep dung. A black-faced sheep turned and chewed his grass at me.

Then, after a long and uneventful walk, we returned to where we parked the car and went into a nice little café for some Kaffee und Küchen. It's a German tradition. I got the Irish coffee.

My German family is very generous. They really know how to treat a guest. They are always taking me everywhere. And it's the only time when I am traveling that I don't mind if someone else makes my plans for me. That's because they live here, and they always come up with something more interesting than I think I would find on my own.

Like today, for example. I had some vague notion that I should go into Hamburg, since I haven't really seen the city since I've been here this week. But my German grandparents and one of their sons and his family were going to a see play, and they invited me to go along. It was out in the country, they said, about a two-hour drive. It's a very big deal. The play-wright is very famous. "Do you know Koll-Mai?" They asked me. "Kall who?" His name is Karl-May. Almost every child in Germany reads his books, apparently. And every year they do a play. It was to be an outdoor play about cowboys and Indians, written by a German playwright who had never in his life set foot on American soil. I thought, this can't possibly be good. And on top of that, I hate cowboys and Indians.

But when I thought about it, I decided I didn't really want to see Hamburg. I thought, why not? Why not just go and see what they Germans have to say about the wild, wild West? I did go West myself, after all. And I never see these little cousins. Maybe it will be fun. I imagined us sitting on grass, eating a picnic while watching some struggling actors try to make some lines on stage.

I was so wrong.

First of all, entering the place was like going to the Wild West section of Disney Land. With Bratwurst. And then the stage area was set in what looked like might have been an old quarry, with a huge chalk mountain on one side, a deep slope, with rows of wooden benches, and an elaborate multi-level stage area with lots of combed sand. I wondered why they had to comb the sand.

I found out when the play started, and horses galloped out from behind the building in center stage, and rode around the arena, just a few rows below us, the horse-riders dressed as Indians, but shooting guns and whooping it up. It launched right into a fight scene, and I was pleased. It was better than technicolor. Half the time I forgot it was in German.

And the two little girls with us were so excited, they were actually dressed as little squaws. They weren't the only ones. Within five minutes of us getting into the park, they had their faces painted. And at the end of the show, they went down, with all the other kids, to greet the cast, and one came back proudly with a little squiggle on a piece of paper. I think it came from the main character. The good guy.

And in the end, I was glad I took a chance and went to see the play. So I think to myself, maybe taking chances is what makes you lucky.

Wetter

You might have thought it funny if you saw me packing long pants and sweaters, going to the South of France. And to be sure, it has been heavy lugging those things around. They don't call it 'luggage' for nothing. But you can be sure I am glad I have them now that I am in Germany, where, for the last several weeks, it has been cold and rainy.

My German quasi-Uncle informs me today that we are having "Shit weather." Das Scheisse Wetter. But I am going out in a skirt and purple tights anyway, with heels. I feel like dressing up to go shopping in the city.

When I was showing them pictures from France, my German Aunt asked me, "And why do you want to come to Germany?" I come here for the people, I said. And it was true.

And luckily, I like to come prepared for any eventuality, even if it means I have to lug an enormous suitcase. I am like a Boy Scout, I guess. Always prepared. Next time, though, I will try to come prepared with fewer things.

Cow Paper

I had no idea I could really make this toilet paper theme continue, but on it goes.

My German "Aunt" (she's not really my aunt, but she's about the same age), had read an earlier post about toilet paper. She thought it was very funny, and was also a little bit confused. But I showed her the sample of my purple toilet paper that I brought with me. Then yesterday, as we arrived at my German grandfather's place (again, not really so related, but distantly. I will call him "Opa"), she pointed to these hay bails covered in white plastic. "Look. It is like toilet paper for the cows," She said.




And then, wonder of wonders, I saw something which I have never seen. At my German grandparent's house, they had, in their bathroom, not just colored toilet paper, but white paper printed in blue with little whales and shapely waves. I stared in awe. Two-toned paper. I did not think it was possible. But there it was. It didn't seem to be scented. I think it was plain. But I was still amazed.

Stansted

Okay, before I moved to San Francisco, I thought I wanted to live in London. But after spending about eight hours in Stansted and being completely baffled and stymied by airport security, and feeling like a right third-class citizen because of my American accent, I have decided I hate England, and I don't want to live there anymore. Besides, now that I've seen France... if I can ever get a visa. But that doesn't mean I'm leaving San Francisco just yet. I only just moved there! No, I am definitely going back to the Bay Area. I already kind of miss my new house, with my cute little room and the rose garden with the fountain. But it's there for me when I get back. I'm happy traveling. It's just good to go home.

More Pictures!

And now, I will show you all the place I have been. Watch out. For those faint of heart, some of these get gory. Yes, I gutted my own fish from the market. With a butter knife. So if you don't want to see it, cover your eyes when you start to get to the food. A bientôt!

Les Mariages

To continue the toilet paper theme, the subject of my world traveler's guide is going to be a detailed and comprehensive survey of the world's loos. Yes, because the sanitary facilities of every place are very important, are most of the time necessary to visit, and culturally indicative of the values and priorities of each country. In the case of France, or at least in Aix, it seems one of their priorities is colored toilet paper. Especially when the bathroom is nasty. Let's say you have a little bathroom that doubles as a janitor's closet off the basement stairway in a somewhat sketchy internet café/bar. It's small. It's dirty in the way that it can't possibly be cleaned. There isn't any soap for your hands, nor any semblance of paper or fabric towels. There is a tiny waste basket and a hole in the wall. There is, however, a charming little wooden shelf with green leaves of painted iron. The seat on the toilet is pink, and so is the toilet paper.

This bathroom is not unique. I have seen others like it, where they add little aesthetic touches to make what would otherwise be a highly unpleasant experience more palatable. It would be like going into a dirty gas station bathroom and finding a nice bouquet of flowers. It could happen. But it's not the norm. Here, it seems more of an expectation. And the result is, you get so charmed, it doesn't occur to you how nasty the grime is at the bottom of the toilet. Or you see it, but you say, 'It's ok, they have pink toilet paper.' At least, it makes it better for me. I appreciate the effort. I give the toilets in this country four stars. Maybe even five. Much better than Italy, where most of the time, you didn't even have a seat, because they would be stolen.

Which leads me to my next topic: weddings. Actually, it doesn't lead me to that topic at all, but it's the next topic I want to write about, so I am making a segue. They have a lot of weddings here in the summer. It's a popular activity. Getting married. Having babies. The French like love, what can I say? But you knew that already.

Every weekend, the city has several weddings in various locations. There is one square downtown that almost always has a wedding party in it, by the old arch with the clock. There is also a park that is popular for wedding ceremonies. That's where I saw one today. But even before that, just as I was arriving downtown, there was a wedding procession going around the big fountain at the Rotonde Jean d'Arc, which is the main intersection at the center of town. There were cars honking all over the place. Passing mopeds would beep and wave. Guys were leaning out of the windows in their red or white jackets, the cars decorated with bows and ribbons, honking air horns and cheering profusely. I stopped and sat for a while, just to watch. They went around one, two, three, four, probably five times. It was hard to tell who was in the procession and who was just honking. Even one of the city buses started getting on his horn for them. I think it was the number 2. It was brilliant.

Later on, as I was on my way to the park to sit and read, there was, of course, another wedding. They have weddings there a lot. As I approached, I could hear cars buzzing around and honking as I walked up a little side street. And the next thing I knew, one of the cars arrived and turned down the same street, coming right towards me. It was red and had about four guys in it. I stepped aside. They saw me, honked the horn, cheered, and waved like crazy, with huge grins on their faces. Not lascivious, just very happy. A moment later, a second car passed and did the same, one guy waving a big chiffon ribbon out the window. I have to say, it's impossible for anything to seem wrong in your life when people are, passing you in a car and cheering at you because they are just so ridiculously happy that two people got married. It's like, hey, I'm happy, too. I am happy even though I don't know these people. It's just a great thing. The pure joy is contagious. It's amazing.

But back to the buses. I now believe that France is the best country, and French is the best language. I don't mean that in a strictly superior sense, because maybe it's not the best in every possible way, but for me, out of all the countries I've seen, I like it the best. There are just so many endearing details. Like the way old ladies smile at you on the street. Or, for example, the buses. When a bus here is not in service, it does not say on the front 'hors de service.' No. It says, 'Je ne suis pas en service.' I am not in service. It's like the bus has a personality. The bus drivers are there and they are real people. And there is nothing I love more than listening to the drivers speaking French over the CB radio about the traffic. I don't know why I get such a kick out of it, but I do.

I want to learn more French. The longer I stay here, the more I realize that even though I have reasonably good basic skills, I have nowhere near the vocabulary or grammar knowledge to pick up a lot of nuance, or even a lot of information, never mind express my ideas, though I can get by. Maybe now I will be inspired to become more fluent. Being here has been good practice. It's been a good time. I am glad I came.

Living the Dream

I have just realized this morning that I am in fact living my dream, in more ways than one. I've always wanted to go to France and study my family history. I've always wondered if, when people are speaking French, it sounds like English to them when it's understood, or if it still sounds like French. I've decided on the former. And, most imortantly, I have my very own bathroom with colored toilet paper coordinated on a theme. And it's not just colored toilet paper, it's Lavender colored toilet paper with little flowers imrinted on it. You cannot imagine my joy.

Growing up, I always used to covet the pink and blue and green toilet papers of those more fortunate than me. Those whose toilet-paper-buyers did not insist on avoiding colored dyes in bathroom tissue paper. I was at a loss. All I could do was wait until I was finally out on my own and could buy whatever which toilet paper I pleased. At last it has come to be.

Two days ago, the hostel I was staying at was filled up for a special event of some kind. So I had to think fast. It was a good thing, actually, because I didn't really want to keep staying at the hostel anyway. So I went down to the tourist office, where I found out they had a listing of available apartments. I made a few calls and found out this one was free. I had no idea what I was in for. I basically needed a place to stay for a week. It was one of the cheapest, so I expected some run-down place with no lock in a sketchy neighborhood. I'd never been to the place it was on the map, so I had no idea. The lady asked if I had a car. No I did not. So she offered to come and pick me up in town in her white Peugeot.

We agreed to meet at 5:30. She was wearing a blue skirt. I was wearing a blue skirt. I arrived just at 5:30 and saw a white Peugeot pulling into the lot. I went up and knocked at the window. She smiled at me and put the car in park. She got out, came around, took my hand immediately and gave me two kisses, one on each cheek. She was like my grandmother. She is a grandmother, in fact, as evidenced by the child's seat in the back of the car. She also told me this later.

My huge suitcase barely fit in the back seat of the car. It is far too heavy with books. I will have to send some home.

So we started driving. I live "dans la campagne," she said, apologetically. "C'est bien comme ça." Inside I was grinning with glee. I had had enough of living in the city. All I wanted was a quiet rental in the country, but had no idea how to go about finding one that was accessible without also possessing a voiture.

The woman does indeed live dans la campagne. Of course, I had in no way imagined that where she lived would be where I lived also, but so it seemed to be. And on the way there, she carefully pointed out the bus stops along the way, right up to where she lived.

Turning up her driveway, it looked like a place that is easily missed. That is the house, behind the trees. She only spoke French. "Ah, oui." We pulled up and she opened the red door to the house. It was a big, apricot-colored stucco house with heavy red wooden doors on all the doors and windows. "Je cherche votre clès." I began to follow her inside. No, you are there. "Vous êtes indépendent." Another smile from me.

So we went around to the back. The place is situated in a little garden with a secluded yard filled with wildflowers and an old flagstone patio. I, too, have my own red door. Entering in, it was, at first glance, the smallest apartment I have ever seen. But it is amazingly efficient. There is enough space for a kitchenette, a little closet area, a lavender-painted table and chairs for two, a desk, a bookshelf, and the bathroom at the back. Not one inch of space is wasted. A stairway at the left leads up the the "couchement au mezzanine." A loft bed space. Yet another dream. Only it's real. It's here. It has a lavender bedspread. Joy of joys.

She leaves me to unpack my things. She comes back with a table and chairs for the patio and invites me for a cool drink. So we sit out on the front patio drinking jus de pomplemousse. Did I spell that right? I don't know. I can't remember. Anyway, we sat and talked for an hour about things. Sun, France, grandchildren, wildfires, California. I managed to stay with her, somehow, in French. And it was not too bad. She hosts a lot of students, she says. Her grandchildren live out back with one of her daughters. Another daughter lives down the street and her son lives in Marseilles. It's a close-knit family. She asks me if there is anything I need. Do I have food for the evening? Oui, j'ai du pain. She is like my Grandmother, again. My French surrogate grandmother looking after me. I have everything I need.

Except toilet paper. She brings me a roll. I make a note to get some more the next day at the grocery.

So I'm walking down the aisles. I get my fish with the head still on. I get my lemons, my capers. No eggs today. And there is the toilet paper. All I need is some plain paper. Nothing extravagant. But what is this? A pack of colored toilet paper? And it's cheaper than regular paper? Could it be? I look around, feeling guilty, like someone might catch me. The TP police, perhaps would come out and seize me. What do you think you're doing, young lady? Just buying some toilet paper, sir. White toilet paper, I swear. I was just holding this one for fun. But no one sees me. No one stops. No one gives me a second glance. It's just me and the toilet paper. And it's purple colored toilet paper. With little flowers. Lavender scented, it says. Well, not really lavender, but good enough. This will do nicely. I feel like I'm getting away with candy. As I walk away, six purple rolls in my basket, I think, can this be healthy? It's only a week. It matches my table and chairs. It matches my Bed. It's cheaper than the other toilet paper rolls. It even matches the label on my épinards as I carry them home. This is one happy girl, I tell you. Purple scented toilet paper. Sun, flowers and shade. A loft bed and my very own key. I have coffee for the morning. I have everything I need. This is nice. I like France.

According to 'L'Internaute.com,' 458 personnes portent le nom M. aujourd'hui en France, et: Le nom M. figure au 21 045e rang des noms les plus portés en France.

*~*~*~*~*

I have a French surname. It's always been a problem, spelling it out. Correcting pronunciation. Actually, never correctly pronouncing it, because it's French, but since it includes an 'R' and what would otherwise be a silent last consonant, we are constantly mispronouncing it, just so that we can be understood (somewhat) by the Anglicized world.

That's one reason it's so great being in France. Introducing my name is a veritable breeze. People can spell it automatically. They smile when they see that it is French, and ask me where I am from. They say it and it comes off the tongue like ripe fruit in summer. This is what my name is supposed to sound like. Not what we normally say.

The one question I can't answer is: where does my name come from? Actually, I would like to answer that for myself. But you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find my name online. If you search for it on Google, you get hits primarily from a) my family, and b) obscure historical figures.

Trolling through dozens of genealogical websites and resources for French surnames, I almost always come up nil. But I have finally found a site that captures some information on records bearing my family's surname. Who knows what I will find. Of course, I don't know the names of my ancestors who originally came to Canada, and I don't know if anyone in my family does. Family history doesn't seem to have been their strong point. Not like the massive family trees and stores of dated photos on my mother's (German) side of the family. I guess it explains a few things. Probably not surprising. But hey, someone's got to find out the family history.

And now, it just turns out, by coincidence, that I happen to be staying literally across the street from one of the major historical archives in France, especially for this region. Given that I did find a record for a surname similar to mine coming from Nice, I think I could be in the right place. Funny how things come to be.

French Things

I find it quite fascinating that women here actually do wear their hair in a "French twist." But I guess here, it's not really a "French" twist, it's just "the way they wear their hair." And they are quite good at it. Whether they are young women or old ladies, they are expert at sweeping the hair up into a smooth vortex of decorative protein, held immobile as a fortress by either one elaborate clip, or else a series of neatly placed pins. But they never look like they are trying too hard. It's very natural.

I don't know why it should seem unusual. I guess when things are exotic from a distance, they are just normal, the closer you get to them.

Like French windows. We had so-called French windows in my childhood bedroom. But here, they are just the windows on every old house building.

I like being in France.

Des Pictures

It's hard to believe I haven only been here for a week. Somehow I feel as if I have been here much longer. And I don't want to leave! The only problem is that I do want to go back to California, and get back to my regular life. But I feel so sad looking at these photos already, that I can only bear to post four of them. But they are probably the best ones. Enjoy!














The view from the hostel I was staying at until yesterday.

















And old street in the city center, looking up towards a church.



















The sidewalk.




















French windows.

Thunder Distant

So I am realizing how very strange it is that we do not have thunder and lightning in San Francisco. I mean I did think it was strange at first. I kind of felt it was missing. But now, since traveling, I have encountered thunderstorms multiple times, and it occurs to me how truly profound and amazing it is that such storms do not occur in the San Francisco Bay Area - or at least the city itself. I don't know about the whole Bay Area. I mean, overall, SF is a bizarre bubble of unusual weather patterns. It reminds me not a small bit of the circle of ground in 'Waiting for Guffman' where supposedly the aliens had landed and the weather was always exactly 62.4 degrees (or some such) with a 30% chance of rain. That's basically San Francisco. That's what they were talking about. Hm. Perhaps the city is really an extra-terrestrial landing site. That would explain a lot.

But nevertheless, we still don't get thunderstorms. But while I was waiting all day in JFK airport for my flight to Paris, it was thundering outside and raining. It was the same in Boston as I was on the phone with several people at that time. And last night, as I went for my first run in France, I decided I needed to go quickly, because I could hear and see thunder off in the distance. It never came our way, but it was there.

I suppose it must not thunder in SF because of the even temperature. Since the electricity arises from the meeting of cold and warm fronts, and we don't really have such things in San Francisco - it's always kind of both - we get no electricity. Maybe that's partly why everybody is so mellow. We won't mention the other partly why. But I really believe weather affects the way people behave. If you live in a sunny place, like Florida or Southern California, chances are you will be smiling and happy and generally radiating sunn-like qualities most of the time. If you live in a colder climate, you will develop a colder aspect to your personality.

Southern France is quite warm and sunny. The 32 C degree weather took me by surprise at first. When I got off the plane, I thought they had heated the airport. And then I realized, no, hot weather does still exist in natural conditions. I am already clearly conditioned to San Francisco weather. But I adapt easily. Especially when the weather is warm and pleasant. Mmm, France. I think I will go bask in the sunlight some more.... And watch out for thunderstorms.

Aix en Provence

Je suis en France! It was quite something, getting from there to here with 40 kids in tow, plus meeting 10 more at Charles de Gaulle, but I made it. And now I am here.

It's a very strange thing. Even though my French is not very broad, in terms of vocabulary, I nevertheless have this overwhelming urge to speak all French and only French while I am here. I can't explain it. And when I try to speak English, it feels wierd. The only problem is, I can't think of the words for most of what I want to say in, so I sometimes get stuck, but I usually find a way to explain myself. Last night I spoke Fritalian to un huomo at the bus stop. (That was Huomo, not 'homo,' please and thank you.) And today a woman stopped and asked me for directions. In French, of course. I must have looked like I knew where I was going. But the funny part was, I did! It made me really happy, though. I like to blend in and not stand out like a tourist. So now it seems wherever I go, I stand out as the obvious choice for 'person who looks like they know where they are, so therefore I can ask them for directions.' It's okay. I really don't mind. Because I actually enjoy giving people directions and helping them to get where they are going - if I can do it. Obviously I don't want to give them bad directions. But as to blending in, I guess it comes from lots of practice traveling alone in Europe, and at least pretending like I know where I am going, whether or not that is the case. But I do get my bearings easily. And I probably look pretty French. It is in my genes, after all.