Tag: French Sabbatical

Today’s photo is a perfect representation of one of MY wonders of the world. The rest of you can have your statues, temples and monuments. I have my father at the racetrack. Here he is, positioned perfectly in the restaurant at the Nantes Hippodrome watching the horses come down the stretch. I can’t script something better than this.

Back in 1988 I spent a full racetrack season working at Longacres, the legendary racetrack in Seattle. I had just graduated from college, was considering grad schools, and wanted a summer doing something I loved but knew wasn’t my “calling.” I got a job working for the Daily Racing Form. I was at the racetrack every morning and evening, working long hours noting the entries and charting the races. My father attended pretty much every race day as he was working for a couple of national horse race handicapping magazines. Spending that time with him sharing something we both love is among my most cherished and prized memories.

So 22 years later, here he is in Nantes sharing a day at the races with not only me but with my mom, Melinda, and our dear, dear French friends Laurent & Frédérique. It was the merging of so many of my wonders of the world that I can’t describe to you how perfect it was. You just have to trust me.

One more note… I told the story in yesterday’s post about my dad and me trying to figure out how to place bets on the Breeder’s Cup. The second of his two bets came in. He correctly picked that a horse named Blame would upset the amazing Zenyatta in the Classic. He told me his rationale early yesterday, couching his explanation in terms as only an English major could. A great horse named Man o’ War lost only one race in his life, he told me, that to a horse aptly named Upset. Yesterday morning my dad said to me that by nightfall in Kentucky the great Zenyatta would have lost only one race in her life, and that we would know who to “Blame.”

No, this is not a reference to my father, not directly, that is. Nor is it a reference to our last name, although that does sound like a bit of fun, playing with our name. It IS about the fact that less than an hour ago my father and I were sitting in a bar in Nantes CALLED Le Petit Jockey. You see, it’s a place where one can place bets on horse races and my father has a couple of races in the U.S. on which he wants to bet. Indeed, it’s Breeder’s Cup Day in the U.S. so the races are significant ones. I won’t bore you with more of those details – go look it up yourself. I will say that if Atta Boy Roy wins the Sprint or Blame wins the classic my dad will be a happy guy.

It took a bit of effort to place his bets and we fumbled and bumbled our way though it. Fortunately, everyone inside Le Petit Jockey was extremely helpful and tolerant. Ultimately, the man we think is the proprietor introduced us to a patron who speaks some English. He was very kind and helpful. We brought an Emerald Downs t-shirt to give away and gave it to the man who took my dad’s bets. We bought and drank a couple of beers while reviewing the program for tomorrow’s races in Nantes (see photo) that we will be attending (with my mom, Melinda, and Frédérique & Laurent!). I think we became a conversation piece in the bar, so much so that as we were getting ready to go we were presented with 2 free passes to tomorrow’s races! That already puts us 10€ ahead since admission is 5€ each! Score!

Speaking of scoring, next up my folks, Chloe and I are off to tonight’s hockey game. That’s living!!

We are THRILLED today to welcome my parents to Nantes! They arrived this morning right on time, having left Seattle at 2:45pm on Thursday and touching down in Nantes at 10:40am. Time difference factored in, that’s 12 hours of travel from lift-off to touch-down. They flew nonstop from Seattle to Paris and then caught a connecting flight from Paris to Nantes.

Today’s photo is of my mom greeting Chloe for the first time in over 4 months. Chloe had just exited the tram at our stop after spending the morning at school. A similar scene played out about 5 hours later when Ella got home from school. Soon after, my parents excitedly pulled out two suitcases of “paraphernalia” they brought from home, including Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese, Swedish Fish, and Costco-sized packages of chocolate chips, what one might call “health foods” (can you imagine the conversations the airport x-ray operators were having after scanning these bags?). They also brought several books, including 3 Kurt Vonnegut novels for me, some requested clothes (including Granny’s homemade pajamas!), and a care package of items from PSCS. The screams of glee and excitement could hardly be contained. It was Christmas in November in Nantes today, courtesy of Santa Granny & Grandad.

What a fabulous world we live in, one in which somebody’s parents can visit so easily from half a world away and bring so many “comfort” items from home. This is Andy signing off from a happy place in France tonight!

So I’ve been “jonesing” to play a little solo roundball and today finally did it. I took my blue Decathalon basketball and put on my red & black Decathalon basketball shoes. I boarded a tram in the direction of Orvault/Grand Val, knowing there was an outdoor court along the line. All the while, I was humming, “Basketball Jones, I got a basketball jones.”

I exited at Le Cardo and wandered around in search of the court, zigging and zagging in the neighborhood until I found it. It was a classic outdoor court. No nets, with a weathered surface full of cracks, wet from rain, and covered in leaves. I slipped and slopped up and down the court for 45 minutes, giving myself a workout in the late morning balmy Nantes weather. It was fun. My hands were filthy afterwards. I felt just like a kid. Of course, now I’m a little tired and my right knee is sore. That’s more like being 47, I guess.

For a little fun, go listen to this version of “Basketball Jones” performed by Chris Rock and Barry White, a dynamic duo. While listening, picture me swishing a baseline jumper.

I’m excited to tell you that the Nantes Library System has upped the number of items a person can check out at one time. Entirely in French today, I learned I can now have out 15 items, no more than two of them being fiction DVDs (which you find in the “Adult Film” section of the nearby branch, by the way). This is good news for me, as I like to check out several things at once. Today it was some French music CDs, a French documentary called “Dix-Sept Ans” (17 Years-Old), as well as the “The Pied Piper” (starring Donovan!) and “The Truman Show” (yes, the American movie ) as my “adult films.”

I walked to the library and encountered an area near a high school with short statements painted on a series of posts and railings. Today’s photo is of the one with my favorite sentiment. I thought it made for a rather arty photograph. It’s certainly easy enough to translate the expression je t’aime (I love you), although I’m not sure why there are two “I’s.” The heart also seems simple enough given the message, but I admit I needed help with the < 3 comment. My math brain saw that as "less than 3." Melinda just told me it's a sideways heart, an emoticon! I knew I married her for some reason.

Sideways heart to you, Melinda!

That’s my new friend Ludovic standing behind a huge vat of paella (a food with “ella” in it!) and another vat of some kind of dish involving duck, I think. I hope no one, especially my new friend Ludovic, takes offense to me referring to the containers as vats. They really are huge. Of course it does go to reason that there would be vats. We were in Leclerc, after all, a huge store.

Anyway, I walked past my new friend Ludovic and the Vats (I’m making the “V” upper case now so it will look like a cool new band – wouldn’t you buy a CD by Ludovic & the Vats??) a couple of times, rehearsing two or three lines of French before approaching him. Yes, for me, approaching anyone to start a conversation in French is like trying to pick someone up in a bar. I have to rehearse my pick-up line before going in.

So I was curious to learn a little more about the paella, most importantly its price. Then I wanted to be able to order enough for the four of us. Feeling reasonably confident, I moved in. Immediately, my new friend Ludovic put me at ease. He smiled. Still, I stumbled through my first sentence, to which he said, “Americain?” I wanted to say, “It shows that much?” but couldn’t figure that out fast enough (I don’t rehearse comebacks). I did manage to tell him that I’m on sabbatical, living in Nantes for a year with my family. He asked if we’d been to Paris. I was so excited to understand the question that I fumbled my answer. But overall I was successful. I did get plenty of paella for dinner and this photo.

Oh, my new friend Ludovic told me that I was doing very well with my French. And he told me this very nicely, like only a new friend would.

I’m still basking in all of our Paris glory and present this picture that Chloe took on Friday as evidence (it’s fun looking back at the photos). We also took some simple videos of us in and around town (can you really call Paris a “town?”) and was looking at those today, too. Each one begins with the question, “Où sommes-nous?” (Where are we?). You see, Melinda wants us to keep a video record of our French experiences by asking this question and then getting each of us to answer it — in French, of course. So I was watching these and in pretty much every one of them I’m the one asking the “où sommes-nous” question, given I’m the one with the camera, I guess. I also took to ending the videos by telling the girls and Melinda in French to, “Say goodbye.” I tell you, you want to really see how much you’re muffing a foreign language? Record yourself speaking it. So here I am today watching/listening to these videos and each time I tell the girls to “say goodbye” (“Dites au revoir”), it sounds like I’m telling them to “say have” (“Dites avoir).” Frankly, it’s embarrassing.

That got me thinking of other simple French words I’m messing up. I came up with the word “maintenant” which means “now.” I swear my junior high French teacher taught the class to run the sounds all together, creating some kind of two syllable contraction that sounds something like “manaw.” Having gotten to know the Boudeaus better and in this context their daughter, I think my saying “now” often sounded more like “Manon,” her name, than anything else. I’ve learned I need to slow down when I say “now,” maybe making it into three syllables – “man-te-naw.”

You might want to try it, too. Slow down “now” into three syllables, maybe even more. Be mindful of the present. Do the dishes to do the dishes. That sort of thing. Eckhart Tolle, are you listening?

First, let me just say that we are back home in Nantes, having arrived just over an hour ago. And what an odd feeling it is, to have been in Paris just a couple of hours ago and now be “home.” No multi-hour flights, no having to go through customs, and no jet lag. We’re home and we are all content.

Shortly after getting home, I spotted this little boy across the street trick or treating with his mom. Having heard that it was unlikely we’d have any trick or treaters, I dashed across the street to invite them to come over to our house. So picture this. You’re a French kid dressed up for Halloween and a crazy American comes up to you and invites you to come ring his doorbell. What would you do?

I tried to explain that in the U.S. the kids ring the doorbell and then say, “Trick or treat.” This boy was having none of that. Not only do I think he couldn’t understand a word I was saying, I think he was having a hard time breathing under his mask. He still went away with 2 packs of Skittles, Halloween candy we stashed away just in case someone showed up.

UPDATE – We just had three more trick or treaters ring our bell. Still no “Trick or treat” but they did greet us with a “Bon soir.” And let me just say these were no little kids. They reminded me of some of those old PSCS teens who liked to show up at our house on Halloween…

For our last full day in Paris we continued to make excellent use of our week-long Métro passes. The Paris Métro is truly a remarkable thing, an engineering marvel. There are 16 lines and over 130 miles involved in it and it serves 4.5 million passengers per day. Fascinating, I know. Here’s how it works. You head down a staircase in one part of the city and then follow directions to the correct line, navigating these underground tunnels with hundreds of other people, some who want to walk very fast and some who want to walk very slow. I’m not sure which is worse, being behind one of the slow ones or ahead of one of the fast ones. Anyway, then you get on a train and it takes off, depositing you in another series of tunnels. You then hunt for the exit, again with hundreds of other people, some who want to walk very fast and some who want to walk very slow. You then head up a staircase and, bam, you’re in another part of Paris. It’s like magic. Yesterday we went down some stairs, wandered through some tunnels, rode a train, wandered through some more tunnels, went up some stairs and, BAM, there was the Arc de Triomphe. Crazy.

Still, I think the whole system is a scam to keep Parisians thin.The way it really works is like this. People go down some stairs, just like I said. That’s the warm-up exercise. Then you wander around an intricate series of underground tunnels designed to give you an incredible workout. Some people get behind you and step on your heels, encouraging you to pick up your pace for a better workout. Others slow down in front of you, worried that you are going too fast and will burn-out. It’s like interval training. You wander around in these tunnels, following signs to trains that you think take you to your destination. In reality, these trains just go around in circles for a while, giving you a little rest. Then you get out and follow more underground tunnels until you reach your destination. You go up some stairs to finish your workout and there you are. Man, if people knew they had really walked from Montmartre to the Eiffel Tower they’d be really mad. So the city planners got the psychological thing down pat, too.

Part of what’s cool about it is the art involved. Some of the stairways are really attractive, like the one in this picture I took today. Inside some are quite nice, too, and the so-called street performers who entertain are a nice touch. I wonder if the occasional urine smell is designed to keep people moving. It wouldn’t surprise me. Like I said, they thought of everything.

We climbed into our time machine today to take a picture of Melinda and me crossing a Paris street in the year 2050. As is the case in 2010, Melinda continues to look much better than me. No surprise there. Look at that fur collar. And her hair, wow. I’d like that color now. Geez, I bet I’d like that color in 2050. From the looks of things, I bet I’d like ANY color hair in 2050. At least I’ve got my leather jacket going. My grandfather had one just like it.

Stopping to chat with our 40 years older selves, we learned that Melinda is completely fluent in French. I still babble away in “franglais” to anyone who will listen (and some that don’t). Most people find me endearing, or so I think. Melinda is able to order a Ricard on the first try every time. The servers are always impressed by her. Me, after about 20 years of this I finally made peace with saying, “La même chose.”

Although I look kind of gruff in this picture, I’m really a sweetheart of an old man. My French grandchildren get a big kick out of my inability to pronounce certain words in French and have taken to say to me, “Papi-Andy, dis, ‘La rue est vraiment rouge.'” Then they giggle when I do. I don’t mind. I ask them to say, “I was thoroughly thirsty on Thursday.” We all crack up.

Melinda designed our Paris apartment, a renovated studio with high ceilings that allowed her to put in this really cool circular staircase. Our living room and kitchen are on the main level and the bedroom and bathroom are upstairs. I don’t know how she does it, but the place always smells likes lavender.

Chloe and Ella asked me to not divulge what we learned about them on this blog (other than my reference to French grandchildren). Let me just say that they visit often and are starting to think we should move out of Paris and closer to one of them. Whatever.