It seemed fitting that the rainiest day my family had while on our trip round Normandie was when we visited Rouen. Despite the weather, the beautiful city just four days away from Noël was still bustling with people in full holiday spirit: the Alsatian market was going strong, the giant wonder wheel taking kids for a ride of their life (no seatbelts), the ice skating rink blasting Christmas music through the windows of the Joan of Arc chapel.
The famously gothic Rouen cathedral.
But we were on a more historical mission than the people in the city that day. Holding our Rick Steves In Normandy library book out to get rained on in the misty streets, we traversed a pathway that led us from one statue of Joan of Arc to another, to another and another. It was a three-church-visit kind of day, and with each steeple came iconography of Joan…… as if the city was desperately trying to apologize for what had happened to her there.
Inside the Joan of Arc church.
That someone who was burned at the stake for heresy was later made into a Saint is amazing to me.
While at the Joan of Arc museum we wondered aloud how many other women had been just like Joan: women who stated their truth, rose to power and then were burned at the stake by men. Or executed. Or thrown in jail. Or lost their jobs, had their careers destroyed, their names trashed in the tabloids. When will we be believed?
If you’re ever in Rouen, I highly suggest going to the Joan of Arc museum. I thought it was going to be super lame, but it turned out to be super cool.
Other sights for lovers of the macabre: the plague cemetery. Go when it’s raining and you’re cold and feel a little sick. It adds to the experience because you begin wondering if you have caught the plague.
Through the passage to the plague cemetery, you pass a cat that’s been petrified. It was gross.We also saw the grave of the Viking King Rolo’s femur.
I will leave you with a video extract of the most terrifying movie I had to watch in my undergrad studies. But I also love it for how it shows Joan, a 19-year-old girl, at the mercy of the buffoonery of men who think they are in charge.
This is a question I’ve been asked many times over the last month as I’ve introduced myself to class after class of English-learning French high schoolers. It’s an easy answer, even if it may be a fudged truth.
“The food.”
After that comes a nod of understanding from everyone respectively, like they’re all thinking about last night’s dinner and going, “yeah, you’re right that is the best part about France.” Then comes another question, a bit more difficult.
“What’s your least favorite part about France?”
It’s harder for me to answer because there might be a few things but I don’t want to offend. So I choose my main complaint, and one that I know will puzzle some of the students.
“I don’t like how nothing is open on Sundays.”
This answer can sometimes prompt a discussion about how one can get anything at any time in America (unless you’re in Coupeville) and how some stores are even open 24 hours a day, seven days a week quellehorreur. But here in Alençon I find my Sundays limited to the Sunday bar–the one bar in Alençon that has capitalized on profits by being the only bar open on Sundays.
I’m not even really exaggerating. Walk the streets of Alençon on a Sunday at 2pm and it is stunningly quiet. All the shops are shuttered (even H&M!), the jazz music that normally plays 24 hours on the pedestrian street is shut off. The only sounds come from the church bells and the occasional scooter or car hurtling down the tiny roads, but even that is not often.
It gets dark so early now.
Because of this, taking a walk on a Sunday in Alençon is incredibly peaceful. You don’t feel any rush to be anywhere or do anything other than admire the way that sunlight bounces off the windows of the buildings or notice the tiny bits of moss that grow in between the cobblestones. And then after making your way all around town, which takes maybe 20 minutes in total because it’s small, you make it to the Halle Au Blé. The Halle Au Blé is a rotund dome building where farmers used to sell their grains, hence the name, which means “hall of wheat.” And juste à coté is the Café Du Théâtre, with its blue canopy and old-timey yellow lettering.
A Sunday gathering place.
Outside the cafe, depending on the time of day and the weather, you’ll find small clumps of people drinking and smoking at the tables. Or if it’s 2pm–that time directly between when lunch is over but before the afternoon coffee rush–you’ll find the bartender solo, standing outside the bar’s entrance smoking and waiting for his next customer perhaps hoping that no one will come at all, or at least not for a good while.
Bartender’s on a break.
Now that the weather’s gotten colder, I’ve begun to sit inside the cafe, at the tables across from the bar but not directly at the bar. Bar stools are too uncomfortable and reserved mostly for the bartenders friends it seems like. I like watching what he makes because it gives me an idea of what French people like to order. And after observing for about a month now I’ve come to the happy conclusion that there is not a prescribed idea of what one should order in a brasserie. Adults will come in and order a hot cocoa or a diablo (flavored syrup mixed with soda, something I thought for a long while was a kids drink). Yes, the old men will most often get a pint, but other times they’ll nurse a glass of white wine for several hours while reading the newspaper. Fruit juices, espresso, coffee with cream, steamed milk, cider, champagne, beer, vin chaud, rouge, blanc, rosé, and my personal favorite: chocolat viennois, also known as hot chocolate with a pile of whipped cream on top.
The bartender makes all these drinks with ease and a kind of solemnity that gives me the impression that he both values his work and also recognizes the ridiculousness in the way he piles that whipped cream so elegantly. Either way, he’s always there behind that bar except for his smoke breaks and except for Mondays because you can bet a bar that’s open on Sundays will be closed on Mondays.
The man I’ve always assumed is the owner, but who also performs the job of a waiter, is an older man who looks so typically French you can probably picture him in your mind right now. He yells out the orders to the bartender as he gets them in that specific way that French people sometimes speak… like they’re taking pleasure in how their language sounds. He does not know yet that I can speak French even though I order my drink in what I believe is perfect French every time I am there. So instead he communicates with me mostly in mimes, winks, the occasional jaunty dance and by laughing at me. The first time I encountered him I was with the other language assistants–two of whom are Brits–and we all spent several hours drinking beer and chatting at the tables outside. Each time we ordered another round he would express his worry that we were going to get drunk by making various hand signals and over the top expressions that you normally only see in old silent films. I wanted to explain to him that my companions weren’t drunks, just British… but I wasn’t sure how to mime that.
Knitting, writing, drinking vin chaud.
The thing is, every time I’ve been to this bar since that first time, I’ve seen some of the same people there. It’s one of those places that has regulars: the guys with their newspapers, the jokey waiter, the couples coming in for their hot cocoa or beer. I think the routine of it feels so Sunday-ish to me because I grew up with a Sunday routine, a family day.
What would I do on a Sunday if I were at home? Sleep in? Most likely. Eat waffles? If my dad made them. Play with the cat? Certainly. Go to Target or something? Yeah, maybe, why not.
But I’m here on a Sunday, in France. Sans cat, sans waffles, sans family, sans Target. I could lay around. Watch TV, relax, cook some food. Or, I could go for a quiet Sunday walk. Go to the Sunday bar with a friend or a few friends. Or go solo, just to sit. Pretend to read a book and observe the goings on, trying and failing to fit in.
Me, writing this blog post, hair wet from rain, wrinkled shirt and all. Jokey waiter is balding guy in the mirror. Photo courtesy of Sami.
“Go home. Put your best record on. Loud as it’ll play. And with every note, you remember: That’s something the darkness couldn’t take from you.”
— Detective Fred Thursday to Endeavour Morse while the sun sets against the background of the Oxford skyline. (And also me, to myself while reenacting the scene on the tower of the St. Mary’s church in Oxford last week.)
I think Oxford would make an amazing setting for a post apocalyptic movie. Some of the old buildings seem like they’re just waiting to become ruins. Trees growing through their windows, the occasional zombie hidden behind a falling down wall. There’s just something unrealistic about Oxford.
Endeavour Season One, Episode One
It’s probable that the reason I feel this way is because my favorite TV show is set in Oxford, and therefore I feel as if it’s a town that was made to be a backdrop. As I walked around, I felt like I already knew where I was.
From inside the room where the Gryffindors learn to dance for the Yule Ball in the fourth movie.
And then there were actual real life college students there, which honestly threw me for a loop even though it shouldn’t have. Studying in the library. Getting lunch at the cheap sandwich shop. Wearing their college sweatshirts and nearly running me over on their bikes. I went to college in New York City, so it was almost impossible for me to imagine what it must be like to be a college student at Oxford. So small, so scenic, so many important historical figures.
The sun broke through the clouds for a moment.Did not see any dead bodies. Did see people rowing boats, though.
As I took a break after touring the library I decided that maybe I should go to Oxford. I don’t know what I would study or how to get it in, but I feel it is a definite possibility for me. Either that or becoming a police detective.
Like the people who lived in eighteenth century British high society, I believe in the restorative powers of the sea.
I originally thought this was just a me thing. When I first moved to France it was the first time I had ever been in a city that wasn’t a quick drive away from the beach. To combat the claustrophobia I felt being landlocked, I would go sit by the Seine, breathing in the dirty air and listening to the choppy waves hit the brick walls in an effort to calm down.
Now I’m back in France, back in a landlocked town. To be fair, it’s not so far from the sea which is why going to the beach was my first stop once I hit my first two week vacation. (Yeah I know, I literally just started working a few weeks ago. French schools get a two-week fall break and it is the best thing Ever.)
I didn’t go to a French beach however, which is probably sacrilegious to the Normands of my town, but I won’t tell if you don’t. Instead, I headed to London to visit my friend Jenna and we went to Brighton together.
The weather was a crazy mix of extreme wind, sunny spots and occasional rainstorms.Ocean child
Jenna grew up near the ocean, too, and when she told me that she never feels as relaxed as she does when she’s by the sea, I felt like we were two eighteenth century British ladies, diagnosed to go live by the ocean to improve their health.
The Royal PavilionInspo, after going to the Brighton University’s print and design festival.
We only spent one day by the sea, but I did feel like it helped. Or maybe it was just the company, that comfort of being near a friend who’s going through something similar to you: living in those weird months after graduation, working your way through a new job, a new home, a new life.
October snuck up on me because one second I was in Summer Mode, riding motorcycles, eating junk food, going camping and playing with cats all day long and then… leaves were falling off trees that were lined up against the remains of a castle in a small town in Normandy.
Which is where I live now.
View from my window is mostly sky. I love it.
Alençon, located in the southern part of Normandy—maybe an hour and a half by train from Paris and an an hour from Caen—is a small town but not so small that there’s only one street light (lookin’ at you Coupeville!!).
The leaves are falling! Where’s my PSL?? Oh yeah no Starbs here.
On my first full day here, Nicolas, one of the English professors at Lycée Alain where I live and work, took me on a tour and said something along the lines of: “Coming from America, some of these buildings probably look pretty old to you.”
I didn’t let him know that in my head I was reenacting a scene from Camelot because we were standing at the foot of what used to be an actual castle.
“Yeah,” I said back instead.
Walk through the small streets until you reach the castle.There she is.
Already I feel the spirit of Normandy. The sky is almost always cloudy. The rain is a mist, or a steady drizzle through the night. (As of yet unconfirmed if it rains more here or in Seattle. But to say I’m prepared for this weather is an understatement).
The rain keeps it green.
There’s also a feeling of strength that I sense coming from the people who live here, whether it’s because they have worked the surrounding farmland for centuries, or because they’ve dealt with the rain, or because they eat tripe and enjoy it.
Or perhaps it comes from Guillaume Le Conquérant aka William the Conqueror. An illegitimate child who faced murder plots and anarchy as a young duke but grew up to successfully conquer England. Maybe it’s a bit of rebelliousness. Or an unwillingness to take anything sitting down.
Looking for Guillaume.In Caen.
Guillaume’s grave and a street cat I named Guillaume. He wanted my crepe.
This weekend, I visited Guillaume’s grave at the Abbey of Saint-Étienne in Caen—just an hour train ride from Alençon. I’m hoping that I gathered a bit of Guillaume’s spirit while I was there because I have my first English classes tomorrow and feel like I’m going to need it.
Dinner at Judy’s. From left to right: Aaron, Noah, Judy, Leo, Ana, moi, Matthew, Lucy, & Matthew II. (Behind the camera lens is Judy’s mom, Wendy.)
I live my life on social media these days. Scrolling through Twitter during the week leading up to Thanksgiving, in between all the articles about our uncertain future, I found a host of poorly written How-To’s, or rather How-Not-To’s, on bringing up politics at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
Like with most things happening online and in real life, I ignored. And when chatting with my sister a couple weeks ago I encouraged her not to start those hard conversations with family, even though I knew she really wanted to.
“Let’s tag team it at Christmas time,” I said, but what I really meant was, “Confrontation makes me uncomfortable.”
Then I got the chance to ignore the current state of America even more. I changed my phone background to a picture of Justin Trudeau and headed to Toronto, CA to spend a blissful four days with my friends at Judy’s house.
Judy and her city.
It snowed a little. We went swimming in her pool, did face masks, drank Canadian and Chinese beer. At the Christmas market we went on a carousel ride and then chatted with Canadian taxi drivers. We took a trip to Niagara Falls and rode the Maid of the Mist into the mist, getting pretty soaked.
We went on that little boat into that giant cloud of water spray.les chutes
For our Thanksgiving meal at Judy’s house, we had hot pot, a Chinese dish that has been around for centuries in which a pot of hot broth simmers in the center of the table surrounded by plates of meat, vegetables, noodles and tofu just waiting to be cooked in the broth and eaten. It’s warm and steamy and delicious.
Blurry because I was so excited to eat.
The way we ate, with everyone grabbing food with their chopsticks out of the hot pot (or by being served by their friends), warmed me up inside. The food was fantastic because Judy’s mom is an amazing cook (and the kind of lovely person who makes a Thanksgiving feast for a bunch of Americans even though it wasn’t even Thanksgiving in Canada). It was participatory eating; not just a plate of food, but an act to share. There was so much food to try and time in between to talk and drink and enjoy each other’s company.
Ready to go into the hot pot!Toronto specialty: surf clams
I’m not saying my family’s normal Thanksgiving buffet is lame or anything. But this was so wonderful because it helped me to realize that when I’m away from my family, sans turkey & sans mashed potatoes, the little circle of friends I’ve found will be there, sharing food and thoughts. It was heart warming.
And delicious. I’m still full from all that food.
The thing is, we did end up talking a little bit about politics during that meal. But I realized that maybe that’s what meals are for. What better time to open up then when you’re sharing food? It’s a safe space.
Nestled in the cobblestones in front of the Notre Dame is a small medallion which marks Point Zero, the very center of Paris. There is a legend that if you stand on that small medallion, you are sure to return to Paris someday.
The legend must be true because just over a year later, I am back in the city of light.
Le Notre Dame at night.
After my first few hectic days here I am finally remembering how to live the relaxed life of the Parisian and falling into a routine: wake up, go to a cafe, write or read, eat lunch somewhere scenic, go to class and listen to Zadie Smith while trying not to fall in love with her, have a late dinner, then go to bed and repeat the same thing the next day.
View from my window.
Paris has not changed much. The pastries are still decadently delicious, the Canadian man at Abbey Bookshop still gives out coffee with maple syrup, Lidl is still ridiculously cheap, and cigarette smoke still wafts through my window in the evenings. It feels safe and happy, if a bit nostalgic.
Delish.
Love lives in Paris.
Some things are different: the statue at République covered in memorials for the Charlie Hebdo victims.
I think so far what I am enjoying the most is the eagerness of everyone in my writing program. I suppose you have to be eager to take summer courses, but the difference is that it is not about academics at all. We are here because we have a desire to become better writers and better readers. I don’t think I’ve ever had such attentive classmates.
And at first I thought that there would be some snobs–you know, those creative writing students who brag about the book they just finished writing and the new project they just started while you’re sitting there with a multitude of half written short stories and a blog that you keep forgetting to update. Instead, everyone in the program is earnest, honest, and supportive of each other. (Not to mention the Zadie Smith fan club we have going on).
As I was sitting in class yesterday listening to a discussion on Nabokov’s Pnin, I got lost for a second wishing that other people could experience the same thing I was at that moment. Everyone deserves to be in Paris listening to one of their favorite authors talk about literature.
Last year on the day before I left Paris, my friends and I rode around the city on bikes, hit up our favorite cafe, ate a gourmet lunch, and had a picnic underneath the Eiffel Tower. It was romantic and I was so ridiculously sad to leave.
Leaving New York this year is a bit different. First of all, because I know for sure that I have two more years here at least. But also because I have this mixed feeling of relief and anxiety about leaving. It’s like I both can’t wait to get out of the city, but also feel like I can’t live without it.
My favorite little community park in Soho.
I realized that New York City makes me feel like that a lot. Like I hate it and I love it. And I think that’s just the nature of this city. It’s disgusting and wonderful at the same time.
And while I’m feeling trepidation about going back to Coupeville–population of like, 2 people & 4 deer–I know that it will be good for me to get some sleep without being woken up by sirens or street fights on 3rd Ave.
Not only that, but I also have Paris to look forward to. For those who don’t know, I’m going to Paris in June/July for the NYU Writers in Paris program where I will be attending creative writing workshops with some amazing authors, including Zadie Smith!
A taste of Paris in China Town.
So I am sad to leave New York, even though it chewed me up and spit me back out this year. But as always, good things are coming. And in just a couple of months I’ll be back, sweating in that September heat and moving in to my new home in China Town.
Lily Haight 