Hindsight, family in Vichy and the language reversal

16/3 - Just like in Mexico and Spain, I now have family in France.

The Reichmanns and I did a lot of things this week, including shopping at the grocery store, having dinner with Phil and Genevieve, exploring the ancient village of Charroux, hiking the Puy de Dome volcano and having another large dinner with some of the same friends who had a wild party a week ago. But, one thing seemed to be a constant.

This was my attempt at recreating a postcard I found in Charroux.

Charroux is an ancient village. We bought a jar of rooster testicles on this street.

Puy de Dome is a dormant volcano near Clermont-Farrand.

All of us seem to be a good fit with each other. Upon stopping by quickly one night with Genevieve, Phil (who curiously lives about 50 yards down the street) commented on the good atmosphere we seem to have. We're comfortable with each other. It feels like I've slotted in as an older brother, because I've taken to keeping an eye on both of the kids.

Dany has gotten close, as he held my hand at the grocery store a few nights ago. Nathalie and Philipe asked me to carry Dany after he had fallen asleep during the dinner with Phil a few nights ago and the dinner tonight with more of their friends. I enjoyed having a small body snuggle into my shoulder while trying to keep the feeling of sleep and took pride in making sure he didn't lose himself in the grocery store.

I'm proud to say these were some of my favorite memories of Vichy. I've said before that I don't want kids because it will tie me down, but the idea is growing on me. I like the idea of taking care of another life more and more. And the memory of that sky-high voice asking a simple question will stick with me.

"Tu fais quoi?" What are you doing?

17/3 - There are many devices or experiences in the world that anyone can understand or relate to, even if they don't speak the same language.

Math is one. Love. Pain. Joy.

Laughter is another. I played foosball with the Reichmanns and their friends last night, and all of us were laughing hysterically, fueled in small part by alcohol. But in those few moments, all of us spoke the same language fluently.

We sat around the dinner table, drinking, sampling rooster testicles, laughing, hurling jokes, discussing the different ways one can refer to the male and female genitalia and giving me a bad time, especially about my beard. But it was nice because the family could see I was trying my best to speak in French, so they tried their best to speak in English. This reversal is a funny thing.

The fact I can't understand everyone immediately when speaking French is just that: a fact. Like a week ago, I accepted that and and relaxed. I felt in control again. It did not matter one bit that several of the women my age said the beard makes me look old (it does) and that smoking cigars is something an old man does (true). I just looked into their eyes, grinned and shrugged in a playful way.

As I ride the train away from Vichy, I reflect on what I've gained over the past six days. Other than stronger French skills, I've gained a new family. Like my family in Mexico and Spain, I look forward to the next time we cross paths.

I recently read about one way of finding inner peace and calm is to provide service to the community, to make yourself useful regardless of whether you get paid with money. My week in Vichy was a way for me to help my fellow human, and all of us benefited. Nathalie and Philip are better with their English and, like me with my parents in Paris, translating French to English for me helped them.

Nathalie, however, is better at English than her husband, as he usually looks to her when struggling to find the correct combination of words.

18/ 3 - It happens every time. When I reflect on what I've done through the prism of hindsight, I'm always amazed. March had always been shaping up to be a busy month, but it's been a whirlwind with my parents visiting and the exchange with the Reichmanns. Every time I finish some sort of trip or plan, I have that momentary moment of nostalgia, a melancholy feeling that I have nothing else to look forward to.

I had been looking forward to both of these for months, and suddenly I'm on the other side of them. My mind has been stretched once more. I think a better time to properly digest my experiences will be next week, as I'll host friends from England this weekend.

As a final thought, I took pictures yesterday in Paris while waiting for my bus. I found myself in La Defense, the area of the city with many tall and shiny skyscrapers. Once again, this camera has stunned me.

Tour EDF, the building that houses France's main electricity company.

A difficult party, Vichy and the language exchange

I've started this off a bit out of context. The article will explain my situation eventually, so bear with me to begin. Also, please enjoy the pictures, as I have had a blast playing with the new camera. 

11/3 - I've been reading about power lately. One thing we must learn to recognize is when to submit and how long we must endure that period.

For example, the Reichamanns hosted a party tonight. There were 15 people and I was the only non-French speaker. At first, it was stressful. For a few moments I went back to the days when I would become flustered and struggle to say the simplest things in my new language. But, I remembered something.

The most important thing we can learn is how to control our emotions. So, I took a breath and relaxed. I opened my mouth and just spoke. I spoke French to the Reichmanns' friends and they understood me. In fact they were impressed that I've only studied French since October.

This was one of those situations when I accepted that I had no power, so I could just ride the wave. In a room where I was the only person with a different native language, I figured my best option was to laugh at myself and all of the jokes and pleasantries thrown my way. Laughing at oneself cures everything.

But I also remembered from my readings to keep myself in control. I stopped drinking wine and beer after a while and observed the other guests descend into intoxicated oblivion, eventually to a point where some began smearing cake on each other's faces. It was quite funny to watch, and the fact I was laughing at myself made others around me relax.

So, even though I didn't have much power there in terms of fluent communication, I still retained some power by relaxing and controlling how I projected myself to the rest of the guests.

So by that reasoning, I was the most powerful person in the room!

13/3 - Now to introductions. Marie-Amance's father, Phil, collected me from the train station in Vichy last week. It was excellent to see him again, and he showed me around downtown on foot. He introduced me to his girlfriend, Genevieve, and eventually took me to the Reichmann's house where we all had dinner. Phil gives English lessons to the Reichmanns twice per week, and it's here where I'm staying for seven days in a French-English language exchange.

Jean-Phillipe has a goatee and bald head, and is shorter than I am. He built a successful plumbing and heating company, which he sold back in September, and he's a fan of American muscle cars; he owned a new Camaro until recently. 

His wife, Nathalie, is a long, lanky and slim woman with red hair; she's elegant. There are some pictures of their wedding in the house inside this spacious home; my favorite of which is of Nathalie, in her wedding dress, pulling a bemused-looking Jean-Phillipe by his tie.

They have two children: Dany (6) and Jade (8). Both of them were shy on the first day, but they warmed up quickly to me. Dany, especially, enjoys throwing plastic-tipped darts or playing Playstation 4. I have trouble understanding him sometimes because, as all young children do, he speaks in that much-too-cute high-pitched voice. Jade speaks quickly and has a large birthmark on her face, which sort of looks like an old burn.

There are similarities to my month in La Almunia de Doña Godina in Spain a couple of years ago, but Jade and Dany are a bit more calm compared to Alex and Nuria; there have been no temper tantrums, and the only loud piercing screams have come from Dany when he scraped his back while climbing a tree or skinning his wrist upon falling down into gravel while running. The two kids are quite polite, especially at the dinner table; I noticed they always say "please" and "thank you," in both French and English. 

But before arriving in Vichy, I foresaw the similarities and pledged to myself to use the lessons I learned in Spain for this experience. In Spain I learned how immature I still was and that I had forgotten how the mind of a child works. Nuria and Alex tested me, because I took myself so seriously. Only now do I understand that Nuria and Alex were still in their unchanged natural states, whereas I was wrapped up in social protocols that had been drilled into me since I was their age and expectations of others, as well as myself. 

Anyway, it's only been three days or so here in Vichy, but the Reichmanns already seem more comfortable speaking English and vice versa with me and French. But, Spanish is still in my mind and the odd Spanish word slips out instead of French. Just like in Spain, though, I have noticed a sort of reversal. My brain is switched into French mode, so I think and speak in French even when explaining English. It's the opposite for the Reichmanns. 

As for Vichy itself, it's a quiet place, so unlike Paris (and thus, like Cherbourg). The fact it sits near a dormant volcano means one can find both hot springs and natural sparking mineral water springs around the area. There are several taps around the city which tap into these deep underground springs, and the resulting water is free of charge to the public. People can just walk up and fill several large bottles of the stuff. Though I usually dislike sparkling water, this is a bit less carbonated and has a different taste. 

Nudism, French lessons and maturation in Paris

13/1 - This story begins with a nudist.

Some of you may remember when I Couchsurfed with a nudist in Madrid in 2015. For the past three nights in Paris, my Couchsurfing host was...a nudist! But this time, I stripped all the way down. But rather than be self-conscious, I was a bit surprised at how comfortable I felt to simply sit in the nude while eating, watching television or drinking a glass of wine with another person.

It takes one to be secure with one's own body to exist naked in the moment. For some, the absence of clothing equates to the absence of security. We are all more vulnerable sans clothes, because there is nowhere to hide and nothing to lose; the naked skin is the foundation of our Selves.

My host, Marco, was a former rugby player and is someone who seems to relish the opportunity to prove someone wrong, even his girlfriend. I won't go into detail, but he's about as comfortable being nude as one can possibly be, and it made for some rather memorable moments. 

Anyway, I'm in Paris until Monday morning. During this time, I'm taking quite intense French lessons from Marie-Amance's father, Phil. He's from Montreal, Canada but has lived in France for more than 40 years. Our lessons take place in his apartment in the 18th District of Paris. It's little bigger than a studio because his bed and the kitchen table sit in the same room, and the kitchen and bathroom are almost as big as each other. Phil's narrow balcony provides a view of one of the spires of Sacre Couer Basilica.

We've spent three hours per day for the past three days chatting in French, pouring over textbooks, drilling specific sounds, emphasizing verb tenses, conjugating and repeating, repeating, REPEATING. 

My brain is dead. At the moment I feel mentally tired, as if my mind has been thoroughly beaten with a meat tenderizer and then squeezed of its remaining juices of knowledge and ability, like a sopping-wet rag being wrung of its moisture. 

14/1 - Some of you may remember that I Couchsurfed with a man named Pascal in 2015 when I visited Paris with Angel. I'm again staying with him for my final few days in the city. His apartment is just as I remembered it: every inch of wall space is taken up with some sort of book, artwork, knick-knack, ivy, porcelain frog or phrase, yet the flat is spotless. You could eat off the floor!

My first time in Paris was in 2010 during my first trip to London. I hated it because of how helpless I felt when trying to communicate. The city was beautiful and the sight of the Eiffel Tower wondrous because it's sheer size made you feel as if it was simply part of a backdrop, but some of the thrill was eliminated because I was so unsure about the simple act of speaking. I hadn't taken just a step outside of my comfort zone, but a giant leap to the point where I couldn't even see my comfort zone anymore.

Nowadays, I'm quite comfortable. I can actually communicate! I can read things in the metro. I can understand simple announcements. It's fine to open my mouth here to speak, because people sometimes automatically switch to English for me. But, the Eiffel Tower itself is under much more security since the terrorist attacks. One must go through security if they wish to simply walk into the plaza directly underneath the tower. Those metal detectors are symbols of a country shaken to the core by mindless attacks so much that "normal" life is no longer normal.

But as Pascal said, I might be enjoying Paris more now compared to six years ago because I'm more mature. It's fine for me to travel alone in an unfamiliar place now, whereas before I needed to stick myself to another person who knew the local language. But that's correct. Paris is now a familiar city, in every sense. It's not like I'm traveling in the typical sense; I'm just visiting a large city once again in which I have business.

As for today's French lesson with Phil, it went much smoother because I actually ate breakfast instead of only drinking a lonely cup of coffee. Pascal was kind enough to offer toast, jam and tea. So, I didn't feel slow or stupid, and it was much easier to carry on a conversation in French.

And speaking of French, it was never one of those languages I envisioned myself learning when I was younger, like the idea of living in France. But, life is a chaotic adventure, a frenzied machine with a mind of its own that shifts and shimmies on the road we think on which we travel. But at random moments that contraption has been known to suddenly veer off course.

I'm living in France and studying the language on my own because, well, that's how it's supposed to be. It's what I should be doing at this moment. I will not question this. 

15/1 - Today was my final lesson with Phil, and I'm tired. I'd be happy to return to Cherbourg tonight because I'm mentally exhausted, but alas I still have six more days of adventures. 

Pascal is the director of a dance organization, and he invited me to a dance performance of sorts. It was headlined by Nadia Vadori-Gauthier, a woman who is known for dancing in tribute to the terrorist attack on Charlie Hebdo a couple of years ago. During her tribute, Vadori-Gauthier filmed herself dancing every day for two years, even if it were just for a minute.

In one of her clips, which made me laugh, she had set up shop in a restaurant booth with bobble-heads of Donald trump and Hillary Clinton. She incorporated the bobble-heads into her dance and became a bobble-head herself at times. In other videos she danced in the middle of traffic, along a blank stretch of wall and on top of a table in a crowded lecture hall while the class was in session.

The recital took place in a small studio under the streets of Paris in the dance organization headquarters. Pascal said the space was much too small for the amount of people who showed up, which was about 150 people. There were theater seating on one side of the stage, which rose up maybe 10 rows. Other people were forced to sit on the ground on two other sides of the stage, including me.

The style of dance could be described as interpretive. It ranged from a group of eight performers twitching violently while humming in tune with each other, but then strolling away to the sidelines while whistling, to a man and woman executing a sort of ballet. Each wore gray T-shirts, jeans and danced with bare feet on the black floor, and the sound of their feet making contact with the floor was the only sound during these few moments. It was a thing of beauty when he would take her into his arms and she would stretch, thus showcasing her delicate-yet-powerful female form.

Programs like this are just a tiny part of what makes Paris such a great city. In 2015, I wrote about how the city offers a surprise around each and every corner, like a grab bag of Christmas poppers. It's a cultural capital of Europe, and a place that will eventually open the mind to previously unknown experiences. Even Pascal, who has lived in Paris for 37 years, said he still discovers new things about his home.

In 2015, I fell in love with Paris. In 2017, I simply fostered the relationship.

My time in Paris is finished. The next stop on this journey will be to Krakow, Poland where there is snow on the ground amid below-freezing temperatures. The purpose of my visit here is not a happy one: I'll visit Auschwitz, a place much colder than the weather in the deepest part of winter in the North Pole.

Christmas in Cherbourg, coffee breaks and slowly improving French

29/11 - In my previous post, I recanted my statement about Cherbourg feeling like home because the language barrier was so difficult.

I wish to recant my recantation.

Like a badly tuned radio, the language is slowly becoming more clear the longer I am here. Every day I can recognize a new word on television, on advertisement signs, in town or when someone speaks. When watching television, I usually turn on French subtitles so I can understand more of what they say. It's a source of pride for me.

Coming to Cherbourg has been the best decision for me. It felt right over the summer before going, like it was the way forward. Several months later, and I can confidently say that was the correct thinking.

It has been good for me to reset, so to speak. It has been healthy to reflect, because I have grown from the past year. The change of scenery was just what I needed. It has given me the focus that deserted me in Porterville. Though I have a comfortable flat, I am enjoying living simply. I love walking everywhere I need to go.

I have made several friends so far and with my improving French skills, I feel like I am assimilating into this town already. It's amazing how beneficial being social is for the soul, like last night when I played pool at a local brewery with friends. I relish these opportunities to ask them about French.

One of my favorite things to do in Cherbourg is to simply sit down at a local cafe and drink a coffee while watching people walking by. At these points I speak to myself in French, describing what I see. I have written before about the importance about staying in the present, enjoying the moment. These uncomplicated treks to the cafe are perfect for savoring the moment, like truly and slowly sampling a sip of warm, bitter coffee during a chilly afternoon.

30/11 - There is a bakery across the pathway from my favorite cafe. While relaxing with my coffee today, someone from the bakery was busy cooking fresh crepes. Her station sat next to the normal shelf filled with various loaves of bread, baguettes, wraps and desserts; she made it look effortless. The aroma drifted lazily towards me and mixed with the scent of my coffee, thus intoxicating my senses.

I love living here.

3/12 - The Christmas version of Cherbourg arrived last night with the help of a large celebration. The town center and major streets around it now glow with neon-induced greatness. It's beautiful! There is now a skating rink in front of the theater and a super slide where the farmer's market usually is.

It's been a while since I wrote for the blog, but I've been working my tail off, both with Bleacher Report and studying French. I go to local basketball or soccer games, the movie theater, the grocery store, etc, and all of these places have helped me with French. 

This blog will get back to actual travel stories soon. I will find myself in Lisbon next week. I have had thoughts of planning a trip to Norway to see the Northern Lights in March, and Greece in January to visit a school friend. 

First week in France, language, football and staying in the present

22/10 - Since arriving in Cherbourg on Wednesday, I've had ideas for writing topics. The ideas stewed in my head, ready to be put into words. But when my fingers touched keyboard, kind of like right now, there isn't a hot, burning desire to complete the task. I run into a wall, and the effort of reaching that particular summit just hasn't been worth the effort lately. It's not because I'm depressed. No. I think it's less complex than that.

The move to Cherbourg simply hasn't been that exciting.

Cherbourg is basically the French version of Poole, England, my old home. I live shockingly close to the oceanfront and the harbor. I am within walking distance to grocery stores, museums, parks, soccer stadiums, outlet stores and an indoor swimming pool. The weather is just like Poole, in that it may rain in the morning and be sunny the rest of the day, or vice versa. I also expect the ground to be frozen solid in the winter like it was in Poole and Bournemouth.

And, of course, I live within walking distance to the ferry that connects to Poole.

The fans at the A.S. Cherbourg soccer game on Saturday night were dressed similarly to British chavs (think tracksuits), and they sang the same, unimaginative song repeatedly throughout the contest, until Cherbourg won 2-1. However, French fans seem to be more physically fit and easier on the eyes than the British.

There are plenty of shops, restaurants and cafes in the center of the town, and there is a farmers market on Tuesdays. Just take a seat at the "big fountain" and do some people watching. Just like in Poole, you'll see some seedy people.

The only major difference is the fact French is the primary language here. Therein lies the challenge of living in Cherbourg for a non-French speaker like me. For the first time in my life, I really am foreign. I'm living in a place where I don't speak the language, and that immediately separates me from most of the people here. I feel different, like another species. In some ways, I feel separated from the rest of this society because of my lack of proficient ability to communicate effectively.

Having said that, I have not once felt the kind of anxiety and discomfort I felt during those first few days in Poole, overwhelmed of the fact I now had a student loan to worry about and had uprooted myself so completely. I have not had that distressing what-the-fuck-have-I-done feeling. In fact, Cherbourg feels like home already. My jetlag dissipated quickly, and the loft in which I sleep, under two skylights, is delightfully comfortable. I already know more French today than I did last week.

Though I know more French already, I am still highly uncomfortable and awkward when speaking it. It is much more difficult to speak than Spanish, and there's a part of me that doesn't wish to butcher this complex yet beautiful tongue. This is because, in my opinion, Spanish words are read and pronounced similar to English words, and the sounds of the alphabet are relatively similar; in other words, when we read words in the two languages or speak them, we already know how the letters sound by themselves and how they combine to make a word. Not so in French.

Earlier this week I lost my cool simply trying to tell a grocery store clerk, "Je ne parlais pa Francais bien." In English, "I don't speak French well." I got flustered and felt shame afterward. But, in the days afterward I relaxed and do not feel as flustered to say a simple sentence in my third language.

This is my street. Rue Emmanuel Liais.

26/10 - I am still having trouble finding inspiration to write. I feel like Spiderman when he realized that just because he has superpowers doesn't mean he has to force everything else in his life to the side for the sake of fighting crime. He noticed his powers fading, most likely because he didn't have a passion for it, at the moment.

I took a step back with the blog because the passion isn't there at the moment. But, I have confidence that it will return, just like Spiderman's did. 

Perhaps it's because I'd rather not write about unspectacular, mundane, everyday events such as exploring my city, having coffee with friends or visiting the indoor swimming pool a few blocks away from me. Granted, that pool is incredible. It is on the second floor and has glass walls which have views of the harbor and the city, and the water is completely clear and has a proper depth. 

Writing about the pool, I am also obligated to write about the style of swim trunks I am required to wear. In France, trunks are short and tight...not quite "budgie smugglers" as they say in Australia, but so short that they remind me of short boxer-briefs. A pool official approached me after entering the pool in basketball shorts, and she informed me that next time I need trunks. But I digress. 

I do, however, want to write about philosophy. After discussion with friends and more reflection, I have realized that I am in Cherbourg for a reason. This is where I am supposed to be; it is no fluke. I cannot change that fact. It is futile to attempt to understand why I'm here. The simple truth is that I just am, and we are hopeless in an attempt to control what happens to us in life. We are careening along through life, powerless to the chaos of the unknown future. 

If we spend too much time attempting to understand why something happened in the past, we forget to live here and now. The act of comparison between one's own decisions and another person's actually hollows one's own situation. We made those decisions for a reason, and the only thing we can do is to simply accept that fact and move forward into the future. The past should stay in the past. 

So, I live in France. It doesn't matter why I'm here or how I got to this point; that information is irrelevant. What matters is simply that I'm here, right here, right now.  

Another day in Los Angeles, a new library card and the complicated visa to France

21/7 - I made the trek to Los Angeles yesterday to take the test for the Public Information Officer position with the Los Angeles Community College District. The office was in the heart of downtown LA, which would be a cool place to work.

This was my first time in the heart of downtown Los Angeles among the skyscrapers of the vast, smoggy metropolis. And just like every other time I find myself walking near buildings this huge, I found myself in awe. I'm a city kid, but not like this.

Since a school within the district will enjoy its 50th anniversary in January, the 2.5-hour test consisted of us writing two press releases about the event, writing a script for a video that would target high school students interested in attending that school and outlining the marketing and promotional plan for the anniversary celebration. I honestly have no idea how I did, but I'm glad to have finished. The first 30 seconds or so, my mind exploded and was empty of ideas. But, ideas began sprouting up here and there, and eventually the exercise became fun.

There were nine other people taking the test, all of whom were wearing nice clothes. And then there I was in a T-shirt with sweaty pits, denim jeans with dust and dirt from a recent hike and dirty Chuck Taylors. This is because, upon my early arrival to LA, I got the sudden and spontaneous idea to hike the hills near the giant and iconic Hollywood sign. I ended up at the Griffith Observatory after a two-mile round-trip hike, dripping with sweat but energized from going into the little amount of nature found in a cement jungle.

After taking the test, I ended up in the downtown library, another unplanned event. I exited the library with a library card and several beginning French language lessons on CD so I could be productive while battling traffic on my way out of LA. It was a brilliant yet spontaneous idea. That library is amazing, one that puts the one in Porterville to complete shame. There are more than six floors of knowledge there, though I didn't immediately find a couple of the books on the recommended reading list for the FSO test in October.

It was a short trip to one of the United States' greatest cities, but the day was filled with unplanned joys which makes for a great story.

In other news, it appears securing a long-stay visa for France will not be as straightforward as I thought. I need to apply in person at the LA consulate, which will be a month from now. Along with the application form, passport, money and photos, I will need what sounds like an invitation letter from my friend in Cherbourg, bank statements from the past two months, traveler insurance, and a letter promising I won't engage in any commercial or economic activity. I'm wondering how that will affect my online job with Bleacher Report.

And speaking of Bleacher Report, I learned earlier this week that the company will not pay me through a French bank account because of different tax laws and liability reasons. I'm thinking I will just keep my American bank account and use a credit card while over there.

All of this seems overwhelming, but I want to do this right. I've sent an email with all of my questions to the consulate which should be answered within three business days. I think everything will work out, though the process just got a bit more complicated. No worries. I enjoy the challenge.