Tag: France

July. August is Calling.

Somehow I’m here in July. 21 days in. June was an episode out of one of my modified late-night bedtime stories to Nina. Old Noah, who somehow built an entire ark, now has the strength to get two of every animal on it and manage 40 days and 40 nights of a shit storm. Torrential rain. No land in site. Well, Bretagne didn’t break apart like soggy cardboard. My uncovered tomato plants miraculously didn’t mold. But we got BEAT by rain and the weather nasties for weeks. It finally stopped, with our grass at our knees and radishes – a few the size of field mice – busting out of the soil. All to saturate us, spray the water hose on high with that one solid stream that stings your skin. Almost like a heckle. Because as the water receded, the sun came busting out to show us who really is the boss of July. And now I know. Because I’m tan as a saddle after two days.

July.

I don’t even like hot dogs, but we had a Fourth of July party. With a pinata. With Richie Valens belting out La Bamba. With my French Euro Cup decorations that passed for American party supplies. And a hot dog bar. I got really nostalgic for my family. Growing up with too many cousins to count, we always celebrated the Fourth of July at my parents house. And there were always a minimum of 90-100 people there. Dad would wake up at 4 AM and stare down his brisket. By 5 AM, he had a beer in hand and was heating up the pit. Mom always had yellow potato salad and all the tables she could find lined up and covered to support the feeding line that was to come. We cooked all day. We ran around without shoes and nearly blew our hands off with small fireworks and gave the dog too many scraps of sausage under the table. We had those grocery store cakes that dyed your hands the same blue and red as the piped flowers in the icing. Dad, who stopped going to church when I was 14, still always called everyone together to bow their heads before eating. (The need to have that faith never leaves us I believe. We find our way in the name of him, her, them, that spirit, this energy, the big universe before us.) We played dominoes and spades and told shitty jokes until we literally passed out in the backyard. And then we woke ourselves up to light up the entire forest around us with the brown paper bags filled with fireworks from the local stand. I had all of my cousins with me. Aunts and uncles. My grandfather and two grandmothers. Friends and neighbors. And we just were. We were present. We were dancing on the picnic table with our tia at midnight. We were winking at each other at how cute grandma was with her homemade American flag shirt. And I was waking up to see my dad outside, trash bag in hand, as he’d been up two hours already and had the whole yard cleaned up before breakfast. I’ve been in France now for 27 months. And sometimes, even though I hate hot dogs, I just need a hot dog bar and some oldies playing and a pinata and a yellow potato salad.

I lost my father in law a year ago this month. In the weeks leading up to him leaving this world, I knew what was coming. I had spent many nights awake at 3 AM under the blankets, reading quietly about how the body prepares for the end of life. So I knew, and I went to see him before he lost the strength to talk. This was only a few weeks after we brought Nina to see him. She wore a pink dress with a gold glitter belt. She went to him and jumped on the bed, sitting beside him and talking about everything she knew in life as always. And when he commented at how beautiful her dress was, she jumped off and twirled. When I went on that last visit where we both were really able to talk alone, I sat next to him on that same bed. Held his hand. Asked all the questions that perhaps no one else really could. And he gave all the answers that perhaps he couldn’t give anyone else. One of the last things he told me was that he was so proud to have me as a member of his family. And we cried. And I told him I’d always carry him in my heart. And he’d always carry us in his.

I wrote and gave the eulogy a few weeks later in a small country cemetary only a few miles from his home. If only he and i could have had an apero after so we could laugh at how this ended up to be: me, the Cherokee American from the wild west that he adored. Now a member of his family. Standing in front of all these French people talking about how we would go to the local bar in Vermont and play trivia with my mother in law and lose. Very badly! Because it was in English, and I had to translate everything. Or his love for blueberry muffins after he discovered them in a service station in East Middlebury of all places. And then I sang. For the love, I sang. And I could barely get the words out of my mouth, but he had heard them before. I spent the last few days holding his hand, and though he couldn’t speak, I would sing to him when no one else was in the room. What I said about faith above is real, at least for me. I don’t know what is true, but I know that something is bigger than me and that it has guided me. And those spiritual roots keep me from getting lost when the circumstance is such that I can’t understand what the hell is happening. So I sang at that little French cemetary in English in front of a group of French people who might not have understood. But sometimes you don’t need to know the words. You just feel it and get it and leave knowing he was loved.

In that sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.

I saw an old friend a few weeks ago. Julie and I both participated in the same Summer 2003 study abroad trip to France. We didn’t know each other before that trip, but it was an experience that made us sisters. Fake sisters, but still. She’s ma soeur. It was a time in our lives when we believed that anything was possible, and France was this brand new, beautiful place with PASTRIES and BREAD and FRENCH MEN and SALTED BUTTER. And it was a summer of meeting all kinds of people, challenging ourselves, immersing ourselves fully in a language and culture, and just living. We LIVED every day. That giant ass tour bus driven by good old French Bernard (with the giant bull tattoo on his arm) was filled with spirit, and it helped to literally transport us to moments that we would have never otherwise have had in that way.

We met up at an old chateau that Julie and some friends had rented for a few weeks in Basse Normandie. We all ironically work in tech in some form or fashion now, and that often allows for a bit of a nomadic lifestyle. So these nomads were set up like literal kings and queens – with wifi – and we dined outside in that country garden with rose bushes surrounding us and long-stemmed candles dripping wax onto the table cloth late until the sun went down.

In the morning, we drove out to Clecy to get our fill of the Swisse Normande River, a place Julie and I had been 18 years before on that summer study trip. I cried when I left to head home because the GPS took me through the most beautiful back roads. Sometimes the landscape is just too much for me. And I hope with all that is in me that Nina grows up to be able to experience similar moments.

July. I got my second COVID vaccination before France announced that having them would be obligatory if you wanted to enter certain establishments. For me, being vaccinated meant removing any barriers that might come up to me getting to travel to see my family. And for that, you can stick a mother fucking knife in my arm. A poison-tipped arrow that turns me green. But I will always do everything in my power to ensure I can always go home. So getting that second vaccination meant a lot of things to me. Have we really been living through a pandemic? Is this only the beginning – or will it end? Can I finally see mom and dad? The nurse reached for a cotton ball to dab my injection site of any blood, and I reached for my shirt to catch my tears before they rolled into my mask. And I grabbed her arm and explained why I was emotional. If she could have hugged me, she would have – and I would have sobbed on her shoulder and told her my life story of the past 27 months. But instead, I went to the waiting area and continued to cry, using an old mask in my purse as a tissue. And when I got out of that old gymnasium in Vannes, I went to my car and cried even more. It’s still not over. I have a lot of opinions about the mandatory health passport and QR codes in the app that uses bluetooth to note who you have been around in case there is an outbreak. My health is my health. My body is my body. I don’t ever want anyone to dictate what I can or cannot do with my body. And, I should never have to make public whatever is going on or has gone on in my body. At the same time, look at what we just lived through. What will get us past this? I’m tired of wearing a mask – because I’m tired of that lack of human connection in the expression that has been hidden for so long. But I wear it. And I stay cautious. But should I be confined a fourth time because others don’t. There’s just so much to it. I don’t know what the answer is, but I do know we have to get through this by working together.

The sun has gone down. I saw the house bats (that live in a teeny tiny crack in the roof’s tile) fly out about ten minutes ago to begin their night out eating all of the neighborhood bugs. You know what I miss seeing? Fire flies. We had so many in Vermont. They are living magic. When I don’t see them, it feels like the magic has gone.

In two days, July 23 will mark eleven years of being married. One of the girls staying at the chateau the other weekend said to me that my story was so wonderful. And I said yep, it’s sweet – but don’t let it fool you into thinking that a sweet story is all you need. I’ve made it this far with that man for two reasons: love. and work. What does it mean to love someone? How should that feel? How does that evolve? Love gives us space to explore all of those questions with someone while still being ourselves. Am I still myself? Yes. I am responsible for me, and my marriage is only a part of who I am. But besides being a mother, it is one of the most important parts of who I am because someone else is involved. And work. It is my most precious accomplishment. I still fail. We fail. But we work. And we win.

This is my last month to have a four year old. Nina has been the joy of my life. I have never seen something as beautiful as she is when she wakes up in the morning and wanders into my office with her blanket in one hand and stuffed animal in the other. Her long country girl hair falling across her face. Singing songs that exist only in her mind. She is her mama and her papa. She is brave – the bravest girl I know! A heart filled with rainbows and mermaids. A fist that can fait la bagarre with the rest of the boys just fine. If July has brought anything other than rain and a mini-canicule, it has given me more time with my sweet girl. Daily swimming lessons and sticker books and outdoor dinners and those giant ass radishes growing in the garden.

July. August is calling. Trying to fly on in and get past customs. Mom and dad are supposed to arrive the first week of August, and admittedly, with all the changes taking place and the fiasco of last year, I just can’t believe it. I won’t believe it until I see it. Until I’m in their arms crying like a baby in CDG.

World on My Brain

It’s the last Sunday in March. A month that is usually a revival. A rebirth. A slow start to shed the hibernation fat if you’re in Vermont. The opening of pool season along the Strip if you’re in Vegas. This is our first March living in our home in Bretagne, and the flowers of someone else’s labor have sprung in pretty much every corner of our yard without warning. Little gifts of nature, from a cluster of mint lining the sidewalk next to pink tulips and a splash of jonquilles to the perfectly-formed, somewhat sensual calla lilies that remind me of our wedding day ten years ago. It’s this magic, this cycle-of-seasons uplift, that has kept my spirits high in what has otherwise been a month of unprecedented actions. Contamination. Closures. Confinement. Fear. Fatigue. Illness. Questions of what and why and for how long. Masks and gloves and a lack of masks and gloves. Risking health to grab eggs and meeting the eyes of strangers that all say the same thing: Is this really happening?

And in this, the real March Madness, the disparity of our privilege is something that keeps me up at night. Romain asks me if I’m okay when I’m tossing around at 3 AM, but the answer lately is always the same: I’ve got the world on my brain. Here in France, we have been ordered to at-home confinement since mid-March until at least April 15. This is not a lax shelter-in-place announcement but rather a strict command, the consequences of which are large fines. So imagine being in a small, urban apartment with multiple family members with no access to a terrace or green space – and the sounds of neighbors facing a similar reality stomping and thumping through paper-thin walls. Imagine being elderly or handicapped and having to figure out how the hell to get the services you need when the world outside has essentially been shut down. And to be homeless. To have no defined domicile, no safe, clean space from which you can ride this pandemic out. And here I am. I can’t imagine. Somehow a series of life decisions have placed us here in this moment with undeniable privilege. I’ve pulled the machete out a few times this week to spend time outside and blaze more trails in the thick grass of our backyard. I woke up last night as the wind howled to check on our tent pitched between the bay laurel tree and patio slab. I’m writing from the quiet of our bedroom where I can shut the door, rest in bed, and have a moment to myself. I retrace our decisions: what if we had taken the apartment in the center of Vannes? What if we were still living with my in laws? My parents? What if I had never changed jobs? What if we were back in Vermont and making a relentless go at trying to feed the financial needs of an outrageously expensive cost-of-living/healthcare/childcare machine that never seemed satiated? I have learned to live forward, but in a circumstance like this, I can’t help but to reflect and wonder and let this and that world on my brain simmer and stir.

This will be the week that the medical teams across France will be pushed past the breaking point. Because cities and global economies and government structures might come to a screeching halt for COVID-19, but pathogens will not. Our fallible nature and mortality will not. Nurse and doctors and emergency response teams continue to handle their pre-COVID-19 calls: accidental trauma, heart failure, overdose, amputation. Car crash, suicide, emergency birth by c-section. So how do you make room for a pandemic? How do you prep your team for non-stop hysteria? The hysteria: those not infected but who think they are (because of a cough or fever or other general symptom or paranoia – and rightfully so) flocking to the ER. The hysteria: those diagnosed who need to be treated and placed in quarantine flocking to the ER. The hysteria: those diagnosed who are succumbing who need a bed and a ventilator and other specialized treatment that an ICU provides. The hysteria: death. The dead. 2300+ and counting.

So I’ve got the world on my brain. My fellow humans in my heart, especially the caretakers and caregivers and medical magicians who give and give and sleep for 3 hours if lucky and give some more and make things “better” again. Their sense of duty and diligence, despite the need to perhaps care for family – and the need we all have to take care of ourselves. When did we become machines…

I pick up my coffee mug each morning, and the words of John Muir stare me down: The mountains are calling, and I must go. Here in Bretagne, c’est le Gulfe du Morbihan whose shores and changing tides and cold waters tug at the heart. We’re all aching to smell that ocean air and roll up our jeans to splash and laugh and take in a panoramic gaze at the beauty in front of us. But we wait. Those waters will be there. For now, we stay here.

Breton Gray Skies

The Breton gray skies were back yesterday, but it didn’t stop us from enjoying a morning outside. It is a privilege after all to slide open your kitchen door, step outside on a patio with bare feet, and breathe in fresh, floral garden air, especially during home confinement in the middle of a pandemic. A heavy awareness of this privilege sits with me – defined even by my ability to find 30 minutes of enough peace to reflect and record my thoughts in a blog whose name literally means the hideout. This is not representative of what most are dealing with right now. Romain and I spent some time getting into a similar topic after dinner tonight, how we’ve been fortunate, given the timing. If this were 12 to 18 months ago, we’d be screwed. And scrambling. And absolutely terrified.

So let’s be clear: Confinement by pandemic is not a glamping retreat. It’s not a springtime revival where the soul is replenished with all that’s been left parched from the dry winter air. It’s not sleeping in. It’s not finally getting to that to-do list. And it’s definitely not romanticizing la vie francaise. It’s job loss and dream loss and stress-induced toss and turns. It’s fear and isolation and long days of combating such fear and isolation in others when you are a caretaker charged with putting your fellow humans (the ones who are already sick or fragile or disabled) first. It’s being called from retirement to put on the white robe once more at a hospital in Vannes because there aren’t enough medical staff to meet the demand. It’s washing your hands in 20 minute intervals (which could mean 8+ transactions between each trip to the sink) because someone has to work the cash register. It’s mass layoffs. It’s the final few weeks of health insurance coverage before you’ve got to work out a new chemo treatment plan because Uncle Sam’s not going to buck up and pay. It’s the fuck you that sits in your stomach when the entire state of California has been ordered to stay home, yet scenes of crowded beaches along the Pacific continue to be the norm. It’s the way your shoulders sink when you exhale in disbelief at the related deaths at a Burlington, Vermont nursing home.

The list goes on. I’ve barely brushed the surface.

So yesterday’s Breton gray skies were a reminder (nature’s Bat signal of sorts) to shut down any whines about the weather and get outside. I put on an old pair of jeans, grabbed my machete from the garage, and spent the morning hacking away at our overgrown backyard on hands and knees. When I was eight months pregnant, I found myself home alone with two dogs for a few weeks in Vermont as Romain had an unexpected trip back to France. There were some deep trails behind our house that were perfect for the dogs, but they had become overgrown – and I wasn’t going to chance it with ticks. Since I slept with a machete under my bed (long story that has to do with a coyote), I grabbed it one day before a hike with the dogs, carried it with me to an overgrown area by a bridge, and got to hacking. And pretty much instantly, I fell in love with slicing a blade through tall, thick bands of weeds. Serrated or straight edge. It didn’t matter. I just loved to hack. Who knew.

As of lunchtime yesterday, we now have a trail cleared so that one can traverse the yard, from patio to compost bin and back, without the need for boots. There are also other random clearings where my machete meeting a mass of leaves and weeds went much further than I had anticipated, but, as expected, it brought me joy (and let’s be honest, I just couldn’t stop). I’m sure it brought the neighbors to the window with a few quips of mon dieu and qu’est ce qu’elle fait maintenant…and in doing so, took their minds off this confinement. This virus. This world turned upside down. Those Breton gray skies who, given the chance, are actually perfect.

Saturday on Sunday

It’s Sunday. But I’m back in bed, oddly repeating everything that happened on Saturday morning. This is the beginning of Groundhog’s Day, coronavirus version. Bill Murray, where are you?

So back to yesterday.

Waking up. It’s Saturday. Sleeping in to 8 AM is finally possible IF I can resist the urge to do something about the wails of our child calling for maman down the hall. That toddler crises is a hoax, one invented to test and try me. It’s the pire of all toddler whale songs. In the Bear Report, Olafur asks Sophie When did you learn to speak whale? after she plops her head underwater to call to the whales to lift them up to shore. Today she says. And that’s kind of like me. When did I learn to speak toddler? Who knows. Probably around the same time I started to get white hair along the front part of my hairline. But I know the whale songs of my child: when she’s hurt, there’s a long pause between her high-pitched shrieks. When she’s sick, it’s a lethargic SOS cry, low and run down. When she’s scared, it’s fast and pierces my heart – and I know I need to drop everything and run. But this morning’s wail was that of a cranky test. The worst toddler whale song of them all. It’s meant to be a coup, an innocent attempt to overtake my one extra hour of quiet morning time in bed all for the sake of better understanding her young, developmental exercises in cause and effect. Luckily Romain is patient. He’s been standing at her door, playing the role of mediator between a three year old and her mind on fire, on this, day five of full home confinement.

Though I have my permission slip, one thing I absolutely don’t want to do is leave the house to go anywhere other than the woods for a run. I constantly think about the grocery store clerks who are having to leave their families to go to work in a very public setting to aid in ensuring that basic needs are met. And I’m sure there’s more than a fair share of connards who have to have their cheese, thus risking infection to themselves, to the store clerks, to their families at home. If you’re thinking that you need to run to Lidl to fill your cart up with nothing but liters of Coca-Cola, please note: we will see you on the nightly news. I will throw my soapy sponge into the kitchen sink and gawk at your face on the television screen from across the room. There will be a few WHAT??s that escape our mouths followed by shame talk. And I will return to this blog and note your actions. Connards seeking cheese. And you with your soda addiction.

If you are reading this and live in a community that is on the verge of a total lock down, it’s time to get prepared if you haven’t already. Denial and mumbling on about your right to assemble is not going to feed you, nor will it help pass the time when there’s a child at your knees looking for a new activity to engage in every fifteen minutes. For my friends in the West, of the three main unalienable rights, LIFE is listed first. We all just want to live through this. So, in a rare exercise of my Aggie roots, hear this: it’s time to sit the fuck down bus driver. Get your house prepped, and then sit the fuck down. Really. It’s going to be awhile.

Prout Prout Prout

Last night’s home confinement excitement was the arrival of a very large John Deere tractor in our neighborhood around 18h. Those John Deere shades of mechanical green and yellow always make me think of Vermont and farms and lambing season. In another life, I would live in a oversized patchwork dress stained with red wine and full of quick hand-made repairs to loose threads and mysterious rips (like the one I bought in 2003 from a friperie in Paris). And I’d roam my garden of herbs and peonies, yellow roses and bougainvillea surrounding koi ponds – and a meadow where my lamb babies would roam and bounce and bleat. Unfortunately, this tractor wasn’t on duty to deliver anything small, furry, and cute. Rather, it was hauling a massive empty tank and a set of nasty pipes that would soon go to work pumping out all the sludge from a neighbor’s septic tank through a hole in their back yard.

Let me remind you: we’re in the middle of a pandemic. It’s complete home confinement and permission slip-controlled activity around here, which means everyone is home and looking for something to distract them. And you better believe that everyone was looking at this giant machine with great anticipation to see a late afternoon shit show. Literally.

The lone driver was a young guy who couldn’t have been more than 23. First came the noise – some kind of whirring that was probably a vacuum within the tank. Nina and I looked at each other, and I lifted her up to peek as far as we could over our fence without being too obvious that we needed entertainment. And then came the smell, one unmistakably of all things bathroom business. Prout Prout Prout we sang. A little pet here and another pet there. Here a pet, there a pet, everywhere a pet pet. (This is the kind of stuff we sing. I’m not proud. But I’m honest.) When we got to the upstairs bathroom to draw the water for Nina’s bath, I realized I had a direct shot at everything that little guy was doing in the neighbor’s yard. He was using that hose as a giant straw through which the vacuum in the tank was sucking up tons of shit sludge from a hole the size of a car tire to travel the distance of my neighbor’s house, up over a fence, and into that tank. And, who knows, maybe it’s because we are in the middle of a pandemic that this guy wasn’t wearing any gloves. It bothered me for a second. Bu then, do you care about fecal germs when this is our reality? Probably not.

I wish I could say the hose came loose and started whirling about like some Pecos Bill episode involving a lasso and a tornado. But there was none of that. Just your typical septic tank cleaning in the middle of a pandemic.

Since yesterday, a few updates have come down the line:

— No use of bicycles while exercising. Run – run with your child – but that’s it.

— The marché in Vannes is going to actually be open tomorrow. They’ve moved 40-50 food-only vendors to an open-air park and will only allow up to 100 visitors at at time. I feel for small businesses, but I don’t understand the logic here. We’re literally locked in for an indefinite period of time and need a permission slip to leave the house. But the market is okay to organize and attend? I’m confused.

Back to singing prout prout prout and wondering what’s next.

No Need to Argue

There is something about the voice of Dolores O’Riordan that makes me stop what I’m doing. That brings me to a halt yet makes my mind race. That transports me to age 17 to a time when my naive heart was lost and broken, and I thought any chance of waking up happy once again was over. I cried my eyes out on the plant green carpet of my teenage bedroom with No Need to Argue playing on repeat. I’ll get over you. I’ll get over you. Yes, Dolores. Sing it again. Dolores gave me hope that I’d push through. To what? I wasn’t sure. But I hung on in large part thanks to Dolores (an Irish treasure that ironically years later would leave this world too soon) and those words and that album.

I was lucky enough to see The Cranberries in concert one night long ago in a past Las Vegas life. It was likely sometime in 2009 after the band had gotten back together. From wall to wall, each of us in attendance was tuned in, mind, body, and spirit, almost as if we all had a story to reflect on in which Dolores and her talent saved us. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was subconsciously rowing through images and emotions from my past. Of every time someone close to me let me down. Put me last. Shut me out. Took me for granted. Tears slow rolled down my face from the first note Dolores sang through the encore. And I can’t say for sure, but I imagine that everyone in that concert hall was crying.

Day three of home confinement in France. The sun is blaring like it’s the month of May. I pulled our Quechua tent out of the garage and plopped it into the backyard amid the jungle of weeds that make me crazy because I actually think they’re edible makings for a nice salad (they’re not – we just need to mow). The inside tent lining was full of sand from one of last year’s beaches, so Nina and her posse of poupées had to patiently wait outside while I brushed and cleaned in preparation for a morning outside. After I got Nina her list of requests (two blankets, a wash cloth to clean baby Kiki who had peed all over herself, her bicycle, and a chair), I left the sliding door open and went inside. The remnants of an early morning in the kitchen were sprawled on each counter, the kitchen table, and floor. I had a mental list of work-related items I wanted to knock out before mid-morning Eastern time. A voice in my head was reminding me to get another run in, though my calves were singing another tune. I missed my parents. I missed the beach – but all Morbihan beaches have been closed during this unprecedented shutdown. I wanted a magic pause button to freeze everyone but myself. I’d sleep and read and drink and dance and run and repeat without worrying about any timeline or geographic restriction or attitude or audience. Any language or meeting or caprice or question after question after question. As I stared at the mess, as the exhaustion in me burned my eyes, as a wave of thoughts about this confinement and this virus and this buy-in-bulk bin of uncertainty (THIS UNCERTAINTY that was so palpable at that moment that it stood in the kitchen staring me down), I grabbed my phone. Made all the necessary clicks. Turned on the speakers and listened.

Understand the things I say. Don’t turn away from me.

I wonder what intention, if any, was behind Dolores making those lyrics and Ode to My Family the first track on No Need to Argue. Whatever the case, I hear you Dolores. Heard. Mother fucking HEARD.

Took the work day off. Tucked that peanut in for her nap. Thawing out a pack of beef to make burgers for dinner because that’s what Americans do when it’s nice outside. And going to put on my running tights (with my attestation in my pocket) and head back to the woods.

Livarot in the Time of Coronavirus

My office sits on the second floor of our home facing south into the garden. A few feet from my desk, a sliding glass door opens up to a balcony from which I can see the ocean when the sky is clear of clouds. Today I was in the middle of revising a set of technical documents when I saw Nina out of the corner of my eye. A small, smiling head growing out and upward from a polka dot-speckled mustard sweater seemingly suspended in air and peeking at me from the balcony’s exterior. I had to do a few takes before I realized she was sitting in her old hiking backpack (purchased off Craiglist when we lived in Vermont and put to so much good use) and strapped to Romain’s back as his head soon appeared, and the two could not stop laughing. Nina had a package in her hands from the mailbox, and Romain had strapped her into the hiking backpack in order to hoist the two of them up a 10-foot ladder to hand-deliver the envelope to me.

Thus begins the absurdity of day two of a 15-day confinement in France. Today’s digest of all things absurd includes the following:

— I hand-wrote my attestation de déplacement dérogatoire in pen in the hopes that I can simply use a pencil to make updates/erase/make updates again without having to recreate a new form each time I might need one. Today’s motif was for a déplacement bref, a proximite du domicile, liés a l’activite physique individuelle. This basically means I checked off a little box on my home-made permission slip to leave the house with the expressed purpose of going for exercise. The fine has gone up to 375 euros if you are caught without documentation. Though I doubt that I’m going to run into gendarmerie in the woods, I’ve had stranger things happen.

— The weather has been PHENOMENAL the past two days, yet we can’t leave the house to meet friends for a BBQ or have a picnic at the beach or take a walk along the port. You have to remember that it has literally rained every day since October here, so it’s almost a slap in the face that the sun starts to beam down on us when we can’t get very far.

— Romain’s week-old nub of livarot. Each time Romain has pulled his cheese box of livarot out after dinner this week, Nina’s ca sent mauvaise reaction has gotten more intense. Today the smell literally knocked her out of her chair, leaving one hand holding a spoon covered in chocolate pudding and another holding her chunk of bread that she dips into this pudding (this is my child) while she buried her head in my arm. The livarot looked like it had been in the package I received in the mail today and run over by the mail truck a few times before being put in a hamman to sweat out years of built-up impurities. Yes, a beat up, foul, sweaty piece of cheese. Put on our dinner table by choice. I watched Romain eat up every last bit as Nina fought every urge she had to shout out a disgusted BERK at her papa.

More confinement tales to come. I’m admittedly falling asleep every 5 seconds over here, so I’m going to go confine myself to bed.

Five Minutes in a Photo Booth in the Middle of a Pandemic

Nina is singing while she dresses paper fairies in a sticker book I snagged at Carrefour yesterday:

hohohohccccccackkkcackcackcackhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcocococococo cwa cwa cwa cwa yeeeee attends moi woc woc woc et le neee neee nee umadhhhmehhh maman je veux jouer avec mon playdough yup-pyuu pyuu, yup-pyu pyuuu, cahhhhhhhhh.

About an hour earlier, she was asking me to name things that are jaune. She did not believe me that birds are yellow, and somehow that feathered creature conversation has subconsciously flown itself into the depths of her tout-petit brain stem so that the only song she can sing right now literally is that of a morning bird. A small but resilient morning bird (the kind that can wind their way through my rose bushes at full speed without getting pricked) that is overstimulated from the chocolate morsels that swirled their way into my bowl of pancake batter and onto a certain three-year olds breakfast plate earlier today.

This is day one/morning one of a 15-day home confinement in France.

We sensed this was coming and knew it had to happen when the news reports Sunday night showed scenes of city goers continuing on with life as if nothing was happening. Ca me deprime were the words of one man interviewed when asked about the crowds of people hanging out behind him despite the recent order to stay home and avoid assembling. Was it defiance against being told by the political machine what to do? Was it a unique disregard that stems from a fundamental lack of roots most have grown in their cultivation of empathy and compassion for others? Was it simply fear and a lack of courage on display – because doing what is uncomfortable/being vulnerable requires everything brave within us? Probably a mix of it all.

In any case, I started hearing reports yesterday morning that full confinement orders were being finalized and prepped for public presentation. My biggest concern, apart from not being able to get to my in laws and help if needed, has been my appointment scheduled next week for the renouvellement de mon titre de sejour. Of course. My visa appointment had to fall in the middle of a pandemic. So while all of France was readying themselves with caddies of food and drink – or driving to summer homes to escape the city (I heard reports of a big uptick in ferry traffic to Belle-Île), I was at Carrefour yesterday camped out at the copying machine trying to finalize a dossier that awaits with impatience its date with the prefecture. 31 copies and 6,20 euros later, I was done with step one. I realized that I had no cash left to operate the photo booth to get my ID photos for step two, so I went to the bank, returned, and stood at the accueil to wait for someone to break my 10. But I soon learned that no one is going to voluntarily come to you and your germ-infested bank note in the middle of a pandemic. And if you stand at the accueil long enough by yourself in the middle of a pandemic, you’ll soon be overcome with an eerie sense of impending doom as your eyes pan the aisles anticipating a scene from a robert kirkman thriller and bring this reality into view: the store will be packed with people, the store will be silent from noise, and the store will be absolutely empty of food. There are exceptions.

— I saw a lot of disappointed pineapple, two heads of green cabbage (the kind you expect to find babies growing in), a sad box of eight forgotten kiwis, a few pears, and two barquettes of baby tomatoes (now in our pantry). A few packs of shrimp. A freezer full of smoked salmon spreads and the like. Two packages of magret de canard, sliced thin. A half row of ham in the bio section.

— A woman of about 70+ walked into the store and rushed passed me, suddenly pausing. Il y a une guerre ou quoi? Il n’y a plus de rien. (Is there a war or what? There’s nothing left.) I turned and met her eyes which were red and weepy. A routine cold or a consciousness that only hard-lived experience can invoke? I almost wish for the cold.

— There was a store employee with a scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she moved around with so much speed that I almost remember her being on wheels. Once customers caught on that this woman was giving 200% to helping anyone in need find a substitute for items on their shopping lists, they flocked to her. And my eyes stayed on her. Stayed on her scarf. It was red white and blue and full of stars. An American flag. I stared. I’m sure I opened my lips and mouthed mom. I thought of home. This home. That home. The global home. What the hell is going on? Will Nina believe us when she’s 17 and listening to me recount the time the world stopped?

I made it out of the store. Arms full of my long-loved Trader Joe and HEB bags and two sacks of dog food. I eventually found someone at the accueil to break my 10, and I spent 5 minutes in a photo booth in the middle of a pandemic. The stool was too low, so my squats came into good use as I had to balance my thighs to get me leveled at just the right height. Doing this + trying to push the right button to start the camera without my glasses on is a skill. I took the first round of photos without using my two extra attempts and drove home. Once I got a chance to really look at those photos, I touched my face on the photo paper. Dear girl. Dear me. The face of giving everything you’ve got in the middle of a pandemic. I wake up each night in a deep sweat, even if the window is open. My eyes beat the 6 AM alarm by minutes. I do my best to let the little things tumble by. I read 3-4 children’s books a night in two languages and fall asleep in a toddler bed, always brushing my teeth before dumping myself into our bed down the hall. And there’s work and being a partner and being my own human all folded up in there. So that face. Dear girl. Dear me.

After dinner, we crowded on the couch and quickly found the channel for the presidential address. Someone was live transcribing the words coming out of Macron’s mouth, and I couldn’t help notice the corrections they’d make on the screen as words were typed incorrectly, deleted, and type correctly again. Nous sommes en guerre. Nous sommes en guerre. We are at war declared Macron. We must all do our part to get through this. Businesses will have their overhead fees, like utilities and rent, waived. Associations will be given funding to support residents in need of food. And we will be in confinement for 15 days. In order to leave the house, we will have to print out a permission slip to present if/when asked by the authorities. Even to go for a run.

There’s not much more to say. It just has to be done. Nature will get us through this. Coloring and playdough will get us through this. Being reasonable and understanding will get us through this.

Dear girl. Dear me.

When this is all over, I will be making a trip back to that photo booth. To record the face of what one looks like on the other side. To test my thighs in that 5-minute squat. To find that woman with the scarf and share a smile and probably way more than she wants to hear.

Somewhere Between Motown & Modest Mouse

I woke up this morning wanting to read anything I could that did NOT make reference to COVID-19 or remind me that my fellow humans are engaging in shouting matches with store employees (who are psychologically and physically exhausted and still trying to serve) over bottled fucking water. WE CAN DO BETTER HUMANS. My reality at the moment – along with the 67 million others here in France – is that we are shutting down and being told to stay home (except if you want to go and vote today – voting or bust apparently – that’s another story) care of l’arrêté du 14 mars 2020. This rocks everyone’s world with a far-ranging scope of effects that I am (with all my gratitude) privileged enough to be financially/mentally/physically prepared for at this moment in time yet empathetic enough to understand the WHY behind it. France is the proverbial meat patty wedged between two hamburger buns: Italy and Spain. COVID-19 has it’s jaws pressed firmly into each bun, and as those viral dents clench tighter to bite down and chew, it’s our steak haché that’s going to get more than its share fair of the feels.

Lame food metaphors aside, France is going to feel this. The world at large is going to feel this. And the lack of care towards pro-actively making the effort to reduce the impact (along with the absurdity that results with mass hysteria/only listening to these related sound bites) surprises me but doesn’t, sadly. As one message I scrolled past on social media this morning stated, yes, I’d probably be fine if I fell ill. But it’s the others who’d catch the virus from me who might not be able to survive. If you don’t believe this, I challenge you to the following: reach out to someone elderly near you and propose a helping hand. Do it via telephone – don’t just show up at their house (because depending where you are, they might want to avoid all in-person interaction right now to keep themselves alive). See what kind of response you get. I woke up yesterday and thought about an older Irish woman whom I’d met a few weeks earlier in the woods while hiking. We’ve come across each other a few times since then and exchanged numbers at some point (it’s nice to have an English speaker sometimes for a lazy afternoon chat). So I thought about her, knowing that she was in the age group of those who are most at risk right now, and I sent her a text that started like this: I just wanted to send a message to say hello. With this virus going around, please let me know if there’s anything that Romain and I can do to help if you need something from the store but don’t want to get out.

About half an hour later, I received her response which began like this:

Hello Joani, I was very touched by your offer. For the moment, no problem though I have cancelled all activities since the case was reported in Auray. I have an auto immune problem plus fragile lungs, so I prefer to be careful.

Rien à dire de plus.

Onward. We lead these next few uncertain weeks with a full heart, full cups of coffee, and a full playlist. Today we were somewhere between Motown and Modest Mouse.

Nina woke up at 7:45 AM with her signature appel: Mamaaaan. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaan. When that happens, there’s a 98% chance that she’s going to kick Romain out of her room if he attempts to go see her in my place. As these stats don’t lie, that’s exactly what happened. After I got her to the potty and back, she was focused on playing solo in her room which meant I got to read (eye-opening piece on giraffes). In bed. In the morning. With our beautiful magnolia tree blooming and beaming at me through the bedroom window. BECAUSE IT WAS NOT RAINING. And Nina brought us (imaginary) coffee and breakfast treats (wooden necklace beads, plastic veggies, and viennoiseries made out of felt that my MIL crafted last year).

Cue Please Mr. Postman.

Breakfast was a melange of three separate dishes: spinach and eggs (Romain), pain au chocolat with a fruit bowl (Nina), and my usual yogurt + granola + one banana mix. Real coffee. Pajamas. No rush to be anywhere but here.

I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bun).

Wrapped up the first half of the day with more time in the kitchen and flour in Nina’s hair. My secret mom ingredient is cream of tarter. With it, I have made play-dough for children in three different countries that out rolls/out lasts anything that you’ll buy at the store. Nina can now recite the recipe which I share here in hopes that caretakers can use it – and then take a breather while kids stay creative: 1 cup flour, 1/4 cup salt, 2 tsp cream of tarter. Mix in a pot on the stove. Turn on your heat, add 1 cup of warm water and a tiny drop of oil. Stir at a high heat until that mass thickens up (don’t stop stirring). Add in any food coloring and be done. Take out and knead a bit. Let it cool off before you hand it over to your little people. You’re welcome.

One Chance. And pretty much all of Good News for People Who Love Bad News (except Black Cadillacs – little ears over here).

Jumping off for more reading. As Brené Brown writes, what stands in the way becomes the way. So I’m keeping my way filled with what I can control, what brings me joy, and flexibility so that I don’t get stuck and lose sight of the light ahead when things do get tough (because they will – but we are resilient beings). This too shall pass my friends.

In the Heart of a Pandemic

It’s been some time since I’ve come here to write. Perhaps this is because I spend my professional life online, capturing behind-the-scenes product logic and details from the trans-Atlantic mouths of my brilliant, code-filled colleagues and transforming it into digestible material for our clients. I absolutely love it. But when my work day ends, my WANT TO DO list looks something like this:

  1. See my girl.
  2. See my man.
  3. See my dog.
  4. Color. We have a family set of map pencils, crayons, and markers that get put to good use each late afternoon alongside some good tunes and drinks. This is our family apero.
  5. Actually complete a full crossword puzzle (this is me dreaming – I get a puzzle in MAYBE once a month).
  6. Read. Brene Brown’s Dare to Lead sits with a bookmark on page 47 next to a thin paperback in French that I grabbed months ago in town.
  7. Get outside. Nature is constantly calling.
  8. Soak in any sun that might find a way to shine through given that it’s been raining in Bretagne since October.
  9. Prune my rose bushes. Machete off dead branches from my banana tree. Snip away flowers and weeds from our very Honey I Shrunk the Kids yard (we haven’t cut the grass since October).
  10. Get in a full phone conversation with my mom and dad (that’s not interrupted by a certain 42-month old needing to ask “Maman, le requin mange quoi? Et le toucan?”).
  11. NOT look at a screen.
  12. NOT sit in front of a computer.

So with that, I’ve purposely distanced myself away from technology during my “me” time in a concerted effort to give space to those people and things that bring joy to my life. Yet, with our current COVID-19 situation, I need to give space to documenting what is quickly reshaping all of our routines.

Two weeks ago we met some friends at a movie theatre in Vannes. There’s always some kind of toddler-focused programming going on, and we love a good film (with popcorn – they sweeten it instead of adding butter here). It’s usually two short films followed by a slightly longer third one, and each one has their own respective artistry on display. Whether you’re nearly 4 or 40, the programming is thoughtful, and I appreciate how the theatre staff is involved with greeting the children, introducing the films, and handing out an activity pamphlet that keeps our child busy when we go to eat lunch afterwards.

Back to the movie: we noted in our conversation with friends that the COVID-19 situation was something to keep an eye on. But we were still out. The theatre was full of other families. Even in the rain, the street sidewalks were dotted with umbrellas. Our post-film creperie was packed as usual. A routine Saturday looked and felt like a routine Saturday.

The next day, the first COVID-19 cases in our area were announced. And a cap of 5,000 people was put into place for the max limit allowed in public assemblies. The buzz around COVID-19 was taking off. And though we weren’t still sure what this meant, we talked about it a lot with the initial conversation thread being something like this: WTH is really going on with COVID-19? It’s wrapped its wheels around the global media circuit and steamrolled forward, leaving environmental and social issues in the dust for now.

I’ve kept my ears open to information coming in from reliable sources amid an inundation of news. For me, this has included tracking what’s been happening at a local level via the Prefet du Morbihan. They’ve done a great job of harnessing social media to reach the community, posting a regular “point de situation” each day, and responding to questions from the public.

It’s also meant staying attentive to Italy and the situation which continues to unfold there because this story is the one that demonstrates what we could be facing in France. The key points that rest in my mind are:

  • An aging population has the highest risk. And France has a large aging population.
  • No matter how much infrastructure exists at present to support those who are ill, there is not enough infrastructure to meet the needs when the young and healthy fall ill alongside the elderly and anyone with a compromised immune system. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. There simply will not be enough medical staff and ICU beds and specialized equipment to meet these needs.

It’s these two points that sit heavy on my mind. I have been calm – and rational. We wash our hands. We live in a very small, rural village, so it is easier for us to distance ourselves from others. But I think about my neighbors in this community, one where every association is geared towards retirees because most people are retired. They are part of this aging population who will be most affected in the coming weeks days.

I went to the grocery store today a little after lunch time, and the parking lot was eerily empty. The first two rows closest to the entrance are usually packed. Today I probably counted 12-15 cars in the entire parking lot of six rows.

Inside the store, everyone was at least 60+ years old – and very much keeping to themselves. I wondered how many of them had to pep talk themselves into getting into their car to grab extra items today. I was humbled by the fact that the aisles were stocked with toilet paper and bottled water and all the things people in other areas/countries seem to be running towards (like the Best Buy big screens on Black Friday). One woman was in the yogurt aisle with her cloth handkerchief that she used to discreetly dab at her runny nose. I thought, the risk for her is everything – to be elderly and perhaps afflicted with a minor cold – but needing to come to the store. Who do you call to grab the basics when, well, you have no one to call?

That whole grocery store trip felt off. All of this feels off.

Fast forward to a few hours ago: all schools nation-wide are being closed in France as of Monday, March 16.

We’re in the heart of a pandemic.

I need to sleep on this to process what our dear France will become in they days, weeks ahead. And of course, my mind turns to the large-scale question of what will WE become? Will we check in on each other and act with patience and compassion? Or will the worst of us be on display – will we see a global state of “each human for themselves”?

For now, I look to nature. That beauty will be what saves us all right now. With the forecast finally showing multiple days of sun, we will retreat to the yard for more of maman’s wacky gardening habits – and mud pies with flower soup. We will retreat to the forest for a quick run in the early morning and late afternoon. We will retreat to the beach to search for shells at low tide and breathe in that fresh, cool Atlantic air that stirs the body into taking a deep afternoon nap. I have a feeling that we will all need as much rest as we can get to fuel us as we move forward.