samedi 23 juin 2012

As I write this, I am in the Bourgogne countryside of France with the host family of my friend Kimberly. I am once again taken back by the beauty and simplicity of the countryside. Now I know I’m no country girl (coming from the girl who, at 11 years old when at our ranch Perry Lake, refused to leave the car: “There are too many bees!”)---but I can appreciate the peace that is here.

This house/countryside is particularly remarkable because the family of Benoit (Kim’s host-father) has owned it since the 1700’s. That’s a really long time. The family has had the home as a vacation/weekend house since then, and about 8 years ago, they started redoing it.

Benoit gave Kim and I a tour of the huge garden (in which we picked fresh raspberries, red currants, and blueberries for dessert), the underground area where the family would make wine and store produce during the wintertime, the backhouse area where they would make fresh bread in the brick oven, and of course the picturesque, antique well in the backyard. There are old bedrooms full of antique books and dusty toys; antique sewing machines that one sees in a museum, and old pictures of Benoit’s great great great grandparents; long dusty dining tables in a dining room, with an entrance in the back for the service.

Long story short (or maybe not so short…) it is a very quaint plantation-like home that has been passed down from generation to generation in the Michon family. I will note that in the wine cave, I naively asked Benoit how wine is even made.

My memory-triggered self became amazed by the fact that 2 centuries ago, women in their long dresses and corsets walked up these stairs after picking fresh pears and tomatoes. There is just something here that makes me appreciate the past and a family’s history.

This morning at breakfast, Kim and I were talking to Odile (Benoit’s wife) about her family. She started telling us all about where her ancestors were from, what they did in their lives, how certain wars affected them, and how she took her daughter to Norway to introduce her to her cousins who still live there.

I began to wonder about where I come from. From where did my great great great great grandparents move to America? As Odile pointed out, no one in America is really native: anyone who was actually native (i.e., native Indian) has been killed, put on a reservation, or had their rights taken away from them. Everyone else is, at the root of it, from another country but calls themselves American. (The truth hurts, huh?)

Benoit

Odile suggested that I talk to my relatives who are still living, ask them about their ancestors, and write everything down. “Nothing gets passed down unless it’s in writing,” she said. She made me want to go home, print out all of my pictures, write about my life, and document everything. Sounds silly, but I do actually want my great grand children to know who I was—not for the sake of my name living on, but so they know where they came from. It made me think of my Grandmother and how lucky I am that I have her telling her life story on video; of how precious life is in simplicity; of how distracted I can be even by my phone or my stuff.

It made me appreciate just being.

Benoit drove Kim and I to his aunt, cousin, and mom’s individual country houses, showed us around those, and then we walked through the woods in rain boots. Here I was reminded of the hours I spent with my sisters and cousins in the “secret meadow” of Perry Lake, in the “swamps” with our walking sticks, and in my imaginary world in the woods.

Overall, it was refreshing to get in the fresh air and to slow down a bit from the Parisian life, where every minute of the day is go go go. Random detail—Benoit was wearing a button down shirt and khakis the whole time. Even while crawling under branches and. To each his own?

This past Thursday was the “Fête de la Musique” in Paris---and therefore the best evening of my whole trip so far. On this day, there are people all over Paris playing music on the side of the streets, in cafés and bars, and in big open squares next onlooking a breathtaking monument. NBD. I went with some of my friends (3 other EUSA Paris interns plus 3 of my church friends) to the Quartier Latin to wander around and listen to concerts. The Quartier Latin is an area on the Rive Gauche with a very young feeling to it—there are tons of students there, and small streets with lots of different kinds of cuisine to try. We went from corner to corner, and on every street there were plenty of different genres of music to enjoy together (and also plenty of crepe stands for our dessert!).

Padlocks on Pont des Arts

But possibly my favorite part of the night was when I was alone (surprise, right?) on the bridge Pont Des Arts. If you don’t know what it is, look it up right now. I mean it—stop and look it up right now. The wire sides of the bridge are covered with padlocks, on which lovers write their name before locking it and throwing the key in the river, symbolizing their eternal love. I didn’t get to look at them for more than a minute, but I heard that there are antique locks from 200 years ago attached to the bridge. With the sun setting, French ladies singing on the bridge, and lovers sneaking a kiss after throwing their key, I certainly took plenty of mental pictures.

Typical Paris.

Today is June 23. And I got here exactly 31 days ago. The time is passing very fast, and yet I already feel so much more comfortable in this city than I did when I arrived. It is nights like the Fête de la Musique that make me think I could stay in Paris for years on end and never fall out of love.

My friend Alissa and me at Fête de la Musique