Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Partir, c'est mourir un peu,

C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime :

On laisse un peu de soi-même

En toute heure et dans tout lieu.

C'est toujours le deuil d'un vœu,

Le dernier vers d'un poème ;

Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

Et l'on part, et c'est un jeu,

Et jusqu'à l'adieu suprême

C'est son âme que l'on sème,

Que l'on sème à chaque adieu...

Partir, c'est mourir un peu

Edmond Haraucourt, 1890

As I prepare for my annual pilgrimage to the US, these words of the great French poet, Haraucourt, from the nineteenth century come to mind. Leaving, is somewhat like dying. The telephone which remained silent for weeks starts to ring. Every friend and acquaintance absolutely needs to see me, have a drink with me, talk to me, have lunch or dinner. Frenchmen consider departures even for as little as a few weeks as a loss. As the poet states, it's a mourning for what could have been and never will be. The scent of the person lingers in the air long after he has left. For France and me our summer 2012 has come to an end. Good-byes are excruciating for the French. The moment when people part lasts forever as people take your hand, look in your eyes and profess their regrets for the hours you will not spend together. They wish you all the best for the journey and your life. Breaking away is hard. They kiss you over and over. You continue to wave until someone has turned the corner. And that is the supposed moment of death.

Americans don't generally get this lump in their throats when someone goes away. It seems so normal to leave unless you are hopelessly in love and won't see your lover anymore. Welcoming someone home however is more emotional in the States. Strangely enough, that is lacking in France. When I return no one will be there to greet me and life will resume quickly as if I had never left. "Et ben. Te voilà". There you are again

The morose atmosphere always ends up getting to me. Knowing the French I try to hide my day of departure but they always sense it. Buying a baguette, cheese and some Marseilles lavender soap my favorite grocer let out a "Awwww. It's tomorrow, isn't it? Oh what a pity!" Walking through the square I looked up at the Gothic cathedral. The clock chimed two o'clock. The sun came out for once. A group of passer-bys chanted "j'aurais voulu" (I would have wanted). The word tomorrow resonated in my brain over and over. There are always so many things to do before I leave it's overwhelming. It never gets easier. No matter how much I try, I leave in the middle of something. There is too much to do. Doing my laundry, packing the suitcase and sorting through my mail is tedious work. What have I forgotten? I planned three days to do it. Not! I stop at a sidewalk café for a Monaco (beer, lemon and grenadine cocktail), sat down to make my list and feel the sun on my face. The waiter informs me tomorrow will be a beautiful day. My cell rings. It's friends calling to say bye! yet again. I sigh.

Now I'm writing this post to capture the day-before-tomorrow spirit. Oh, forget the damn suitcase. Leaving is a little bit like dying. As Monsieur Haraucourt puts it so romantically, our soul is lost and spread far and wide with each adieu. Today is the last line of a poem. Phew!

Copyright 2012 Merquiades

Thinking of you, Cáceres

Once in a while I remember you, Cáceres, and the memory is so vivid it transports me back decades. I'm in a time warp, flying magically over thousands of miles of scenery long forgotten. Presto. I'm back on Paseo de Cánovas sipping watermelon sangría as the afternoon sun peaks its head over San Jorge cathedral.
What usually brings me back to you is the pungent smell of diesel fuel spewing from an old bus and blending ever gently with a distant scent of garlic and olive oil. Add the tune of some old bolero, and that's the recipe. I'm back on my journey on that Enatcar long haul carrier, destination Cáceres.

It was 1991; I was still wet behind the ears, both exhilarated and apprehensive as we rode deeper and deeper into the mysterious heart of Spain. The flat barren countryside went on for hours, dotted periodically with a sudden cluster of houses, a castle, a casino or two. The bus started and stopped with thuds as Spaniards in red jeans and black leather jackets hopped on and off at villages with grandiose baroque sounding names... Talavera de la Reina, Quintanar de la Vega, Arroyo de la Luz. On the radio, Cadena Dial played long bittersweet ballads of love forlorn. They came in and out with static as we grew ever farther from that fading signal in Madrid. "Me dijiiiste que me queríias... ......pero todo fue mentiiiiira. (You said you loved me.... but all that was a lie). Then a flood of guitar music and repeat, repeat, repeat ad infinitum... Finally, after we struggled to climb up a rugged hilltop, I could see the medieval city of white washed houses and red tiled roofs stretched out before us in the valley. Next stop, Cáceres! Just let it happen.
María Dolores met me as I got off the bus with a "Wow, Vikings do exist, don't they?" and promptly rechristened me as Roncho, short for Roncho el Grande, my Spanish alter ego... well, some remote play on words between my name and a Visigoth king who resembled me. It stuck. That was the only time I remember being greeted with such gusto from a stranger and actually seeing one of those arrival "welcome signs" with my name scratched on it in huge letters. Ok, so it WAS misspelled with several strange H's placed at random, but I could clearly recognize it. My head still spinning from the journey, I felt lost as anyone could be in the world. We watched the 1950 Pullman take off toward Seville, and we both burst out laughing. Diesel was now garlic.

Cáceres is a blur of souvenirs with no beginning nor end, where evening started at noon or rather nights lingered on well into the afternoon. The Spanish literature prof spoke of the Libro de Buen Amor for months on end, the geography prof insisted on the olive grove giving birth to Iberian civilization. The frequent breaks at the bar may have been longer than class time. The morning pick me up was a small insanely strong espresso diluted into a tall glass of rum. The waiter played "Camino" over and over. That was the only place I ever did a back flip or even attempted to. Cáceres gave courage to a push ones limit. The student strike was a welcome festive atmosphere. We marched round and round the city with banners reading "No Spanish blood for oil"! Didn't matter no one knew what the march was about. Did we need an excuse to be rowdy? In the meantime, we partook of tapa after tapa, lots of exotic fish, omelettes, spicy peppers and sharp sheep cheese washed down with gallons of sweet Spanish wine so thick it was like syrup. Of course, every day we had madalenas galore, not to mention the ever-present Galletas Fontaneda. Those crackers tended to show up everywhere. There were the nights the Canary Island girls danced on the bar of Montana with their own cosmic fandango choreography to the B52's "Lov Sack". There were the gypsies sitting on the steps to the old town strumming their guitars "Si tú me dices ven, lo dejo todo" (Just say the word and I'll leave it all for you). I see myself dressed as Pancho Villa for carnival, jumping on human chairs and chanting "un, dos, tres". In a dive decked out all in red, known to locals as the Leaning Tower of Babel, I translated Montse's favorite song for her "If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?" to which she surprisingly retorted, "I've been waiting for you to say that all night. Now what?" So was that her I accompanied back to the convent for her 6am curfew or was it Inés, the blonde who asked me for every possible way in English to translate the maneuvers she liked do with her long mane of hair? Braid it, pull it back, curl it, tease it, tweeze it, gel it. Haze. I then see myself with a group of people on a farm applauding a gory pig slaughter, and watching them pour the blood into vats of steaming potatoes. What a local delicacy indeed!
I met wannabe bullfighters at a novillada in Cabeza del Buey and poets who weren't aware the golden age had ever come to an end. Amazingly every town, every street, every house seemed to be famous or infamous for some reason or another. They would say... "that's where Ana Pérez's brother's sister-in-law was murdered. She still roams around there on some evenings crying revenge." Yeah, uncanny, but in Extremadura I do have to believe everything. At some point in time, I went to a parent teacher's conference for the six-year-old in the house, played bocce on a rooftop, had party after party, woke up in strange apartments, and went to a wedding of a couple I didn't even know existed. Time rolled by in Cáceres like in a David Lynch film. Before you knew it you were appearing in Chinese restaurants, at the bullring for a quick faena, at a poetry reading, on the balcony of some loft, or chilling and watching Pretty Woman dubbed into Spanish. "Guay, guay" said Julia Roberts. It's either quite magical or a sign of distress when Friday becomes Tuesday and Monday morning is always the beginning of something extra special. In Cáceres, someone's always ready to meet you at the clock tower for a whirl around town. The anecdotes come back when I least expect it like a tap on my shoulder. "Whatever happens, just remember, man. Nothing better in life than pissing a good ale".

Cáceres is like a slideshow image of old pictures projecting onto the wall in any old order without rhyme nor reason. My stay came to an abrupt end the following June. Though the departure day had actually been planned long before I even arrived, I found myself throwing my clothes frantically into my suitcase an hour before the bus was to leave. Why was I at Sala Capitol till the last minute? I definitely wasn't ready to leave, yet I had used up six of my lives there. I didn't even bother to say good-bye to anyone. I wasn't sure at that point if tomorrow wouldn't be just another stroll from the Uni to the Plaza Mayor up the street and to that new home of mine I seldom stayed in for more than a few hours at a time. Lola drove me to the bus station, kissed me affectionately on both cheeks and pronounced the famous farewell saying of spaniards. "A ver si nos vemos, Roncho". (I guess I'll be seeing you sometime). Thus, I got on that rickety old bus. The same old driver took a victory lap around town and then I was gone. My carnavalesque experience was over and I never went back.

Jetlag

Here I am back in beautiful Metz but I cannot seem to shake my jetlag. I have only been back three days but it as if time has stopped: Minutes are hours, hours seem like days, evening is morning, night is afternoon. This brings a full new dimension to my floating in France. Each time I travel it's a bit worse. I do not travel well.

I thought I had a handle on it this time. Knowing myself, the suitcase was impressively packed well in advance, and I actually slept well the night before the trip. Perhaps that was the problem, now that I think of it. Flights from America to Europe are eight hours long, leave in mid to late afternoon, and arrive around 6 am the next morning (well, that's really midnight American time). The fact I was well rested meant I could not sleep at all on the plane and watched all three featured movies back to back. Maybe I should have preformed my normal nuit blanche ritual of crazily throwing everything together at the last minute, going online to check in and register beforehand, thinking what to remember and forgetting how to think. Instead, the inevitable trip anxiety, nervousness, thoughts of the trip and the after-trip and the after-after-trip, compounded with the subtly imposed family guilt of leaving home once again for yet another untimely French adventure (most people believe I am on permanent holiday in Europe. If it were true!) came late. Adrenaline is not necessary for a transatlantic trip! I should have boarded that airplane so worn out that I could have slept anywhere. Mea culpa.

The weekend I have spent sleeping ,a few hours in a row, followed by great spurts of energy and then a gradual letdown lasting but a few hours, and then more sleep. I eat whatever I find, whenever I can and however I want. I wonder if experts have carried out research on the psychological effects of jetlag. I feel both elated and depressed my trip home is over. I'm optimistic for 2011 yet I feel aloof from the world. I'm also starving but don't wish to eat anything. Besides that, I sleep without being tired. C'est grave! Hopefully by tomorrow the feeling will subside and I will have frenchiflown back to normal. Unfortunately, I'll have a long day of work ahead... Ugh

Now it is 11pm and I'm feeling fit after my long 4-hour afternoon nap and my recent dinner. No way for me to consider winding down and 8am comes ever so early. Maybe I'll attack that suitcase I still haven't unpacked.

Floating in Prague

The Czech are an appreciative, laid back, and classical people: thankful for a moment of sunshine, thankful to bump into a friend unexpectedly in the street, thankful for any and all little pleasures in life. In Prague, you'll never see anyone running frantically to catch a tram nor hear mad taxi drivers tooting their horns. The city is by no means stagnant though. Prague is moving, but it's a gentle movement like a summer breeze with lots of pauses and sighs. Go ahead, stop in the street, close your eyes, take the time to bite into that vanilla eclair and savor ever so slowly every little drop of cream. Stop to hear that string quartet playing Dvorzak near Staromesto, watch that puppet show, go in to view that wild colorful art in a gallery window, or why not just check your hair in a mirror to make sure your look is impeccable: flowing blonde hair, black gown, meshed stockings and stiletto heels.

Class and verve sooo rule here in Prague. Watching the waitress put together a Viennese coffee, measuring out the correct proportions, piling on the clotted cream, shaking on a dust of chocolate. Step back, have a look and smile. Quality trumps quantity here. Meticulousity and honor far outweigh the constraints of time. I can just imagine the New Yorker going crazy at how long it takes the front desk clerk at the hotel to fill out the form, find the key and slowly drag you up to your room. Is it all to your liking, sir? Check out the view of the clock tower. No, the hour is off about 20 or 30 minutes. So, when is breakfast served? Well, in the morning of course! To enjoy Prague you have to adapt to the locals. If you had planned to see the Castle, visit four or five churches, or museums, take a cruise on the Vltava and take in a play in one day, think twice. Prague in one day, no way!

Prague is a curious blend of Baroque Austria circa 1750 (Check out Amadeus for a look!) and the Soviet Union 1970. It's a pure delight to search in vain for elements that facilitate and destroy modern western society. No plastic chairs, bags or bottles, no Lady Gaga, no superstores, no cash registers with bar scanning machines. Those round horn shaped bread rolls are ever-present, as are the long white cigarettes taken out of steel red cases, as well as the makeshift huts around town selling black gloves and hats for less than a euro. White peacocks reign supreme throughout many of the city's parks, daring you to step onto the grass. And strangely enough, Prague is the only city with a delightful royal palace where royal guards goose step, prouder than the peacocks, to protect a king that has never existed. In a nutshell, the Czech republic is laughter and pure joy on a sugar high of classical music on a freezing rainy day. Dvorak is still buzzing my ears, but I just can't laugh enough to get warm. Carpe diem in the past people! Float away.

At the mercy of snow

In the USA, or in Ohio, when it snows a small army of people are sent out to plow, shovel, salt, spray, remove snow in any and every way possible. Besides that, the layman too has obligations like getting rid of the snow on the sidewalk or street in front of his/her building, also the stairs, driveways, and whatever else is there and could be dangerous. I recently watched in amazement as secondary roads were completely snow free by rush hour.

In contrast, in France when there is sleet, freezing rain, or snow (be it half an inch or ten feet), the government's solution is to cancel everything. Décision de préfecture. No one leave home! Bus service cancelled, train service cancelled, streets cordoned off! No school! No this! and no that! No, no salting, absolutely no chemical products onto our roads, thoroughfares or sidewalks, that's way too bad for the environment, you know! and by the way, le déneigement also requires a lot physical labour! So why not just sit back and wait for nature to thaw itself out! It will eventually happen! And once in a while they do indeed plow certain streets at irregular intervals, just in case there's some emergency, but that's about it! Snow brings on paralysis. Now, before you think that I protesteth too much, I do readily admit that sometimes this is advantageous to me. Once in a while I do even find myself praying for snow. Twice this year already, I've got to lie in on official snow days and even be paid for it. Yippy! However, the inverse could happen too, being stuck at work, on a highway, at a train station, on a train, anywhere else waiting, begging, pleading for nature to help out and spare me.


Unfortunately for me the third snowstorm occurred on December 16-17, the exact moment when I was to leave for the states. Even worse it snowed in northeastern France (where I live) but not in Paris (where my plane was set to take off at 10:30 AM). So I fretted all day the 16th as I watched the snow fall and heard slowly but surely the decrees of the local government to shut down local buses, trains and shuttles. So how the hell was I to get to the TGV train station 40 minutes away to get my ride to Paris. Every option I thought about, no can do! I couldn't miss my flight because I just could not afford buying another ticket, and yes, finding my way to Paris was my responsibility, not theirs. Paris weather was clear and sunny. I panicked so much I didn't know what to do? Why didn't I get my French driver's license? Why didn't I have a car? a truck? Or a snowmobile?

So I decided the only way was to walk to the busiest area in Metz, by the station and try anyway possible to flag down a cab. Oh Gosh! The only place I could wald was go right down the middle of the street where cars or maybe ploughs had taken away just a wee bit of those 20 centimeters, and no, suitcase wheels do not work in the snow. Walking through the streets of Metz at 4AM with two suitcases and trying to hail cabs that didn't want to be hailed was an adventure I don't want to relive. Fortunately, I found a daring guy, Antoine, who told me he'd take me to the TGV Gare Lorraine (most cab drivers obeyed the order to stay in) on the condition that we not stop and fly straight down the highway as fast as possible. So there we went running red lights and swerving on to all lanes. His noble theory: you don't stop in snow or you'll never start again, and the faster you go the more control you have. I was scared and relieved at the same time to have Antoine behind the wheel. I did the right thing by thinking of going so early. My driver's theory, if right, could not have panned out, with all those slow drivers coming and going, and those accidents that were sure to occur in an hour or two. I would never have made it. Boy, did I have to pay for Antoine though. All in all, it was worth every penny though, even though I am still cursing the government for shutting down the world.

The TGV was on time, but it ran on slow (government decree) until it approached the Paris metropolitain area, where there was no snow. So my flight was definitely on time but I was still arriving late.

Next story, I had registered on line and printed my boarding pass beforehand, good reflex in the event of being late when they tell you to check in 3 hours in advance. So luckily, they were waiting for me! When I got to the airport at 10 (plane left at 10:30), the first guy everyone meets, out of about 10 all together, got on his walkie-talkie and said, "oui, il est là, le Cincinnati", so believe it or not, I got to cut in front of everybody else to check my bag. Next, at the security area where they were making people take everything off, open up all their bags, plus asking them tons of questions, the same thing happened. "Oh, le Cincinnati, pas le temps de faire tout ça, quoi!", passport control was the same story. I went through and walked straight to the plane, got on and then they closed the gate. Scary looking back on it all, but kind of cool too. In the end, my friend, Madame K, is right, they won't leave you behind. Feels nice to know that. I really thought they'd be off in a heartbeat. And the trip to Cincinnati was completely normal, now here I am with 6 inches of snow and bare roads.

Vive la belle France! Every day is an adventure. R.T.

photos de Provence

With the exemption of the beach scene which is in Villeneuve-Loubet near Nice, all the other scenes are in and around Gordes, a small city nestled on top a hill in the Luberon region of Provence, around an hour southeast of Avignon, France. I stayed with a friend of mine J.P. All the people shown here are JP's friends and family who live or spend their summers in Gordes.

This is the typical French way of spending July and August: in villas with swimming pools, sun, fun, family, friends with lots of gourmet food and wine.
Parties every night, of course.

Provence