No Words are Enough

What can I possibly say?  It was late last night and I was watching Arte's (it's a French-German cooperation tv show, no commercials, like PBS in the US) production of The Marriage of Figaro.  I had been looking forward to it all week. Near the end of the opera, the crawl appeared, but in true fashion, I didn't notice it right away.  Then my Facebook page started pinging...I changed channels and the horror unfolded on the screen.

I was unable to sleep last night; like all those ghouls who can't tear themselves away from the scene of an accident, I could not tear myself away from the television.  So I have not been firing on all cylinders today, what with only about 3 hours of sleep.  

I kept to together until I entered the tabac and saw Marie...then I teared up.  The horror, the waste, the evil, the cowardice...I cannot wrap my mind around it.  I don't think I am alone in this inability to process the events of last night.

In many respects France is like one great big small town.  Paris belongs to all of us, even those who reside in sleepy cities, or tiny villages hundreds of kilometers from the City of Light.  Paris belongs to the world by virtue of the more than 6 million visitors who, if only for a few passing hours, walk the cobbled streets and stroll along the Seine, taking memories back home with them.  I understand that all of France and most of the world are stunned and grieving.

So many people have e-mailed me or sent me Facebook messages or sent me Skype messages to make sure that I didn't take myself off to a Death Metal concert in Paris for the weekend.  That scenario would be highly unlikely, but my going to a soccer game is within the realm of possibility.  I am very touched by all of the goodwill. I am safe here in sleepy little Carcassonne, but my heart, my spirit, is very, very sad.

Afternoon Delights

Along the Aude

It was impossible to stay indoors yesterday afternoon.  The temperature was perfect for a walk, and there was no wind. I strolled along the Aude, from the foot of my street up to beyond the dam and the swimming pool.  The walkway was busy but not overcrowded.  For once, I was able to shush the chatter that is constantly in my mind and just drink in and appreciate what my senses were experiencing.

No wind made for good reflections

There was no wind.  That in itself is rather remarkable.  Usually the wind is either blowing the water back upriver in the Aude or hurrying it along downstream.  Yesterday, parts of the river were so still as to look like a small lake. 

A prehistoric walking stick?

Aude trips over some rocks

As I walked uphill and into some shade, I smelled my childhood.  There is a certain tang, a certain brittleness of dry fallen deciduous leaves in autumn that just is not present in the Pacific Northwest.  Growing up, I would tromp all over our 13 acres, which, to a little girl, seemed like a vast forest.  My favorite time of year was in the fall when the colors gleamed, and there was this certain smell.  I am afraid I lack the skills to describe it, but those who have experienced it will know what I mean.

Hurry hurry downstream

There seemed to be a hint of burning leaves in that smell.  It's not an unpleasant smell--not like a forest fire.  Having been present for the Biscuit Fire in 2003 and even this summer in Brookings for the awful smoky conditions, I have grounds for comparison.  As I got closer to the Paicherou, I could see that there was indeed a small pile of burning leaves.  It brought back memories, let me tell you.

Burning leaves

Trees lit from within

And the light was incredible  A stand of trees on the south side of the river were lit from within.  Bt the most delightful sight was up high--the leaves there caught the light and the afternoon zephyrs; it looked exactly like they were made of fine gold--they glistened and glittered.  I am so sorry to say that I was unable to capture that shine with my camera.  I stood entranced, and my looking up with the camera made other people stop and look up, too.  Everyone knows that old practical joke, only in this case, there was something amazing to watch.

They looked like real gold

Lazy autumn reflections

I saw that most beautiful woman I have ever seen.  She was undoubtedly in her mid to late 70's and had taken good care of herself during her tour of the planet.  She could not have been over five feet tall--she barely came up to my shoulder when we passed on the sidewalk.  If her waist was even 20 inches around, I would be stunned, and she cold not have weighed more than 90 pounds.  She was wearing a black dress with a red belt, and sported a wonderful hat with one side brim upturned and a feather on the other.  Her presence far out-sized her physical stature.  I almost asked her if I could take her photo, and now I regret not doing so. 

Scarlet vines on the towers

As I returned to the starting point, I saw another woman communing with the pigeons and the ducks.  Another lady told me that the woman we were both observing could "parler oiseaux"  (Speak bird).  She certainly had a connection with them, but I suspect it has something to do with the food she brings every day for them.  

The woman who told me about Bird Woman and I walked on together.  Her name is Lucienne, and she is celebrating her first day of retirement TODAY.  She was a nurse, born and raised and lived her life here in Carcassonne.  We have agreed to walk together; maybe I will have made a new friend.

A reminder to look up

The woman who speaks bird

All of this sensory input took a little over an hour.  I could have sworn that it was longer, since I felt like I was drinking in so much of my surroundings.  And yet, it felt like just a few moments.  Time plays funny tricks on my mind when I am living fully in the moment.  Yesterday afternoon's stroll was just that--fully present and open to what the universe has to give.  It's an afternoon I won't soon forget.

Armistice Day 2015

WWI monument

Young men receiving medals

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month--the end to unimaginable butchery, staggering loss of life, and to what end?  Here in Carcassonne, this day is given over to a ceremony of remembering.  There will be no pre-Christmas sales, no huge marketing campaign for cars or televisions.  The stores are closed.  The streets are quiet.  Last night's television offerings were heavily weighted with movies and documentaries about the Great War. This day is much more than a day off of work or school.  

Flags shine in the November sun

Army

Do I think that every citizen here watched the ceremony at the WWI memorial this morning?  Of course not, but it was well attended.  Do I think that every citizen here is engaged in a day of reflection about war and power and waste?  Of course not, but enough are so occupied.  What's crucial is that the up and coming generation is involved with the ceremonies and if only briefly, think about the past.  

So very young

I am convinced that there were no WWI veterans in the crowd today.  They'd have to be--what?--nearly 120 years old.  I think they have all long since passed into the next world.  So the people in attendance today weren't commemorating something they themselves actually witnessed.  They are there because of the stories of their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers. 

Paratroopers stationed here in Carcassonne

I am embarrassed by my ignorance of WWI.  Thanks to my time in France two years ago, I know more than I did, but am still woefully uneducated about the whole affair.  I do know this, however:  the carnage was unimaginable.  And I know that many--maybe most-- of the worst battles were fought on French soil.  That has to shape the national psyche. 

What struck me today, as it did two years ago when I first witnessed this ceremony, was how this community's memorial involved its young people.  Teens from one of the local schools read the names of the local boys killed in battle.  After every single name, the school choir spoke in unison, "Mort pour la France,"  (Died for France).  It gave me shivers.  These teens know about Armistice Day and will know forever. 

Gendarmes are represented

Little elementary school children accompanied local officials as they placed flowers on the monument.  They will remember.  It is an honor to be chosen; proud parents and relatives capture the moment in photographs. 

Another group is represented

Elementary school children help place flowers

I have seen several posts on my Facebook page today lamenting the fact that in the US, our school children do not know anything about Armistice Day other than it's a day off from classes.  That is our own fault.  We cannot leave it to the schools to teach this; we as communities must insist that the meaning of our national holidays not be lost in the heap of consumer advertising.  We have to show that we have not forgotten, and put our money where our mouths are.  We need to make meaningful memorials and give our future leaders ways to participate that will imprint upon them the importance of Independence Day, Armistice Day and Memorial Day.  Maybe that's easier to do when the battles have been on your own soil, but we cannot use the lack of local bloody fields as an excuse to shirk our duty to keep memories alive.  We just have to do better.

Choir members

There is a saying about those who cannot (or will not) remember history are condemned to repeat it.  If another war on such a scale ever takes place here, it will not be because the citizens here have forgotten.

Multi-generational participation

Greve

Post season berries gone to seed

Greve...it's not a word many Americans know, even in English--Strike!  I am old enough to remember threatened strikes at GM or Ford by the United Auto Workers, and the invocation of the Taft-Hartley Act, way back when. Remember the air traffic controllers' strike back in the 80's?  I know there was, if not exactly a strike, a work slow-down at the West Coast docks within the past year, but aside from a few local school districts in Oregon,  the concept and inconveniences of a strike are unfamiliar to most.

During my time in France, it's a word and an action I have come to know, if not well, at least better.  My friends the Moffits had a first hand encounter with one when they tried to leave Carcassonne to start the next leg of their European journey.  The trains out of Carcassonne were on strike, which resulted in an extra night's stay in Carcassonne and hastily amended travel plans.

Berry leaves showing autumn color

Now we are in the midst of a bus strike, which has affected a lot of us here in the city.  School children who usually ride the city buses to school are getting an unexpected holiday from classes.  Shoppers are being denied the wonders of Leclerc and the big commercial zone stores, because without a car, it's too far to walk to get that giant sized package of Coke or paper towels. (Or in the case of one man I see regularly, his one hot meal a day, maybe his only meal for the day at the Leclerc cafeteria.) There's a lesson there, guys:  learn how to heat up a can of soup or scramble an egg!

I knew the strike was scheduled for yesterday, Monday.  While my speaking skills are still infantile, I can read, and I never miss the daily paper, so thankfully I knew better than to try to get out to the SFR store yesterday.  I need to recharge my mobile phone and discuss their spotty service, and maybe change over to Orange.  (Another mobile provider here in France) But I need to take the bus to get to any SFR or Orange store, now that they have all moved their stores out to the commercial zones.

But the strikers have told us no service until at least Thursday.  The city looks and sounds deserted without the bus traffic, so perhaps today is a great day for a bike ride.  I had two great conversations--one at the bus stop and the other at the bus office. Sometimes I am amazed that I, a foreigner in this town, know what's going on and some locals do not. Thank you, La Depeche, for keeping me up to date.  

Sunlight from the underside of a berry leaf

I ended up going to Monoprix for my laundry soap and toothpaste, and after I factor in the time and the cost of the bus, the price wasn't that much more expensive.  I got in a nice walk, stopped at the market for some apples to make a crisp this afternoon, chatted with Marie at the tabac, and exchanged hellos with my friends at the boucherie.  Who needs a bus, really?

And yes, I know the photos and the narrative are unrelated.  But these photos are more interesting than photos of deserted bus stops.  I took these along the fence row up at la Cite last week.  

To Do or To Be?

It's raining a little here today.  That is a stretch of the truth.  Living in the Pacific Northwest through several El Ninos has redefined rain for me.  It's almost just a mist here today, although the streets and the cars are wet and there's the occasional plop along the drip line of storefront awnings.  I suppose my planned bike ride along the canal is out of the question today.  It seems the weather is an ally in my lesson to stay indoors and do as little as possible.  Just being is difficult.

Surrounding countryside from the ramparts of the Cite earlier in the week

After an all-too familiar sleepless night (although I have to confess those nights are becoming fewer and more sporadic) I overslept, badly.  I woke at the time I would normally have left the house for church, so, again, I am truant.  But those four hours of sleep were welcomed, even if they were chock full of odd dreams.  I already started this day with little to show for it, except for a vague feeling of guilt.

This guilt makes me wonder about this compulsive need to "accomplish" something every day.  Does reading an entire novel count as accomplishment?  My grandmother, whose influence never leaves me, would say absolutely not. However, that is what I intend to do this day.  I have been to the boulangerie for my mini-campaillette, to the tabac for the Sunday paper, I have a pot of my favorite cauliflower-cider soup simmering for my dinner and the kitchen is cleaned.  I sorted through photos of my day at the Cite for posting in another blog. Oh yes, and I wrote this.

Looking northeast at the Bastide from the Cite ramparts.  St Vincent's Church

One thing I have noticed about buying my produce from the market--I pay much closer attention to how thoroughly I clean it.  The slug I discovered in my choufleur tried crawling out of the garbage bag in which I deposited him.  I can add taking out the recyclables and the garbage to my list of accomplishments today.  

Bon dimanche a tous!  (Happy Sunday, everyone.)

Le Dome to the left--I live on the next street over, to the right.  Sunny day earlier this week.

Sweet Victories

One thing I have noticed about a simplified life is that small victories are sweet.  Today, I managed to finally get the spare toilet paper off the floor of the bathroom.  Storage for just about anything in my apartment is scarce, and the living room dresser just didn't seem like a thoughtful place to store spare rolls of T.P.  So, it's been living on the bathroom floor. I don't know why its being there bothered me as much as it did, but the fact that it is off the floor is a major accomplishment.

New shelving unit--

Yesterday I bought an over-the-toilet shelving unit (etagere). Unfortunately, it required assembly.  Oh dear, this was like installing a new printer.  I have to sneak up on so much frustration.  I opened the box yesterday when I got it home, and took out all of the pieces and put them on the table. There were, of course, no instructions, just a diagram with all of the pieces neatly labeled.  However, the pieces themselves were NOT labeled, so I figured I had done enough for one day. 

Today I felt up to the task--can I be the only person who hates to assemble anything? Did I mention that the actual pieces and the bags that contained them had NO identifying letters whatsoever, so I had several false progressions, where I was using piece H when I should have been using piece G.  In the interests of truth, I should also confess to having NO tools whatsoever and this assembly did require a screwdriver.  A table knife worked well enough for me.

Two hours later, I had the unit assembled, after having to take it apart several times while learning the theory behind the design engineering.  When I went to place the unit over the toilet, the stabilizing bar in the back of the shelf unit would not, naturally, allow the unit to clear the plumbing lines.  So, let us hope that we have no earthquakes or any violent activity on the toilet, as the stabilizing bar is now in the closet.  

Someone with experience and tools could probably have had this thing together in less than 10 minutes.  It took me two hours, but I have time.  And a butter knife.  And now a place for the hairdryer and the toilet paper.  It's a good day all around.

Toussaints Ceremony

almost every tomb wears chrysanthmums

I spent a number of hours, yesterday and again this morning, at St. Michel's cemetery here in the Bastide.  It's not a far walk and includes a nice hill, so the exercise is good.  It's also just a lovely spot.  

Ironwork on an artist family tomb

I love this custom of putting photos on the market

     

Today is Toussaints....All Saints Day.  It's a national holiday here and the custom is to go to the cemeteries, to the family plots and place chrysanthemums there.  People take brooms and give the tomb a good cleaning and spruce up for the holiday.  The cemetery cats are rather put out by all the disturbance.  

Long afternoon shadows

Yesterday's visit was as part of a guided tour of the notable tombs--the important people (i.e. men) interred here.  The guide told of their exploits and their heroics, both grand and intimate.  One guy was a banker, and although important, because the guide disapproved of his profession, the deceased rated no more than "He was a banker," a sniff and a "let's move along."  Funny.  

Tidying the family plot

Flags catch the morning breeze

Today I went there to observe the military ceremony that's held to commemorate those "mort pour la france."    I swear that I can do nothing in this town without being found out.  I was standing there, minding my own business, trying to be inconspicuous and respectful, when who walks up to me but Denise, the president of the Protestant congregation.  Obviously neither of use was in church, but she was at the ceremony as the Protestant delegate.  So, I got taken under her wing, and then introduced to the people in charge.  The man invited me to join their association--dedicated to making sure that these souls are never forgotten.  

Final check before taking their places

I did not take photos of the ceremony.  I wanted to be a part of it, not a recorder of it.  I saw the photographer from La Depeche, so there will be photos in the paper tomorrow.  The military was there, since we were in the military section of the cemetery.  Some trumpeters sounded a fanfare, a children's choir placed lit votive candles at the feet of the statue of the angel with a sword, various city and departmental and regional dignitaries placed flowers. One man made a mercifully short speech.  An honor guard and old soldiers bearing flags watched over all the proceedings.  It was simultaneously amateurish and moving.  It concluded with a truncated refrain of La Marseillaise.  

On the way out, I managed to catch up with the mayor of Carcassonne, who was there alone, with no retinue.  Pushy American that I am, I introduced myself and we had a nice little chat.  I told him how much I loved his city and that I thought he was accomplishing good things.  He replied that he was trying and complimented me on my French.  I somehow know he will remember me. 

La Cite keeps watch in the autumn afternoon sun

So, did all the souls come back and walk amongst us today?  I don't know.  Maybe we have to be quieter and more still to feel their presence.  And what on earth would they think of what they would find today?  And what would they have to say to us?