Le début de la fin
I woke up this morning at the ripe hour of 9:30 to the sounds of church bells tolling. When I went outside to run, frost layered the sidewalks that were still in the shadows, and the scattered remains of a Clemenvilla peel was edged in ice. The gusts of wind were freezing my ears, and as I pulled my sleeves further over my balled up fists, I found myself wishing that I had also thought to put on my ever-so-chic headband ear muffs. The cold air burned my lungs, but the sun was bright enough to warm the face if I managed to stay in it long enough.
In short, it’s Christmas.
Yesterday those of us not too stressed from multiple papers all gathered at Amadou’s again. I had finally pushed through the massive essay I had to write for my language class, and my “soutenance,” my defense, as one defends a thesis, is not for another week. All I have left to do on it is fix the grammatical errors and have it bound. It was a call for celebration, and celebrate I did with all of that wonderful cheese and bread and salad and lemon tart and coffee and cookies and banana bread. Never mind that I have to write four more papers, three of which are due by Thursday. But two are in English, so no big deal, right? France has definitely changed my perspective, perhaps not in a good way.
I finally left Amadou’s at six, because I wanted to try to get to a store before it closed at seven. I couldn’t find the store, but I ended up wandering around centre-ville soaking up all of the Christmas decorations that were planted overnight. It was night by the time I was in the city, and all of the lights were glittering over the piétons, the pedestrian streets. Loudspeakers were discretely playing Christmas carols, a big-band version of “Angels We Have Heard on High.” In English. And I wondered how many of the people on the street knew the words.
I ended up not able to find the store, not surprising given that the only indication that I had of its location was “on the street between the cathedral and the château.” So I picked one of four streets and headed down, rewarded with a fantastic view of the fountain shooting arcs of brilliant water high in the square. But no store anywhere. So I decided to go to the Place de Ralliement (where they guillotined people during the Revolution, but which is now the big meeting place in the town) where I had heard about the Christmas market that started yesterday. I took a few more pedestrian streets to get there, and they were all decorated in the same manner as the first. All of the French kids were running around, high on excitement of the beginning of the Christmas season and all of the Nutella crêpes and chocolat chaud that was being sold out of little huts. One mother was holding onto the hand of her three-year-old as he toddled between her and his sister, ricocheting between their legs and annoying them both. Then he stopped suddenly, and his mother almost tore his arm off in her surprise, and I almost ran him over in mine. He pointed up to the lights with his free arm and said, “Maman, regarde le ciel!”
And I got this huge lump in my throat as I was walking through this mass of people thronging the street. I was finally able to understand a kid. I wasn’t being targeted as a foreigner. I passed a lady who spoke as I breezed past, and when I responded with “Pardon?” as I always do, she launched into an explanation about how she was talking her he husband across the street. I understood it. And she didn’t blow me off.
It’s dommage that I have to leave in two weeks. It’s good: I’m ready to leave, in the sense of “get me out of here before I turn into them.” But it’s strange that so soon it will be over. It’ll be hard to find the opportunity to speak in French again, and I know that I’ll miss it. It’s also ironic that at this time when all I want to do is wander the streets, soaking up every last nuance of this city, I have to sit at my computer, writing papers.
But even this has taken on a pleasant aspect, as I’m working in front of my window, of which I opened the shutters to let the light in, and watching a cat climbing up one of the neighbor’s houses. This cat wanders the square every single day, but I don’t think he ever leaves it. Impressive, given the size of the square. Now he’s sitting in the flower box on the third floor of the house, soaking up the sun and eating the dead geraniums. Hope he doesn’t die. I forget which plants are poisonous for animals.
Also, on my way to the MarchéPlus this morning, I was texting Jen and plowed through some steaming dog poo on the sidewalk. So if you’re ever in France, be sure to take walking seriously: don’t multitask. And get out of the way of old people. They can get nasty.
Alright, back to papers now.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll probably just youtube Britney Spears some more. Gotta get my America fix.
