Day 20: Passing on the Left

Today is a day of stories. I think it is best if I start relating some of the daily occurrences that I’m fortunate enough to experience while I’m here. Today is also the day of news. Neither good nor bad. Just news. The feelings that come after are what determine the placement on the spectrum of said news.

I think I’ll leave the news for the end. Though, with news there are always stories to be told. We’ll see how it turns out when we get there, shall we?

As for the stories:

This past Sunday (Jan. 27), a friend of a friend decided she would show us one of the street markets in centreville Grenoble. Apparently, there are street markets that pop up all over the city. Something I didn’t know previously. We met at a tramway stop then walked a few blocks down a street filled with construction paraphernalia. Apparently, they are putting in a new tram line through this portion of the city, though there haven’t been any signs of actual work being done in months. Gotta love French bureaucracy.

Anyway, the street ran straight, and then came up short as a train overpass broke through the buildings. Underneath this concrete overpass, the market bustled with people. Boucheries, Boulangeries, Fromageries, et bien d’autres! Stands with meats and cheeses: great rounds of cream sitting next to cured hunks of meat of every shape and size. Breads, croissants, pain au chocolat, and more bread of every shape and size. The fruit stands were filled with apples and strawberries and bananas and oranges and pineapples and raspberries sitting next to the vegetables: peppers, onions, gourds, and squash. Some stands sold fresher meats: piles of fish and seafood smothered in ice. One stand even sold fully skinned rabbits, with a handwritten sign, “Lapin,” pinned to its head.

A fromagerie: cheese and wine. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

Kitty and a basket of oranges. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

A day at the market. 

In the end, I bought a small bag of strawberries, a small bunch of bananas, and a bag of potatoes. A stall down the way sold the best croissants of my life so far: buttery yellow flaky center that did indeed seem to melt in your mouth.

Strawberries in January.

Needless to say, I’ll be heading there again soon, this time armed with a list.

Tuesday (Jan. 29) all classes were cancelled for the day. Something to do with high school students invading the campus for an annual event, which meant the most logical thing to do, would be to cancel all classes for the day. Most people went skiing—I decided to sleep late. That evening, the group (I should capitalize that… Maybe I will capitalize that!) [Revised sentence] That evening, the Group finally ended up outside one of the local cinemas, le NEF, to watch the new Tarantino blood-and-violence drama, Django Unchained. The movie was good, probably not one I would watch again, but that wasn’t the best part about the night. The walk from the ticket line to the theater in which we would be viewing the movie, now that was an adventure. First, I can’t remember how many staircases there were, both ascending and descending. I remember the strong odor that reminded me of a cave my family once explored years ago. Literally smelled like a cave. Just when we thought we had reached the theatre, another lit sign pointed up (or down) at another staircase. Not handicap friendly. That should be in this cinema’s review…

My single class on Wednesday (Jan. 30) woke me up bright and early to put me back to sleep. It is mostly interesting, but with two hours of intensive French grammar, my brain usually decides to shut down. Luckily, I saw Kitty doodling in her notebook, so I knew that I wasn’t the only one. I’m not much for doodling, so I wrote a haiku!

Classtime

Stay awake, eyes wide—

Sleeping soundly now, eyes wide.

Voice whispers, “Eyes wide!”

And that pretty much explains my level of focus for that class. That doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a lot already though, I just have trouble seeing through the fog in my mind, that’s all.

Later that day, a portion of the Group decided to run errands in centreville: the bank, the mobile phone store, and then a café. The bank left us frazzled. I ended up successful: receiving both bank cards. Lisa and Dahye were not as lucky. “La prochaine semaine, s’il vous plaît.” Next week, indeed.

The coffee shop and the small adventure afterward were the best. We met Michelle at a café, Pain & Cie. I took a Grand Crème, or latté. The foam on that crème was delightful, at least a half inch thick, floating on some of the best coffee I have ever tasted. I looked down at my bowl of coffee and said, “This is beautiful.” The girls all laughed at me.

"This is beautiful."

After the coffee, we decided it was time to start exploring the other side of the road. Down one small street, then another, passing a pirate themed bar, La Barbarousse, we came upon an antique store that I instantly fell in love with. Outside, there sat a cart of aging books. None from this century. Nor many from the second half of the 20^th century. I opened one, then another. Bringing them close to my face so I could smell their pages, admiring the ink that swam across the paper. All in varying conditions, though each beautiful in their own way. A cart full of experience, knowledge, and information set out to brave the elements.

Beauty in the eye of the beholder. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

Vintage books and a baguette. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

I mention the name of the bar, for later that evening I would find myself in front of it again. I met a familiar face in Grenoble. Luc Victor, a previous student teacher at the University of Utah’s French department, found out on Facebook that I had started living in Grenoble. Small world, for he’s living here too! Anyway, as more of an acquaintance, I was just happy to have met someone that knew where I was coming from. It made home feel closer than I thought.

Prof. Luc decided it was time to show me a bit more of Grenoble. La Barbarousse was the exact environment. We showed up a bit early, before the crowd swelled to standing room only and the music blasted with French and American classics alike. Truth be told, Luc introduced me to a mixed rum drink that tastes more like fruit juice. By midnight, I had met a very drunk medical student from Ireland [EDIT: Oìsin, pronounces OH-sheen], a Bulgarian woman speaking very slurred French, and had finished off four bottles of the almost-too-sweet rum mixture between the two of us. Hush, don’t tell my parents!

Finally, a small story from today should finish off the story portion nicely. I found myself in the grocery store, yet again, with Kitty and Lisa. As we were meandering toward the exit, a middle-age man sprinted past us, sweating and flushed. We all turned our heads, wondering why he would feel the need to run through the store. The answer came soon enough in the form of two, fitter security guards in pursuit. They didn’t seem concerned; in fact the looks shared between them were those of excitement. I expect it is the same look predators share when their prey decides to flee: finally, something to chase. 

That is how I have spent my time over the greater portion of this last week. It has been time well spent, I think.

As for the title of this blog, I think that deserves some explaining. After having lived in the United States for my entire life, certain habits have become integral to day-to-day existence within society. One of these life saving habits concerns pedestrian movement and sidewalks. Think to yourself, when you’re walking down the street, what side of the sidewalk do you find yourself? The right. Not necessarily that it is the right side to be walking on, but it is the side of the concrete path that has been chosen for you by societal instinct. If someone were to be walking straight toward you, there would be little doubt in your mind as to which direction you would step once your pedestrian game of Chicken came to a close: the right.

That isn’t the case in France, or, shall I say, that isn’t the case every time.

I have found myself walking, enjoying the day. I look up at the path ahead and find that another is walking, enjoying the day, straight toward me. I let the game play out, knowing full well that there is plenty of time to avert disaster. As we near each other, I instinctively make small movements to the right, but at the same time the other person is making these incremental movements to their left. This means, of course, that we are, incrementally, inching our way toward a collision. I have started paying more attention to the phenomenon. Some people, though I haven’t determined the commonality, pass to the left. A small societal instinct that I have had to completely revise.

It reminds me of a question Luc asked me at Barbarousse: “How do you find the French? Do you like them?”

Automatically, I replied, “They are very nice, of course!” He gave me a very stern look of disbelief. I had to think about my answer, then I revised: “Well, I have only spoken with those French people that are paid to be nice to me. The people at the bank, those at restaurants, and at the school.” I then went on to say, “I think, for any new place, it is necessary to drop any expectations of the people. I remember having all of these expectations before I arrived, and the first week was spent shedding these expectations. I have learned to expect nothing. It is better to be surprised!” Luc enjoyed that answer much more.

Alright, enough with stories. I think it is finally time to share some news, unfortunate as it may be.

Yesterday, after slowly agonizing over a rarely won battle, my great aunt Marie Striblen died of cancer. A true matriarch of the Sheets family, she was one of the few remaining links I had to my grandpa Ervin Sheets, who died, also of cancer, before I was three.

I have seen sorrow and grief spread through a great portion of my family over the last few months. Some were agonizing over the eventual loss of a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend: their loved one. For me, it has been a strange journey. Aunt Marie lived about a mile away from our home for as long as I can remember, probably since before I was born. Funny enough, as life would arrange things, we would only visit a few times a year, sometimes the longest visit would be annually on Halloween when we would Trick-or-Treat for her long-awaited popcorn balls. They were exquisite.

This past summer, my sister and I were lucky enough to sit down with Aunt Marie and two of her sisters: Verna and Bootsy [may be spelled Bootsie]. Three matriarchs of the family: monoliths of experience, each full of stories. What I had thought would be a short visit ended about two hours later. The stories flowed naturally, each throwing in a memory to spread across the table we all sat around. A perfect afternoon, as my sister and I laughed until tears, after Aunt Marie recounted a brawl with a man at a graduation that she ended up winning. Needless to say, she was one of the toughest people I have ever known. She will remain in my memory as one of the toughest people I have ever known: she had a fierce hug, and a stronger gaze. You knew that she respected what you were saying, you knew that you were being heard.

I knew that this moment would come. On Christmas, our family made the short car trip over to her house to say hello, though I knew, for me, it would be goodbye. The great matriarch that I had known my entire life sat in her room, fretting because she hadn’t been able to get up and take a shower that day. No worries, we told her. She invited us all into her room, a portion of her house I had never previously seen. She made sure we were comfortable, offering us corners of her bed. Quick as ever, we all spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes. At the end, I received another fierce hug, still strong as ever, though the battle was obviously taking a heavy toll on her body.

It is weird for me now to think that as I sit here in France, whiling away the hours in a place surrounded by new people, a great portion of my family will be attending a funeral day after tomorrow. I would never miss something like this, not ever. I know that now she is off on her new adventure, one that we will all share at one point or another. She is off to meet with my grandpa, someone I don’t remember well at all. She will be missed, but I know that my memories of her are worth every moment of grief. I have something to hold in my heart, even if it was for the briefest of moments.

In the end, this reminds me that I’m on a grand adventure. As Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemtion said, “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.” Now is the time for life: to experience all the world has to offer. For that I am thankful.

Day 14: Seize the Day

My mom was kind enough to remind me today amid our frantic texting (since there are only a few hours each day that fit the schedule of communication) that I have been in France for two weeks! Where has all the time gone? I feel like I have been here for much longer than that, but at the same time I feel like I have just left home. The fact that there are still so many new experiences each day probably doesn’t help. I have found some footing since my arrival, but that footing has been unstable and unreliable. The day I stepped off the plane, I should’ve known that my life had changed forever. There isn’t any going back.

That may sound depressing: it isn’t. The fact is: I’m working on becoming who I was always meant to be! Each day here, I realize that it isn’t just the people that I’m afraid of or the language! I’m afraid of finally realizing who I am. I think the best thing that I could do was take away all of the comforts that I had built up in the world I left behind. Now, though I still have amazing communication abilities with home, I have been left to my own devices. When things get tough, I can’t drive home. I can call home, and I know I will have someone there to help me through those tough times, but I can’t rely too heavily on their distant support.

This is a momentous occasion indeed. I sit, nowadays, for many hours just peering out my window at the wide world. The high mountains tower over this bustling city. Daunting and magnificent. The light moves across their faces, evincing new crevices and soaring peaks. The snow blankets each peak creating a jagged jaw biting at the (sometimes) clear skies. There are cloudy days with rain and snow. Sometimes the cold creeps under your skin and you wonder if you will get inside before you have frozen nearly to the core. Other times, the sun spreads its arms and you feel glorious warmth. It wraps you up, soul and all, until all you can remember are those faint nipping winds that grab at the tip of your nose.

Of the city, I can truly say that I have been through centuries of human existence merely by taking the time to step off the tramway (their version of UTA Trax!). At one point in time, the tallest building at the valley floor was the spires of a cathedral, sturdy against the tests of time. We walk across a bridge, one of the oldest in the city, to take a stair-filled pathway up the bottommost part of the mountainside. The stairs lead up, up, up. Each step takes you to a new vista of the sprawling cityscape below. Mashed up streets, buildings rising out of the ground here and there with rivers bending and twisting man’s creation, and newer infrastructures leap to greater heights, altogether this is a new symphony: this city has a rhythm all its own. Much different from home: the ordered tempo, the gradual crescendo and decrescendo, and the expected staccato. The new movement and pace has caught me off guard. I need to accustom myself to these differences before I start trying to interject my quiet harmony.

I should go back and describe the “we” of this scenario. Some of you won’t believe this; especially those that know me well. I have actually made new friends! Yes, I even have photographic proof (and, no, I did not have to pay them anything to stand around and take photos with me! The first of the group includes Kitty, Lisa, Michelle, and Dahye. I can tell that they all will be important characters in this new adventure of mine! Kitty is from the Netherlands, and she pushes us all to practice our French (THANK YOU!). Lisa, from Germany, has helped me practice a great deal of Franglish, and she has provided (and braved the streets of Grenoble in) her car on a very important Ikea expedition. Michelle is Indonesian and she comes from Down Under! Finally, Dahye is Korean, and though she is sometimes quiet, I think she is an important member of the group (because I’m quiet most of the time…).

There are others, though, not that they lack any importance! There is Arlieke, a friend of Kitty’s, Ambra, from Italy who helps us all speak French, Nick, from the states-New York, and Tom, another New York native. I have also come to realize, that though it may feel like I am alone in this new world without much English, there are many other U.S. Americans and British students here.

The original group, from left to right: Jesse, Lisa, Michelle, Dahye, and Kitty. This was taken at Punto Gusto, an Italian bistro with amazing pasta and a latte to die for (mostly because it is the only coffee I've had since I arrived...).

Ambra, Kitty, Dahye, Michelle, and Jesse: Remember that note about the old bridge? Well if you get enough people to jump at the center of it, the bridge actually undulates... 

One of my favorite shots taken by Michelle.

Most of the days are spent trying to decipher the language. That has been the most difficult part so far. The processes to obtain a bank account were lengthy, but were no more difficult than if I were home. The processes to buy a French cell phone, again, were not that difficult. My understanding of these processes, however, was greatly diminished by the fact that I have trouble deciphering the sounds that come out of other people’s mouths! I swear I have been studying this language for the passed two and a half years. I swear! Even with those odds on my side, I sit and I wonder what is happening around me.

My classes go about the same way. They are set in two-hour time blocks. I only have six classes this semester (which sounds like a lot, but it leaves me with a lot of free time). They are two-hour time blocks, but they are only once a week. Doesn’t sound that bad, it really isn’t, but those two hours can drag on and on. Especially when the seating in the classes is quite uncomfortable. Though, I guess with a little perspective, it really isn’t that bad at all.

On Mondays, I take a Media and Writing course that discusses some literature and has us practice our writing skills, ahem, our French writing skills. After that course, I am supposed to have a Linguistics course on Syntax and Discourse. This class doesn’t start until this upcoming Monday, so we will see what it has in store for me!

Tuesdays consist of one class in the morning. The two-hour block is split between two instructors. The first hour, the group practices translating French to English in the most accurate and fluent way possible under the guiding hand of a quick-witted British man. The second hour is spent under the unsteady and altogether nutty guidance of a lightning-tongued French woman translating English phrases to French. But seriously, she talks so fast! It is all I (and the others in the class) can do to keep up (mentally and in our notebooks…).

Wednesday mornings are spent in French Grammar. The instructor is deliberate in speech and chooses his words for our understanding. This deliberate nature early in the morning leads to a lot of yawning on my end, though I’m sure it will be beneficial in the end. He has promised to teach us practical grammar, that of true spontaneous speech. It seems a bit out of my reach at the moment, I must say.

Thursdays leave me the morning to myself. I am still adjusting to the timing here, so I have been sleeping in a lot. This may or may not be beneficial in the long run. Anyway, the afternoons consist of two classes. The first is a practical course on speech centered on the theme of the local history. It is taught by the grammar teacher, though this time around I have a better time staying awake. The first class was spent learning a lot about different maps and documents presented in class. Well, my attempt at learning it since I am still having a hard time deciphering any spoken French at the moment. Afterward, I head to my Cinéma course. We have now watched four clips from The Jazz Singer, two Charlie Chaplin pieces, and an A. Hitchcock classic, Blackmail. The instructor is mellow in his temper and speaks quite softly. I can tell that he loves what he does, but I still don’t catch most of what he is talking about. Needless to say, I probably won’t fill my notebooks this semester…

That brings us to today, Friday. No true classes today, though I did sign up for a hiking course! Well, as the facilitator detailed at the informational meeting today, it will be more of a snowshoeing course… Yes, snowshoes, or “raquettes” in French. I’ll probably never forget that word. I didn’t bring my big coat with me, wouldn’t fit in the suitcase, so I guess that gives me a week to find a (hopefully) waterproof coat and some suitable pants! Grief, this homework is going to be a tough one. I guess I will look at this expense like I look at book expenses back home: necessary.

And thus is my life. My new life, in France. We have already started making plans for our breaks. There are too many amazing places (Italy, Switzerland, the south of France, Germany). I am going to try to get to as many of them as I can.

Anyway, here’s to a good dose of Carpe Diem. Seize the day! I recently watched The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, rented from iTunes. Sonny continually stated that, “Everything will be all right in the end... if it's not all right then it's not yet the end.” That really hit home, for it was during an afternoon of homesickness. I knew at that moment that I would be all right. No matter what, the world progresses to a new day, and I am there to see the dawn of that new day. I can make a million mistakes today, but tomorrow will always be a new day. If I make a fool of myself today, I will be that much wiser tomorrow. This is a very extenuated series of trials and errors that will lead me to a greater appreciation of life. Tomorrow will give me new opportunities to seize the day, even if today wasn’t that successful. If I can keep that in mind, success is surely the only outcome, non?

Well, here’s to seizing the day. Let’s all see what tomorrow has in store for us, shall we?

La Ville dans la Vallée des Montagnes (Yep, it's a mouthful.)

14 January 2013 - Date written...

Here I am, writing from the fourth floor (though in Europe, it is technically still the 3^rd floor!) of my chambre in Grenoble, specifically Saint Martin d’Heres. Yes, very exciting news indeed, if you are one for adventure and that sort of thing. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m made of that adventurous stuff or not. I guess I have no choice, now that I’ve made the choice to be adventurous!

Anyway, it has been an emotionally eventful few days, oh wait, I’ve only really been here in France for little over 48 hours. Wow! I thought time was moving a bit more quickly than that, but I guess I was mistaken. That’s okay, right? But back to the emotional business, let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. I’m not saying that this is one of those dark blog posts with words that twist your soul and break your spirit, definitely not. But this was one of those few occasions in life where everything sensory around you turns against you in the worst way, and then you can’t even try to express what you are feeling because you realize that nobody around really cares that much about you or who you are, not yet anyway. That’s a scary feeling, the most alone feeling I have ever felt.

The first call back home was a sudden release of all of those pent up emotions. A release of the stress and the frustration and the overwhelming sense of loss, but also a great intake of happiness and overwhelming connection to those who love me. I was at a loss for words; some (or many) tears were shed, on both ends. I’m not sure I will ever forget that moment, it was small and hardly noticeable: I sat at the far corner table on the second floor of a small Subway (yes, the American sandwich shop with wallpaper featuring a great map of New York City) and finally connected to the wifi I had been searching for. I set out from my apartment with one goal in mind: find the Internet, and find it I did.

If I had made this trip fifty years ago, maybe I would have been made of tougher stuff. Or maybe I would have grown up without such immediate connection and the loss wouldn’t have felt so great. I guess we’ll never know because there’s no turning back Time now. Anyway, needless to say, I was already a bit homesick (am a bit homesick [and by “bit” I mean A WHOLE FREAKING LOT]). But that’s another thing altogether, isn’t it?

So, now that I have found myself in a new city with minimal English (though I have run into my mother tongue a few times, which gives me hope for the future). I know that I am supposed to be learning the language, but I think the phrase “thrown into the frying pan” really hurts more than it sounds. Well, I guess it sounds pretty painful. Anyway, I think I’m much better at easing into a situation, slowly immersing myself in the chaos. Like entering a lake when it is almost too cold to swim in: some people like to jump in and get over the shock quick. I find that the shock sticks with me, leaving me breathless and trying to keep my head above water. When I slowly immerse myself in the icy liquid, I found that I could keep my breathing even and work the temperature to a bearable level. This is how I think I envisioned my initial experience in France, but lo and behold, here I am trying to keep my head above water and losing my breath due to the frigid temperatures.

Mind you, that long metaphor doesn’t really apply to the people. I haven’t found anyone to be outright cold and indifferent. There have been many friendly Bonjours! and small smiles to show congenial behavior. No one has looked at me in disgust [yet] when they learned that I was an Americain who possessed much less French than he though he did. [The trouble isn’t usually expressing myself, though I have great trouble with that, the trouble lies in understanding what the French speakers are saying—simple things leap over my head because I wasn’t prepared to listen for it.]

For example (a good example), today I went to the supermarché to buy some cleaning supplies and slowly work on building my food supply [when you have to carry everything you want out of the store and then walk back to your apartment, you really can’t buy a cart load of food at a time…]. Anyway, back to the supermarché, Casino géant, where I stood looking at a wall of multi-purpose cleaning sprays. While trying to decipher which one would kill the most bacterial residue left behind by the former tenant, an older [not necessarily elderly] man came to stand by me. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and then spouted something about [I think] all of the choices in front of me. I distinctly remember hearing the word merde [shit], yes, I have learned a few of the more worrisome French words through my education. Anyway the point of all of this was to show that there are really friendly French people, but I can’t understand a word they are saying! I looked at him, smiled and laughed, and then muttered something indistinct so that he didn’t realize I didn’t understand him… C’est ma vie.

So, I think from now on, I will start paying attention to little moments like these. Maybe the man said something nasty, and smiled only because he thought his joke hilarious. Or maybe he was off his rocker and actually only spouted gibberish to me, smiled and went on his merry (if not exceedingly impaired) way. I’m sure neither of those are the case, but it is a great time for my imagination to go wild since I couldn’t actually interpret what he meant.

Oh! Another thing that I have started noticing, though I’m not sure why: there are a lot more people in wheel chairs here. High accident rates? High rates of birth defects…? Umm, yeah not sure. Though I’m experiencing more people with more…abnormalities…than usual. Not that this is a bad thing, I just wonder if it is just the city or maybe it is just me…?

Again with the sirens! I have a great view, but I can hear every siren that goes off in this place! Maybe I’m just not good at blocking out those things here in the beautiful city in the valley of the mountains [La ville dans le vallée des montagnes, as I have started calling it]. Hopefully, sooner than later, I will enjoy the quiet of a city once more. You know, when you have been there long enough that all of the city sounds actual become part of the silence!? Well, some of you know, but if you’re from Moab you probably think I’m a bit crazy.

I think I’ll stop there. It has only been two days, after all. If I keep up at this pace, I’ll have a novel length blog by the end of the five months!