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.