Day 161 and 162

A taste for the Atlantic

The weather has finally turned beautiful once more.  Blue skies with mild temperatures that make one desire an iced tea and a comfortable hammock for a nice long nap.  We made the most of it and took the children to the beach for a little fun in the sun.  I was quite keen on the idea of trying out our newly acquired body boards, so we set out for the beach with both vehicles loaded to the brim.  The beach was teaming with folks.  Both clothed and somewhat less than clothed if you know what I mean.   Nothing says a cultural experience like public nudity and I was glad that our guests got to witness this scene in all of its bare chested glory.  We set up shop on the beach and were quickly warned by the life guards that the current was too strong for body boarding.  A bit of a bummer but the warning was well given.  Wading in just knee deep water, my youngest was nearly swept ashore with a thunderous splash.  Fortunately he was sandwiched in between mother and grandmother who both sprang into action the moment he seemed unable to spring to his feet.  We spent an hour or two splashing in the short surf until the tide calmed a bit.  Finally we were able to break out the boards and hit the larger waves for some serious recreation.  I have two observations to make about the questionable sport of body boarding.  First of all, this is a young man’s game.  An old fart like myself has no business being pounded to a pulp by rolling surf.  After swallowing gallons of the Atlantic and frantically snatching for my trunks as they were ripped off of my bare white ass, I began to question the sanity of it all.  The second observation is that it is absolutely intoxicating and soulful.  I can see why so many hippie types give up their day jobs in favor of a beach side shanty and a VW bus in search for that perfect wave.  Get it right once and it is like flying.  The world stands still and you become one with the ocean.  Get it wrong and you will go through one of the most horrifying drowning scenarios you could possibly imagine.  It is in fact true what they say . . . an infant can drown in just a puddle of water.   Unfortunately, I am now well aware that the same holds true for a 36 year old adolescent that should frankly know better.  After several near death wipe outs and with nearly all of the flesh fileted off of my belly I decided to call it an afternoon.  The kids seemed to have a less traumatic experience with body boarding.  Their diminutive frame lets them skip across the water like a thrown stone.  My somewhat less diminutive frame means that upon contact, the board sinks like a wet boot.  Even the three year old seemed quite acclimated to the sport and had little trouble gliding along the somewhat smaller waves closer to shore.  He was quite the stud, catching waves on his little Backyardigan printed board (Those who are parents of youngsters will know what a Backyardigan is).  Strutting his stuff and winking at all the bare chested beauties, he seemed to be in his element.  The kid has moxie.  I haven’t given up on the sport just yet, but I know now for certain that kite surfing is NOT in my future.

Back at home, we pushed the hot water heaters to their limits in an effort to wash off all of the salt and sand.  I love the ocean, but having sand caked in every orifice leaves something to be desired.  With itchy nuts and a solid coating of brine, I was glad to wash myself clean of this day of recreation.  The following day was spent in a much more low key fashion.  I tended to some domestic affairs while the kids played and the wife attempted to decipher the list of school supplies that we must obtain for the next school term.  The list is long and contains school supplies I haven’t ever heard of.  I am still uncertain whether we are sending them to primary school or Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  I am almost certain I read something about a wand and pewter cauldron.  As soon as our guests return to the States, we will likely have to spend the better part of a day at an office supply store trying to make sense of it all.  The remainder of the evening was spent worshiping the glowing box of moving pictures until we were all ready for another long night’s sleep.  The leisurely pace we have been keeping during our Summer Break is going to be a hard one to recover from when school starts again a short month from now.  I am hoping for one more family trip before the end of the month.  England maybe, but we will have to see how it all plays out.  On a side note, I am finding it harder and harder to continue this project at its current pace.  I have so much to say and so little time.  The lack of internet connection is starting to marsh my mellow a bit.  I have pages and pages of material, but the necessary bandwidth just isn’t there at the moment.  Hopefully I will soon be able to return to my daily routine.  If not, my head is likely to explode from the inability to purge the content that usually fills these paragraphs.  I think for tonight, I am going to keep my comments brief in hopes that the ending of the weekend will allow me some additional time to jot down my remaining thoughts and observations for the week.  I wish you all well and will hopefully talk again soon.

Day 158 through 160

Pre-history circa 1970 something.

Well, it has been a few days again since my last post.  It seems to be the way of things these days and I can’t see it changing in the foreseeable future.  The never ending quest for internet connectivity is a hurdle we can’t seem to jump, and our busy schedule as tour guide keeps me away from mon ordinatuer portable.  That being said, there seems to be a pause in activity this evening, so I am going to seize the moment and write a few words.  In the past several days we have spent a fair bit of time out and about in a quest to further our understanding of the region.  The weather has finally given us a break and we were allowed to stretch our wings a bit and hit the open road.  A couple of hours up the road was purported to be a cave that contained within its ancient walls a profound example of prehistoric art.  Being a lover of all things artistic, I was keen to see what the cavemen had come up with.  Our destination proved to be a challenge from the start.  Being a fair distance away and having one too many passengers for the Renault started the day with a logistics nightmare.  A problem that we would solve in a somewhat unconventional manner.  The cost of driving two cars to get just one more passenger to the destination seemed tough to palate, so we went another direction.  We loaded grandma, wife and youngest in the available upright seating and essentially crammed the two 9 year olds in the trunk.  I couldn’t help but marvel at the Mafioso resolution to our problem, but we were soon off and running.  The small village outside this tourist hotspot was rather quaint and in full fete during our visit.  It seemed to be a music festival celebrating musical styles from around the world.  We breezed through town and soon arrived at the monument only to find that tickets would have to be purchased at the tourist bureau back in the small town we had just left.  It was roughly lunch time upon our return and the wife endured a 20 to 30 minute wait to purchase tickets.  By the time she arrived at the ticket counter, the next available tour would not be until 6 pm that evening.  Now that we had some time to kill we sifted through the available literature at the bureau and found a suitable time waster just a few miles up the road.  We decided the best option was a tour of a local Chateau that would allow the kids some much deserved time to stretch their cramped legs.  Traveling by Renault trunk is efficient, but perhaps not the most comfortable ride in town.  The Chateau was impressive, all the way down to its now dry moat.  I think the kids enjoyed the history of the place and its castle like feel was enough to keep their attention for the duration of the tour.  We timed this visit to perfection and even had enough time to wedge in a picnic lunch somewhere in between.  With a fairly enjoyable tour in our rearview and well behaved children holding their own, we refocused our attention on our intended destination for the day.  To say it was disappointing would be an understatement.  We arrived half an hour prior to the tour which allowed just enough time for the youngest to opt for a roadie in the public toilette.  Mom took him to the restroom no less than three times without result.  Unfortunately this was going to take Dad’s seasoned hands.  We returned to the outhouse and knowing the key to success the youngest soon returned to the group to proudly report that he had taken a poop as big as his father.  He has taken to referring to me as his “Father” rather than Dad or my preferred “Daddy”.  Damn they grow up fast.  The wife asked why I was successful where she had failed.  The answer?  Privacy.  I know my boy.  He needs to handle his business in private, and Mom staring down on him in such cramped and smelly quarters was not going to let the good times roll.  I parked him on the thrown and exited the stall to assume my post outside the toilette door.  He was of course insistent on this as in his words, he didn’t want anyone coming in and pooping or peeing on him.  I stood guard like a proud red coated sentry at Buckingham Palace.  There isn’t a marauder on earth that was going to disturb my little prince during his royal duty  . . . or doodie as the case happened to be.

With clear bowls and good intentions, we could now proceed with our tour.  Unfortunately, the roadie proved to be the highlight of my trip to the cave.  We soon found out that the actual cave had long since been closed to the public. Somewhere in the 60s or 70s, they had sealed the cave as it was discovered that the intense flow of sweaty tourists was beginning to have a deleterious effect on the paintings.  I certainly appreciated the desire to preserve the history, but it was a bit of a letdown nonetheless.  The faithfully made recreation of the cave was perfect in every detail but somehow lacked that old world feel.  In addition to the lack luster Disney World presentation, I felt as though the English speaking guide could have brushed up a bit on the actual history of the site and their “English”.  Something about describing events in terms of “long times ago” (and no that isn’t a typo) leaves for quite a bit of interpretation.  “The paintings was made long times ago” seemed to be the stock response to most of the inquiries (again, not a typo).  I would imagine the original cave to be a fairly mystical place that would have certainly been a sight to behold for those first few lads who discovered it when their dog fell into a sink hole.  As for me, I would have rather wiped my son’s ass a little closer to home and save a few bucks.

Given my second round of complete disappointment coming from lands to the north, I was pleased at the decision to spend the following day at home.  We would expose our guests to the local Market and had a magnificent morning, basking in the glowing sun and warm hospitality of the local vendors.  With some fresh produce in hand and a lovely textile purchase or two, we were soon back home for a quiet afternoon to recharge our batteries.  They wife had a bit of actual work to do, so we stayed at the house for the afternoon tending to administrative  and intellectual matters that had been set aside since our visitors had arrived.  This, finally, brings us to today.    We would travel just a stone’s throw from home to visit one of the region’s favorite tourist destinations.  This “must see” burg, famous in the region for its wine trade, would be today’s focus.  While I have been to this place on several occasions, I was particularly excited on this day, as this would be the first time my eldest boy would see what in his mind is the closest thing to Assassin’s Creed he has ever witnessed.  He was particularly taken with the tour we took of the monolithic church located beneath the bell tower.  This amazing spectacle came complete with a Templar’s tomb and visible human remains.  I could see the history break over his face like a tidal wave.  Nothing like taking a piece of pop culture and showing a child that there is a historical significance to something that they can relate to on their own terms.  I myself found the tour to be a descent into hell.  I love the history of the place and the tour, even though short, is worth a look.  On this day however, the tour would take a turn for the worse.  The unyielding stench of one of the tourists in our group was enough to make a grown man cry.  Since I have been here, I have witnessed all manner of bodily odor, but this was a cut above the rest.  I was certain that I would have to vomit before the tour was over, but I was somehow able to swallow the chunks down each time I encountered the wafting cloud of hellish fragrance.  Already irritable from the fact that humans are filthy ass pigs and that half of them should be scrubbed with bleach and then doused with a fire hose I was in no mood for piss poor parenting.  This is not the type of destination that one usually takes a child and the one’s on my crew knew damned well that any step out of line at this event would meet with swift and righteous punishment.  The older boys would not be a problem and I could tell my 3 year old was doing his dead level best to hold it together.  He soon found himself distracted however, by a very ill behaved British kid that was running amok without the slightest correction from his stank ass mother.  She smelled almost as foul as the old man who had been turning my stomach for most of the tour, and you could have braided the hair she was growing in her armpits.  The pig of a woman just let her disgusting little offspring run around destroying damned near everything he touched.  He soon turned his attention to my youngest and began to try and antagonize the rest of the well behave children on this tour.  You couldn’t even hear the tour guide for all of his constant f_ _ _ing jabbering and shuffling about.  As is my way, I lost it and created a scene that broke what silence was left in the tour.  The little bastard hung around my youngest about a second too long and I opened fire.  My voice boomed above the tour guide and sent the little pimple scampering toward his mother whom until now he had been completely ignoring.  He decided to test my resolve and made the mistake of looking at me after I yelled at him.  The hatred in my eyes soon burned through his soul and he burst into tears.

Ordinarily I am a cool hand and wouldn’t offer to create such a scene, but even I have my limits.  Between the stench and the disrespectful behavior, something snapped.  If you aren’t going to parent your child, then don’t act freaking surprised when I do it for you.  Fortunately the tour ended before the walls came tumbling down.  One more infraction from this turd and I was going to ruin everyone’s day with an eruption of cataclysmic proportion.  I only moderately embarrassed my wife and even drew some praise from some of the other tourists in the group.  It was later recounted to me that one of the gentleman of the group gave a “thank God” after my reprimand of the child.  Fortunately hairshirt and her slow witted test tube baby moved along quickly after the tour and we were able to finish the afternoon with a nice ice cream before departing for home.  That should get us back up to speed.  I would like to say that I will write again soon, but I would hate to lie.  So, I will bid you farewell for now and promise to write again when time and internet connection permit.  Take care. R.

Day 155, 156 and 157

Rain on my parade . . . learning to live with life’s BIG decisions

Like a scene out of a movie, I have written these lines only to erase them and start again.  I have done this over a dozen times and still can’t seem to collect myself.  As a sweet diversion from the philosophical musings that have kept me prisoner over the past few weeks, I am going to keep this one on the lighter side with a simple description of our life over the past couple of days.  With family in town it is easy to fill your head with doubts and thoughts of home.  We no longer battle this disease as often as we used to, but it is always there in the back of your mind.  Have we made the right decision in moving half way around the world to chase some crazy dream?  The answer is yes, and I have my reasons which I will divulge in a future post.  The ease with which I am able to answer this question, which has plagued us for the past week or so, was not easily won, but in the end became apparent to me over these last two days.  Again, I will get to that in time . . . maybe tomorrow.

With the Jack Butler hotel open for business and its occupancy sign currently darkened, we find ourselves switching back into tourist mode to entertain the troops.  This is a touch more challenging as we have had to re-vamp some of our outings given that one of our guests is but 9 years of age.  France for a youngster is . . . well, a drag.  What makes it a wonderful cultural awakening for us adults, makes for yawns and vacant stares from the younger set.  The sights seem boring and the adventurous food selections seem less to their liking.  To make matters worse, we are on the (hopefully) tail end of a two week rain fest that has kept the skies grey and the weather unseasonably cold.  This has kept us from many outdoor activities that the kids enjoy and made for a slow visit thus far.  The weather promises to improve and we have an ace or two in the hole that should brighten our young visitor's eyes a bit.

As for the wife and I, we have taken the opportunity to avail ourselves of a little time away from the youngsters.  Grandma has not seen her pups in many months, so she could use time time alone with them to strengthen their bond.  So too is true for the wife and I.  Based upon the weather, we decided to take a short overnighter to soothe our parental souls.  This, unfortunately, proved to be a complete disaster.  With a complete ready, fire, aim attitude, we packed a bag and hit the road with no certain destination.  We headed north east and with old fashioned paper map in hand, plotted a course.  What we had hoped would be a picturesque back country drive through rolling hills proved to be something a bit less than spectacular.  We had in essence closed our eyes and pointed at the map to pick our ultimate destination.  That too was somewhat less than on par with our expectations.  The town we ended up in was an absolute pit with no personality and little in the way of tourist trade.  We were bound for a romantic evening, so we thought at the very least we could find a reasonable hotel and find a decent place to eat.  We decided to stash the old paper map back in the glove box and resort to the modern age of technology to help us out of this jam that we had found ourselves in.  Unfortunately, try as we might, we couldn't Google our way anything within striking distance that wouldn't be something akin to a night at the HoJo and an all you can eater at the local Denny's.  With our spirits low, we turned the old Renault South and headed back toward home.  With my tale between my legs I began the two hour drive home and found myself feeling in need of some refreshments.  We pulled into a gas station and filled up on Coca Cola and Snickers.  Might be the only thing we got to eat for the evening, so I let me wife pick the menu.  Pretty romantic fella, ain't I?

Rejuvenated by a gut full of Caffeine, we decided that we wouldn't let the evening beat us and decided that even though it was in our own backyard, we would stop at a nice hotel in the town where my wife works and have dinner at a restaurant we had been intending to try.  The hotel is quite nice and has WiFi, which is why I am able to post this entry.  That's right, our romantic evening has ended with a round of dueling laptops while sipping red wine from hotel coffee cups.  Before I call this disaster of a romantic getaway finished, I must let you know about dinner.  The restaurant of choice was a chain and promised to have a decent steak.  This is something very hard to come by here, so we were optimistic that this culinary experience might turn things around.  Unfortunately, it was more of the same.  Mine was edible, but the wife's was as tough as the sole of my shoe but with a bit less flavor.  Again, being the romantic, I switched with her and gave my jaw the workout of a lifetime while she enjoyed my moderately less disgusting slab of Charolais.  The fries sucked, we didn't get our Entre, and my whiskey and coke was something closer to a Whiskey flavored Shasta.  What's more, the decor was a dog vomit mix of old west and Las Vegas glam.  They set was complete with a photo of tractor-trailers that had murals painted on the sides like the "Snowman" from the Smokey and the Bandit films.  The only feature that kept tears from streaming down our weary cheeks was that the beverage menu included the King of Beers.

Now back at the hotel, the scene has been set for an early bedtime.  Guts festering with malted hops and semi-cooked beef type product, we are coming to grips with the fact that we drove roughly 5 hours to end up at a hotel not more then 20 minutes from our own home and will likely not make it through the night without having to have our stomach's pumped.  So much for romantic getaways!  Talk to you all again soon, presuming I survive till morning.  R.

Day 154

The square peg and the round hole:  a lesson in perspective.

In life, perspective is everything.  Painting has taught me that.  So what is perspective?  It has a few meanings, however, in its simplest form it refers to one’s point of view.  In art, that is limited more to the visual spectrum, while in life it carries with it a broader meaning.  How we view things is quite colored by our experiences and prejudices.  We often times miss the big picture for all the details that we must attend to in life.  If our perspective in life is off, as in painting, the picture will be out of balance.  This is not to say, of course, that one does not need to occasionally distort their perspective a bit to get a fresh look at the same subject.  In fact, it is often those that look at life from off of center that are capable of the greatest genius.  One must be cautious not to make distortion their sole aim, or balance will never be restored and their perspective will become as fixed as before but without an appreciation for reality and that which is true in the world.  In this way, I believe life is much like a teeter totter.  You put a fat kid on one side and nobody on the other, he will quickly hit the ground without hopes of ever reaching the sky.  You place even the skinniest of child at the other end, and a point of balance can be obtained.  Even though the balance might be heavier on one side, both sides know the middle.  This to me is just as good as when both children weigh the same and can stare at each other eye to eye across a level plane.  The perspective from the bottom and the top are equal so long as both can see the center and know what would be necessary for each to see eye to eye.  It is the way with all things and certainly the way of Governance.

This notion of balance and perspective is a lesson constantly taught in our household and one of the most precious of gifts that we have given our children by means of our global relocation.  So, what brings me to this topic on this fine, albeit cool, summer day?  I recently used the phrase “a square peg in a round hole”.  This phrase haunted me last night as a drifted into slumber and being a bit off of center myself, I realized the following.  Whether a square peg fits into a round hole depends entirely on the size of the peg and the size of the hole.  I can feed square legos down a manhole all day long, but I can clearly not fit a brick through the eye of a needle unless of course the needle is the size of my car.  Perspective, it means everything and the exception often makes the rule.  I will never again use this phrase for without one’s perspective taken into account, it holds no meaning.  I think it better to simply say that something does not fit and leave it at that.  Perhaps it is the weeks worth of cloudy skies, or perhaps it is my need to make sense of it all that has me preoccupied with such thoughts, but either way, I feel a need to share these discoveries as they present themselves.

On the domestic front, our family from distant lands had made landfall and all is well.  Happy and healthy, we welcome them into our French life.  Again we will endeavor to share with them the best of what we have learned and give them experiences that will last them a lifetime if they never have the fortune to return this way again.  The evening was short and the jet lag apparent.  The after effects will surely last through the day.  For now we will lay low and let them recover.  Hopefully skies will clear a bit and allow for a nice tour of our new environment and all it has to offer.  In that mind, I will keep this short and sweet and catch up a little later on with the latest adventure from overseas.  I will leave you with the following treat for your mind’s eye.  The usual quiet of my afternoon was shattered yesterday with a sonic blast that I won’t soon forget.  The screaming howl was sufficient, but the ominous view caused me to take a moment to feel safe and quite unsafe all at the same time.  What was it that broke my afternoon of bliss?  A French fighter jet skimming the tops of the nearby trees that seemed low enough to reach out and touch.  I have seen Stealth fighters in the skies over the US and it is of course common to see military aircraft of all sorts in the skies over the US.  The vantage point, however, is a lot less personal than was the case this particular afternoon.  Had I not been beneath the aircraft, I would have certainly been close enough to see the whites of the pilot’s eyes.  My memory exaggerates, but it was indeed a powerful reminder that the world is in constant turmoil and that it is someone’s job to monitor the balance of power from the sky.  We will speak again soon.  R.

Day 150 through 153

Three Little Words . . . I HATE YOU.

Strange things, words are.  They are more dangerous than any weapon known to man.  They don’t have the capacity to take a life, but can make a man wish he was dead.  At the same time, they can just as easily heal all wounds.  Sometimes it is the simplest of phrase that cuts the deepest or a two word kindness that warms the soul.  Every language is full of them you see.  Subtle, yet powerful, phrases that carry with them the weight of the world.  We are all well familiar with the sweetest of them.  The “I love you” has been fodder for Valentine greeting cards since time began, but there are many two or three word exchanges that carry with them an equal impact.  “I am sorry”, “I miss you”, “I believe you”, “I believe in you” and a simple “Good Job”, are just a few of the positive phrases that can make all the difference in the world.  As with all things in life, there can be no appreciation of the light without first understanding the dark.  So too is true when talking about the use of the common phrase.  My youngest has most recently taken to using what is in my opinion, the darkest of the dark.  “I hate you” resonates with a startling clang when uttered from the mouth of a child.  Children are basic beings and it is only the simplest of phrases that are easily mastered.  Unfortunately, it is these simple phrases that often carry with them the most weight.  Most usually, his elder brother is his target, but he seems willing to cast this evil spell any time things don’t go his way.  Hatred is an evil thing to carry in one’s heart.  It consumes the soul faster than a wildfire consumes a once vibrant forest.  It burns out of control without any discretion as to its next victim.  I cares not whom it devours and if left unchecked will leave only the charred remains of one’s character left in it’s smoldering wake.

I have taken great care in discussing this fact with my youngest in the only manner a small child can understand.  The use of stories and imagery help the lesson sink in and knowing in its simplest terms the difference between good and bad, helps to deliver the final blow.  Hatred is BAD and as in most childhood tales, the “Good” always wins out over the “Bad”.  So far he seems satisfied with this explanation and the desire to be one of the “Good” guys has quelled his desire to court the wrong side in the battle of “Good” vs. “Evil”.  In a lot of ways, the move we have made has been a fair bit easier and a yet harder still for the youngest of our clan.  He has adapted well to the “French” way of life and his natural proclivity toward the language make everyday life a breeze, however, being a three year old and all that entails is difficult enough when one must conquer these growing pains in the shadow of their own cultural awareness, being a stranger in a strange land makes one a bit less comfortable with change.  Despite his need to stabilize a bit, he seems to be as happy with his new life as any of us, however, he still asks about “Mommy’s white house” referring to our farm back in Eastern Kansas.  You can take the boy out of the country (literally), but you can’t take the country out of the boy.  Pretty profound commentary, I think.

Given our continued difficulty with internet access, I am only allowed an infrequent access to the information super highway by way of the Chateau’s WiFi connection.  Better than McDonalds, but I don’t want to eat up their bandwidth by surfing about, so I will occasionally steal some access and upload a post or two when time permits.  Today, the 20^th of July marks my eldest 9^th birthday.  We have family in town . . . I think (difficult air travel), so we celebrated here at the house a day or so early.  There were two notable events to report.  The first was my “French” chocolate birthday cake that went over about like a turd sandwich.  The cake was fairly decent, but the “French” cream icing recipe my wife provided me from the Internets left something to be desired.  Its taste was familiar, but the consistency was a bit on the booger side.  The youngest ate nothing but the icing.  This was notable and due to his recent proclivity for picking his nose and going for the mouth with his bounty, not all that surprising.  The second birthday surprise worth a mention was that good ole mom and dad sprung for a spanking new I-Pad as a fairly extravagant gift.  The techno wizardry that the kind folks at Apple are capable of is nothing short of astounding.  While nothing really more than a toy from a computing standpoint, it is a neat and fairly portable gizmo for those that are e-mail minded and don’t want to get carpel tunnel from attempting to write an email on a smartphone.  I don’t know how kids these days utilize these things.  I use mine a fair bit for email given our internet problems and I can scarcely produce a coherent thought without the aid of the auto correct feature that is only correct half of the time.  For those that have received such emails, I apologize.  Once again blame Bill Gates and his freaking Windows phone.

Two days have past since the arrival of my eldest new toy and I now realize that high line electronics and stone floors do not make good bed fellows.  The equipment still functions, but after an accidental fall to the floor, the face of the item now has an ouchie that is going to require a trip to the Apple Store in town to get fixed.  That should be a complete disaster linguistically, but the old cave man method of pointing at the crack and grunting with disapproval should get my point across.  What I don’t understand is why they can’t come up with a space age polymer with a little more resilience.  This thing didn’t take much of a tumble and cracked like a freaking egg.  It really is a good thing it is in the hands of my 9 year old, for it made two whole days before major incident.  If it was in my wife or I’s hands, it would have met and untimely death on day one.  Small and slick, it is difficult to keep clumsy hands on.  When they make them more bomb proof, I might endeavor to procure one for myself.  Actually that is not true since I don’t really have a need for the added bulk and my Gen 1 Original I-Pod with massive storage capacity is all I really need to keep my wealth of music and video.  I am envious of the screen size where movies are concerned, but the odds of me dropping the palm sized package are much smaller and with my small screen, a catastrophic breakage seems much more unlikely.  For now I will sign off and see if I can’t manage to generate another post or two before the end of the week.  I have missed writing over the past week or two and am proud to report that the house is COMPLETELY unpacked and I can resume my more artistic endeavors with zeal.  Stay tuned, for once I am fully connected again, the content is likely to increase to epic proportions.  When a blind man’s vision is restored he likely has little use for sleep for fear that he will miss seeing something he hasn’t seen before.  Take care.  R.

Day 149

The Artist and The Alchemist:  Waking from a 30+ year slumber to find that All Things Converge into One.

When does one call themselves an “artist”.  Is it when someone pays him for his works or is it that moment that he realized that this is what he is meant to do with his life regardless of payment?  I know now that I AM an “artist”.  Not in the narrow sense of painting or writing, but in global “meaning of life” way that having a religious awaking helps you finally realize.  That is correct, I said “religious awakening”.  No, I have not turned into a Bible thumping nut job, but I do now firmly believe that my God is trying to talk to me.  He/She has been trying for some time now, but only in the last day or two have I had the clarity to listen.  I have been reading a book.  No, not the Bible or L. Ron Hubbard’s crazy ass alien manifest, but a simple 200 page novel.  This is relatively unusual for me.  As with the rest of my life, I am a “doer” not a “watcher”.  I would prefer to write rather than read.  I have always been this way and it is just one of the ways in my life that I have always found myself outside the norm.  I have utter contempt for the jug heads that sit in front of their TV and scream at athletes and coaches alike as if the person can hear their objections through the screen.  I have always wanted to ask them, “If you know so much about the game, why aren’t you out there playing it or coaching it instead of sitting on your fat ass in front of the boob tube with Cheeto stains on your wife beater?”  How does one so invest their own self-worth in the outcome of a match or game that they have no personal ability to affect the outcome of?  I am likely a sporty a guy as I know, but you won’t ever find my following professional or collegiate sports.  Nor will you find me spouting off stats about some kid’s rookie season.  I would prefer to play the game.  I would prefer to use the skill that I have to make my own statistics.  That isn’t to say that I don’t admire those that have more ability than I possess, but I don’t then feel it necessary to make them an object of affection.  This being my way, I find it difficult to sit and read others thoughts, rather than formulate my own.  For me, this book is different.  That is not intended to be blasphemous or offensive to those that worship the Bible.  In no way am I “worshiping” anything.  Reading this novel has simply helped add clarity and focus to the random thoughts that have always been floating around my head regarding my personal belief on the meaning of life.  The subject of the book is the pursuit of happiness and the writing is profound and I have found a startling similarity to the sentiments found in its pages and my own outlook on life.  In our daily lives, we tend to shove these grand thoughts aside so as to have the time to tend to the daily necessities.  The question is, are these really the necessities that we need to be focusing on?  I have been given a rare opportunity in my life to follow a path that many dream of.  A life with few limits and fewer restrictions.  Without the pressures of the “norm” weighing me down, I am free to roam.  I am free to think.  I am free to be an artist, a writer, a philosopher or even a poet.  I am free to ponder those things that drive men insane and be better for the insanity.  Always curious of what it all means, (am I awake or am I asleep and what does it all mean in the end) I have sought refuge in the knowledge that my daily life does not allow for such fanciful musings.  Truthfully, I find that there are a regrettable few that actually examine their lives in great detail.  Perhaps this is out of a sense of self preservation, for if one dwells on the subject too long, it will likely lead to madness.  Many are willing to settle on a brand of faith inherited from their family without further reflection.  Some reject the notion entirely in favor of empirical measure and cold hard facts.  I am neither of these.

I believe there is a meaning to life and that there is a driving force.  I refer to this driving force as God, but it goes by many names across the world.  I do not particularly care for labels and believe in the universal.  There are truths in the world.  Things that we know without being told.  Don’t believe me?  Spend an afternoon with a small child.  Watch them.  Learn from them.  You will be surprise what you see.  Sure, you can argue that socialization has a lot to do with their actions, but there is an underlying knowledge of truth that remains in a child that has yet to be clouded by preconceptions developed in adulthood.  Preconceptions that have been well taught and often overshadow our understanding of life that we all had when we were children.  It is only these universal truths that bind us.  It is these universal truths that make us the same.  In every other way, we are all different, and have different purposes to our lives.  The only real question is then, what is that purpose?  Who am I meant to be, what am I meant to do?  If there is a purpose, a design, does that mean I don’t have free will?  I can’t choose who I will be and what I will do?  For me, that is a very difficult pill to swallow if that is in fact the case.  We are ALL meant to abide by the universal truths and I personally believe we all have a meaning to fulfill in our lives.  That is not to say however, that we don’t have the will to choose another path.  In fact, it is often much easier to follow a different path than carry forth to discover and in turn fulfill the meaning of your life.  Perhaps for some it is easier to follow a different path.  Perhaps some are too scared to pursue what they know is right.  Maybe it is just the need to be arbitrary that prevents us from following our dreams.  Whichever the case, we all have a finish line.  A place we are meant to go.  A race we are meant to win.  The question is, do you know what that is?  Some folks are lucky enough to stumble onto it blindly without thought or self-reflection.  Are they the lucky ones?  Perhaps, or maybe they just never grew up.  They still have that kid inside of them that knows what they are meant to do.  I myself have taken the more difficult route.  I have long ago dismissed that child like purity and clouded my thoughts with what I thought to be life’s lessons.  The truth of the matter is, my “life lessons” were simply the result of my pushing against that which I am meant to do.  For the longest time I have had a sense in my life that I am being led somewhere to do something.  There have been signs, but I have for the most part dismissed them as coincidence or as self made.  I have always had grand thoughts, but was always too prideful and often made those thoughts my aim.  There are signs all around us, leading us where we need to go, if we are just willing to listen.  And it is in this way that I believe God speaks to us all.  So, let me take you on a wild journey as to how I came to this spot.  You can dismiss it as coincidence or you can take from it an ounce of entertainment, either way, it is part of who I am and where I am, so I think it worth sharing.

Yesterday evening, with thoughts of the meaning of my life weighing heavily on my mind, I settled into a chair in the living room to work on some French homework with the kids.  The wife bought us flash cards as a game to work on our language skills.  In doing so, I had to search through our pocket French Dictionary left by the very man that gave me the book I referenced earlier.  In looking through the book for a definition, I ran across the word “Carrefour”.  This is the name of a prominent supermarket chain that we do a fair amount of our shopping at.  I hadn’t taken a moment from my days to assume that this word has an underlying meaning.  It is just the name of the damned supermarket.  Really, who puts much thought into that?  The meaning of the word hit me like a bolt of lightening.  “Carrefour” in the French language means “Crossroads”.  Clever name for a market, I thought, but given my state of mind I found the meaning to be quite startling.  For some time now I have known myself to be at a crossroads in my life.  It is afterall, one of the reasons we embarked on this grand adventure to start with.  The loss of a career.  The reversal of fortune and bent gender norms that is my marriage to my wonderful wife.  Her understanding that perhaps I am meant for something more.  Something I have yet to find.  Even more profound still is that I found this definition in a book left behind by the same man that sent me the novel I am now reading.  Two books gifted from the same source.  One by choice, the other simply left behind.  Both leading me to this word that has haunted me for months.  This was to be the last in a line of “omens” that has lead me out darkness and into enlightenment.  I look back over the past several months and can now see that the signs have been leading me.  Leading me forward.  I have been patient in this process.  Trying to find what it is that I am to do next.  Perhaps my wife knew this long before I became aware.  She knew I was on my way toward something and needed this break to find it.  My ability to express myself through this written media has blossomed as has my endeavor into painting.  As with my writing, my painting is now free flowing.  Brush strokes and life become more carefree and yet still finding their mark.  Seeming mistakes turning into genius before my eyes.  Things going my way when I certainly don’t deserve them to.  Sitting at a stop light and having green put a smile on my face.  Finding the next with the Anarchy symbol over red and the Peace sign over green.  It is time to move forward.  It is time for me to start listening.  GO!

It has been those things that I have truly desired in my life that have been met with the least resistance.  Beginners luck.  A wonderful wife, two healthy children, a chance to live an inspired story.  I have always approached these things in my life with the attitude of “what is meant to be, will be”.  It used to be just something I would to say to relieve my anxiety over big decisions in life and mask my desire for certain wishes to come true.  I have learned not to put a time table on these dreams, and they have all come true.  Why?  Have my father’s words been true all along?  Is it better to be lucky than good?  Yes, I think so.  Lucky not in the sense of a wishing well, but in the sense that when you truly want something and are trying to fulfill the meaning to your life, events transpire in your favor.  I believe this to be true.  It is simply that force pushing you forward, toward that which you were meant to do and that which you were meant to be.  Over the past several months, these signs have been everywhere in my life.  Some more obvious than others, but they have always been there.  I am meant to be an Artist, both with a pen and a brush.  Will either lead to monetary prosperity?  Likely not, but it is the path I know I must follow.  For now I am content with the knowledge that I will continue to be guided on my journey and that the signs are there for me to follow.

Day 147 through 148

Back on Track with Random Thoughts

Today’s entry will be a mélange of random occurances from life over the last week or two.  No big watershed events, just little unexpected pearls that life occasionally throws your way.  The first topic worth discussing are some of the exciting excentricies of our new home.  The most notable for me, being a man of tallish stature is the rather low doorway that leads from the living area to a back hallway.  This is of no concern to anyone else in our household as they all measure well under the threshold.  In a sort of reverse “you must be this tall to ride this ride”, I find myself waiting at the entrance of the coaster while the rest enjoy a nice ride.  I often find myself rather preoccupied with life and not being entirely intune with my new environment, my skull and the top of the door frame have become well accustomed to each other.  I wish I could report these meetings as comedic bonks that have me taking an unexpected step back to the laughter and applause of the crowd.  Unfortunately, due to my height and the measure of the door, these collisions usually cause profound injury resulting in a stream of blood running down my face from the very peak of my bald head.  Just tall enough to graze the crown of my head, I have ritualistically been scalped to the point that if I had any hair up their at all, I would have a permanent bald spot that has been replaced by a scab that will likely turn itself into a notable scar.  Aside from the wood fleas, this is really my only complaint.  A weeks worth of routine bug fogging has eliminated our pest problem and the blemishes on our extremedies are vanishing as quickly as they arrived.  I only wish the same could be said of the permanent gash on the top of my head.  The kitchen in our new home is quickly proving to be my favorite room in the house.  That is the way of things in all homes I think.  For those that live a family centered lifestyle, I think the kitchen is in fact the most important room in the house.  It is where we eat, where we commune and where we share our stories of the day.  Our new kitchen is perhaps one of the greatest kitchens I have ever been in.  It is where I write, where I paint, and where you will find me for almost all activity in my life other than sleeping.  My wife doesn’t approve of the idea of moving our bed down here, so I am forced to make my way upstairs at the end of the evening.  It isn’t that the rest of the home isn’t enchanting.  The ancient exposed stone walls and wooden beams throughout the home give away the home’s age in the most flattering way.  The kitchen however, is damned near magical.  A giant stone fireplace at its core and a pure white cabinet that I would ship back to the US with me if I didn’t think the owners would notice are two of my favorite features.  Wooden beamed ceilings and a semi-spiral staircase add to the charm.  The hodgepodge of actual kitchen cabinets that seem to have been scavenged from random discards are a bit of an eyesore, but anything newer or nicer wouldn’t fit the look.  The house is clad with white shutters, some inside and some out.  Each seems different from the next and have their own mechanical advantage.  Most every window is a disaster to open and shut due to the constant shifting of the ancient stone, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Two recent lessons about the home from the owner himself have painted such a rich history in my mind and given the home such heritage in my heart that I will truly be sad to one day leave its warm hearth. 

The owner is as magical as his wife and son that I have had the pleasure in meeting.  I mentioned him in brief in the last post, but I think like his son, he deserves description.  I have met him on two occasions and his mode of dress has been similar at each.  He is genuine and well spoken.  His English is impecible and education apparent.  His straight forward approach and unassuming aire are refreshing and in kinship with my own.  He is of medium height with an olive complexion.  His hair was once like his young son’s, but is now aglow with the silver that only age and life’s trials can provide.  His eyebrows remain dark and are a testament to his knowing gaze and give his face an unexpectedly stern look that is immediately dismissed by his kind demeanor and approachable nature.  Surrounding the aging gleam in his eye are a pair of spectacles.  The wooden temples appear to have been cut from the same ancient wood as the beams supporting our homes, while the frames are of a gunmetal grey that evoke an image of cannon fire as they are perched atop his nose.  At the temple, embossed in the wood is an emblem familiar to my eye.  It is a bee.  Familiar, because it can be found on many pieces of fine cutlery here, and I believe it is Napoleonic in its origin.  I must look this up when I once again have internet access.  His dress has been casual on both of our meetings.  Shorts in fact.  Khaki in color.  The shirt has been of a dress variety and has usually been garnished with a rich looking sweater wrapped atop his shoulders.  None of the family has ever visited with us without a shadow, their loyal canine companion and the clear guardian of this grand encampment.  Named after a nearby village, this shepherd of sorts carries with it a long gentle gate and a broken coat.  As with the rest of the family, it maintains a gentle but knowing gaze and a quiet grace.  Unfortunately, a stark contrast to our portly, wheezing, sausage of a smash faced dog with wicked bad gastrointestinal emissions.  STUPID DOG.  The two animals have been introduced, because, as the owner so eloquently put it . . . like men, it is not good for animals to live alone.  There is some humor there, and a great deal of truth.  He said “men” implying the profound meaning of mankind, but applying gender rules to it, makes a fair deal of sense as well and made my wife inappropriately giggle when he said it without much inflection.  I suppose you could have gone any direction with it, but I understood what he meant.  It isn’t good for any of us to go it alone.  Companionship is important, whether you are man or beast.  That is the way they have treated us since we have been here.  Part of the family and part of a community.  I don’t think we are yet comfortable with each other, but I know that will come in time and there are certainly not any barriers to overcome.  Both sides are open and it will only take a few more chance meetings to grow a bond with them that will last for the remainder of our days.  I like that about them and even if they don’t know it yet, they will like that about me as well.

We have adventured around a bit and have the lay of the land so that a GPS system is no longer required to find our way to civilization.  That being said, I don’t find myself drawn back to the city for much other than to repeatedly treat the green monster that is Madame Chabou’s pool that we are still required to care for until the weeks end.  We have now pumped so many chemicals into this vat of ill content that it may require government intervention and men in clean white suits to come in and clean up.  The green does not seem to be giving up without a fight and will in all likelihood cause a withholding of a bit of our security deposit.  Such is life I suppose.  We are nearly unpacked and my hope is that in the coming week, I can return to some of the more rewarding aspects of life.  My eldest turns 9 in the coming week and with it I feel that much older still.  I can’t believe he is already 9 years old.  It seems like only yesterday that the lad was pulling himself up on the slats forming the front of his crib.  I know that the next 9 will be more challenging and rewarding than the last, but knowing we are already half way to his emancipation makes me realize how important each day is with him and that soon rather than later, he will be bidding our home a fairwell in search of his own hopes and dreams.  We have opened the world to him without a doubt, now where he goes with it is up to him.  I have a bit more time with the youngest, and he is going to need it.  That guy is as wild as the day is long may well have to be ridden for longer than just 8 seconds to break him.  I blame his mom, but I am likely to blame.  I am a bit unruly myself and as my wife will attest to, I am hardly broken myself and she has put in a good 11 years on me already.  That brings me to my final story for the day.  It dates back to moving day, but I failed to mention the incident in my last entry.  You will see that I am a far worse hazard to life than either of my sons could ever be.

As we all know, anytime you rent a vehicle, you have an option.  Stop and fill up the tank before returning it, or having your wallet drained when they charge you their “corporate rate” for fuel.  Mere mortal men can’t afford that upgrade, so I usually prefer to fill er up myself before I return the vehicle.  I stopped into a local convenience store to fill up the tank and the calamity that is my life reared its ugly head.  You see, as with many of life’s administrative processes, they have not done away with the old in favor of the new.  In the US, we have adapted the new to avoid thievery for the most part, and this doesn’t seem to be as much of a problem here.  This is not to say that the modern pay at the pump doesn’t exist.  In fact, they have taken quite nicely to the completely unmanned convenience store.  You can pay for your gas 24/7 and even go to the building and mechanically purchase snacks from a plate glass window.  Its like looking into a giant vending machine.  Instead of the usual ring rollers you find inside a vending machine, you are looking into the window of a store with fully stocked shelves.  A robotic contraption then goes to the shelf to retrieve your item once you have made your selections.  I have not seen this in the US yet, but it surely exists.  The opposite is true, however, in that you can still pull up to the pump and fill up the tank BEFORE you pay.  A novelty that has come and gone in the US.  The full service station is even alive and well here.  A dying breed back in the good ole USA.  This particular station, however, happened to be the pay AFTER you pump type.  I began to let the Diesel flow before I realized that I had left my wallet at home and had no way to pay.  My immediate response was to grab my cell phone and call the wife for a rescue mission.  MISTAKE.  The gas station attendant had eyes like a hawk and spotted my infraction.  The pump clearly states a prohibition on cell phone usage, and unlike in the US, they are serious about it.  She screamed at me through the intercom and shut my pump down immediately.  No worries in my mind, since I didn’t have any way to pay for it anyhow.  With my wife unavailable to bring my debit card to pay for what fuel I had already pumped, I was glad to see the appearance of my chase vehicle.  My friend that was following me to the rental place to provide me a ride back to the house had pulled into the station and parked at the back of the lot.  Unfortunately, he too would feel the wrath of the gas station attendant as he was apparently not supposed to park in that location despite a complete lack of posted instruction indicating such.  Our combined infractions led to more extreme intervention.  The attendant soon arrived pump side to scold us both for our insolence.  This kind of tom foolery was not going to be allowed here . . . not on her watch.  She jumped from behind her counter, clad herself in a high-vis yellow vest, locked the convenience store down and headed out onto the lot.  I played dumb and my friend who is quite fluent in French patched things up.  She soon re-activated my pump and I begged for payment from my friend.  She waited outside while we finished our business, I presume just to make sure we didn’t cause any further incident and we followed her back to the store front where a rather annoyed group of patrons were now lined up at the door awaiting entry to pay for their fuel and purchase the sundries available inside.

Once inside I felt better about our scolding, for a boy that couldn’t have been much older than 10 had purchased a freeze pop and had returned to ask for an empty cup.  He made the mistake of dispensing with the pleasantries and went right for the throat.  That is a big mistake here.  The pleasantries must be observed.  The response was swift and stern.  She yelled at the boy for not greeting her property.  She advised the boy that he was to say “Hello Madame” (translation of course) before asking for anything.  The boy obliged and she summarily denied his request.  I felt the sting of his whipping, but it made me feel like maybe she hated life and the boy and I were just unwitting victims.  By the time I reached the counter, she had removed the high-vis vest which revealed her boobie tattoo.  Nothing like a touch of class.  My friend and I opted for the pleasantries, but left it at that, not wanting to push our luck.  She warmed to us a bit and let us go on our way with a bit more flirtatious roll of the eyes as to our prior infractions.  I felt like I should buy the kid an empty cup for taking the heat that was surely meant for me.  I didn’t, but if I ever see this lad again in my life, I think I owe him a kindness.  The truly ironic part of the whole exchange?  You know that ban on mobile phone usage at the pump?  You know who caused that?  I can tell you.  It was some scum bag lawyer like myself who probably sued a mobile phone giant and gas station when their douche bag client burst into flames at the pump.  The argument was made that the fire was caused by the usage of a cell phone and the shithead lawyer made it stick.  The real reason for the fire?  The douche bag client was likely smoking a Marlboro Red and talking to his lady on his cellie while filling his bass boat hauling monster truck up with super unleaded all the while fumbling around with his free hand to unearth a slim jim from its stubborn packaging.  That about covers it for the evening.  Take care and I will post again as soon as time and internet connectivity permit.  The romance of this project is somewhat lost when I am forced to submit my posts using the WiFi at the nearest McDonalds.  As an aside, in France, “WiFi” is pronounced “WeeFee”.  Bet you didn’t know that, did you.  Goodbye for now.  Jack Butler, over and out.

Day ? through ?

Love, Loss, and One Man’s Never-ending Search for Inspiration from the Dark Side of the Moon.

I haven’t a clue what day it is, and to be honest, I am not sure it really matters.  We are slowly coming out of a prolonged period of radio darkness so to speak.  We have been without meaningful internet service for the better part of a week or so now and I am beginning to feel the effects.  I have been quite busy, so it has kept my mind off of my tremendous need for the therapy that this project provides.  Despite my wife’s heretofore mentioned disdain for combination posts, I actually lack the mental capacity to separate one day from the next, so we will stick with the summary and hope that my internet connectivity improves in the coming week.  History has shown that many of the greatest artists and literary figures have taken refuge in places of inspiration in hopes that the change in location will produce an epiphany of Moby Dick type proportions.  Our recent move is inspirational indeed.  For everything that could be said about the rather unpleasant experience at Madame Chabou’s Reform School for Girls, the opposite is true here in our new home.  It is, as some can attest, beyond description.  I won’t attempt to flatter the experience with flowery prose, but rather simply state that it is a bit like something off of a postcard.  There are of course a couple of notable exceptions, but we will get to that in due course.

I believe I left you a day or so prior to moving day.  The days were filled with all of the usual last minute details that are so mundane as to hardly warrant a mention.  Friday the 1^st was our wedding anniversary and my wife surprised me with a night out on the town.  Our very dear American friends, who had graciously offered to help us move, sent their son over to our house Friday evening to watch the boys while my wife and I went to dinner.  Since they were to see us the following day, it was decided that our sitter would stay the night which didn’t put too much of a curfue on our evening.  My wife had done some research via the World Wide Web and had located a restaurant that was supposed to sell a pretty decent hamburger.  Glamorous, I know.  I am not terribly versed in the anniversary symbols.  Year one is paper, and I think the bigger ones are silver and gold, but I can’t for sure tell you which is which.  Apparently, however, 11 years is BEEF.  So my wife says anyway.  I haven’t done much research to find out if she is right, but I did appreciate the gesture.  We strolled through town in search of our restaurant, but it appeared to have gone out of business long before our arrival and had been replaced with a taco joint that was not open.  We circled back through the Centre Ville to find alternative arrangements and ended up at the French version of Applebee’s.  Even though we were essentially “eatin good in the neighborhood”, the café front seating made for a pleasant evening.  After dinner we went for a walk along the river hand in hand and reflected on this last year together.  The wife asked where we would be at the end of the next 11 years.  My knee jerk reply of “second marriages” stayed well parked in the back of my throat and I just shrugged my shoulders and said “who knows”.  The question did raise and interesting statistic.  In the past 11 years we have moved 6 times.  Roughly once every two years.  If we keep that pace up, by our 22^nd wedding anniversary, we should be somewhere near Bangladesh.     We continued to walk and talk, taking an occasional pause to step out of traffic for some well timed public displays of affection.  The French aren’t afraid of kissin passionately in the streets.  Something that we aren’t used to in the States.  If you can’t beat them however,  . . . well, you know the rest.  We walked and “made out” for most of the evening, until our feet and lips were requisitely tired.  We made our way to our bus stop for our only unpleasant encounter for the evening.  A homeless dude walks up to me for a handout.  Deep into a fairly serious drunk, he weaved and wobbled before me as if at any moment he might just hit the deck.  Holding out his dirty ass palm, he asked for some change.  I took the opportunity to play the dumb American and said that I didn’t understand and that I didn’t speak French.  The drunk prick then had the audacity to ask for money in English, punctuated by a S’il Vous Plait.  Again I answered in the negative and he kindly threw his hand further out in an effort to shake my own.  I denied this request as well and he moved along in an unpleasant fog of malted hops.  He soon took up a stoop directly behind us and began begging from others, all the while heckling me, assuming I didn’t understand what he was saying.  I am now much too old to be terribly quick to anger, so I kept my mouth shut and my fists firmly planted in my pockets.  A younger version of myself would have likely shot his mouth off and ended the evening in an altercation, but that kid has long since been replace with a much more seasoned temper.  The evening ended as it should have and we made our way home for a reasonable bedtime so that the next day’s move would not be sleep deprived. 

Moving day finally did arrive, and things started off in our favor.  A notable rarity in my life, that you would have certainly noticed by now had you been following along.  Our cest la vie approach to life as we know it had us a bit remiss for a moving truck.  I know I mentioned in prior posts, the recent acquisition of a Citroen Jumpy from some friends of ours, but it was going to be a move to hell and back if this was to be our only conveyance.  We thought it best to supplement our fleet with an honest to God moving van.  The problem was, the only thing we could arrange on such short notice, during the height of moving season was a van not much larger than the Jumpy itself.  Going with the theory that two is better than one, we made the arrangements.  We left all three boys to sleep in a bit and headed to the rental car place to pick up Jumpy #2.  I knew at the outset that this would be a fiasco.  Once again, the very basic nature of our command of the language would surely trip us up along the way.  When our turn at the rental counter came, my wife didn’t utter a word, but simply handed over our rental confirmation.  The lady behind the counter entered in the confirmation number and immediately greeted us in English.  Not only was she pleasant and speaking our language, she had a bit of news.  She had not completed our reservation and the Jumpy 2 would not be going home with us.  Bummer.  She continued by stating, that since we had originally requested the big truck she took it upon herself to change our reservation when one became available due to a cancellation.  Voila!  Back in business.  Nothing breeds loyalty like that type of customer service.  It seems to be a bit of rarity here, but when you do find it, it is way over the top.  Now at the helm of a very large moving van, the realities of the day set in.  My wife, being a complete chicken shit, took a big pass on all driving duties, which would have me sweating the drive down very narrow one way corridors with a vehicle that one could barely park on an aircraft carrier.  Truth be told, I am usually the wheel man on these missions, so her request that I drive the van was not at all out of the norm.  I did however, envy her role in our relationship as I attempted to pull this beast out of the parking lot.  Preparation is key when living in the urban jungle and we had blocked off some parking before we had left the house, so there was ample room to parallel park this thing at the curb.  Our friends from the Centre Ville soon joined us and the move commenced.  We made relatively short work of the loading and were soon on our way to the new house.  The boys opted to stay in town and out of the way so we could tend to the unloading.  Very gracious of them I thought.  The truth is more like a general aversion to manual labor and an inability to peel themselves off of the sofa to carry anything heavier than a video game controller.  That is not entirely fair, as they would all have gladly helped had we asked and tend to be very industrious young lads.  The four adults however, had things well in hand and my boys were enjoying the prolonged company of their favorite sitter, so it all worked out in the end.

Nearing the Chateau, we received a frantic phone call from the delivery guy that was to meet us at the house with our new washer and dryer.  LOST.  Shocker.  That happens when you don’t have an actual address.  My wife jumped back in the car to try and track them down at the closest town and lead them back to the proper location.  I was left to procure a key to the house and begin unloading all of our crap.  I rang the bell at the gate of the castle (still weird to say) and was greeted by the owner’s son who advised that the house should already be unlocked and that he would bring by some extra keys.  Sure enough, the house was unlocked and soon items were finding semi-permanent new homes inside our new house.  When the owner’s son came by with the extra keys, he commented that he was just finishing lunch and that afterward he would come by with the forklift to help us load the large furniture through the upstairs window.  I think at this point, it is probably worth describing the owner’s son.  Like a page torn from an Armani print add, he is tall with medium length dark hair and a disposition that would make young maidens weak in the knees.  His mode of dress was simple, understated and well kept.  An unstructured white shirt over a pair of dark denim pants.  The shoes were a brown suede dress shoe that looked like they likely cost more than my mortgage.  A bright red designer belt set the whole look on edge.  Nothing overstated.  Simple and timeless, with an ease to his gate that would point well to his ease in demeanor.  He is as nice as the day is long and exactly what I would have expected and yet not at all what I would have expected all at the same time.  We now live in a world of nobility, in a place and industry where that still means something.  Much like his mother, his generosity and genuine nature make him a guy hard not to like.  I would soon discover that the entirety of the family, from the Vicomte down, are as wonderful a group of people as I have ever met.  Having not paid much attention to the clock, we took his consumption of lunch as a cue to stop to have our own.  Ours would be a simple picnic affair.  Lunch meat sandwiches on croissants, orange wedges and of course a bottle of red wine made from the very same grapes that were being grown not 20 yards away.  After a long stay underneath a shade tree, it was apparent that we should get back to physical labor before an afternoon nap set in on us all.  We quickly sprang back into action, slowly building an enormous pile of furniture in the yard that was destined for the second floor.  As promised, the owner’s son soon returned atop an ancient forklift that had surely lifted a pallet or two of Bordeaux Grand Reserve in its younger years.  Now it appeared to have been relegated to the odd farm job.  It appeared to weigh a ton and was fairly unwieldy to boot.  The owner’s son had changed into work ware as well.  Same white shirt, red belt and denim pant.  Swapped the dress shoe for a very sleek canvas sneaker though.  With some backbreaking labor and precarious tightrope manuervers atop a rickety ladder, we soon had all the heaviest items up and through the master bedroom window.  We bid our new friend farewell and assured him that we didn’t need any more assistance despite his repeated offer to help in any way he could.  Remember what I said about generosity?

We soon made quick work of the remainder of our load and realized that one piece of furniture was going to be a problem.  The king sized mattress was not going to fit through the upstairs window . . . no way, no how.  In all of my brilliance, I suggested we cram the bastard up the winding stair well, knowing full well that there wasn’t a remote chance that this would work.  Try as I might, I just couldn’t wedge the thing through the small opening in the staircase.  All the maneuvering did however lead me to the conclusion that I had enough strength and determination to fold a king size matress in half.  Upon witnessing this feat, one of our friends had the idea that we might just be able to fit the thing through that window if we unnaturally folded it and then cinched it down with tie downs.  We did just that, and with all the ease of jamming a square peg into a round hole, we somehow stuffed that bastard through the window and right onto the floor.  We finally wrapped things up and headed back for town to pick up the children.  We had moved all bedding, so it wasn’t a choice as to where we would be spending the night.  The return trip was under darkened skies and quite late in the evening.  Exhausted, but happy, we all crashed on our respective matresses on the floor.  Dawn would break early Sunday morning, and we would not quick to rise to its call.  We did finally meet the day, but it was with some regret given our continued state of exhaustion.  No matter, the day would be spent in the typical post move fashion.  Unpacking boxes of shit and finding a home for all of our useless knick knacks.  The positive was that the day went by quickly and we got to enjoy the day in our new home.

Settling in.  The wife would return to work on Monday and leave me with the duty of setting up shop.  This promised to be a week long process and did not fail to live up to that promise.  With the boys home from school for the summer, I felt compelled not to make the entire week a complete drag, so we took some time to explore our new environment with some bike tours and well placed video game breaks.  Every morning, I am now greeted with a view of a sprawling vineyard from my shower window.  Breakfast is taken to the tune of humming tractors going about their business in the green cultivation of the grape vines.  This is a living and breathing place, and to be a part of it will live in my memory forever.  I could literally go on and on about the charm this new life now holds.  Charm not rendered from its novelty but rather from its familiarity.  It feels like home.  It is in its simplest terms a farm and we are farm folk.  Sure, they have replace rows of corn with rows of grapes, but is it really all that different?  The answer is a resounding no.  Perhaps that is why I am already so fond of the owners.  They are my kind of people.  Salt of the Earth.  Now their chosen vocation has its own set of civilities that are inherent from its birth, but otherwise they are just good ole farmers.  The combination of an old fashioned work ethic and a sense of dignity and diplomacy make them fascinating and make life in their shadow absolutely intoxicating.  Somewhere over the past week I had the opportunity to walk around our home with the owner himself.  I followed from spot to spot, absorbing a history lesson that was 9 generations in the making.  Hearing his plans for the property and seeing the gleam in his eye reminded me of my own aspirations for my humble yet grand home back in Kansas.  He lives in the present with strong roots to the past.  The main part of our house dates back to the 16^th century and the home in its entirety is referred to as “the hen” due to its shape.  A shape given from his grandmother’s side of the family.  She was the one that was insistent on the addition of the second level which lends to it’s poultryesque dimensions.  The tour was pleasant and an offer was extended for a more extensive tour of the property as a whole once we have settled in.  I bid him farewell and went back to tending to my flock.

It is grand and it is romantic, but not without its drawbacks.  The lack of internet connection is really the least of our worries at this point.  Early in the week, my wife complained that she seemed to have contracted a case of poison ivy.  We are not foreign to this, so her exposure and reaction was not all that surprising.  What was surprising however, was that the rash of irritably itchy bumps spread through the entire family like wildfire by midweek.  This clearly was not a case of poison ivy as we had first though.  We were under attack from an invisible plague and it was evident that we would need to fight back before it killed us all.  We finally gave up and took the boys to a doctor to see if we could determine the source of our increasing ailment.  The diagnosis?  Wood fleas.  The insulting part is that the dog is immune to this problem.  STUPID DOG.  That is what happens when you live in a home constructed of wood that is now nearly 4 centuries old.  With anti-itch save in hand and a solid plan of attach to treat the wood, we should be clear of this stumbling block by the end of the week.  The house is full of wooden beams and plank wood floors, so it is hard to say what the source of the outbreak is, but I have my suspects.  We were left with two enormous and beautiful wooden armoires on the upper floor.  The lion and the witch would truly be envious.  The one in our bedroom seems benign enough, but the one in the main hall upstairs is a different story.  Upon opening this beautiful piece of ancient furniture, it seems that we may have opened a portal to hell.  The smell is difficult to classify.  It smells a bit like a sweaty Pakistani man had made this his home for the better part of a year and hadn’t bothered with a shower during this time.  The stench is undeniable and quite literally causes the eyes to tear a bit upon unsuspecting encounter.  It’s more than just strong body odor, somewhere in the mix is a bit of bus exhaust and a slight hint of cured meats.  The mélange of fragrance was not assisted by my wife’s addition of air freshener.  Now it smells a whole lot like a NYC taxi cab.  That little pine cone air freshener hanging from the rear view does little to mask the driver’s sweat, recent lunch and city wide pollution that seem to make the ride virtually intolerable from start to finish.  Your only hope is that you don’t get caught in rush hour traffic.  Otherwise, the smell is likely to attach itself to you and somehow embed itself in your own DNA.  You won’t smell anything else in your life without a subtle hint of this stench creeping in.

I am a firm believer that bad shit happens in threes.  Wood fleas and stinking ass furniture left us one short of a full cycle.  Bad news from home.  We lost a member of the family this week and I want to take time to remember her.  I am not a sentimental lad, but her loss has left an empty spot in our hearts.  Our 12 year old Great Pyrenees had been in poor health for some time and we knew that it was not likely that we would be back home before she passed.  She had gotten herself stuck in a muddy pond bank and couldn’t get out.  She was discovered in time, but never really recovered.  The decision was clear, we would have to put her down.  Not an easy thing to stomach from thousands of miles away.  She is a very dear member of the family and has been our protector for as long as I can remember.  She saw us through our first few nights as new parents, never leaving her cribside post.  She was the fearless voice in the night, constantly warding off predators from our newly born livestock.  She was the bully on the block, willing to put herself in danger to keep would be bad guys from even thinking of coming onto our property.  She was there when we were sick, always willing to lend her warmth, and there when we were well.  She was a gentle soul with sad eyes that loved us as much as we could have possibly loved her.  With tears in my eyes, I bid her farewell and know that if there is a Heaven for pets, she is a shoe in for the best seats in the house.  I will leave it at that before I get completely choked up.  God bless you Harley, you have been a good friend.

  

Aside from two inconveniences in life and one painful loss, I have to say we are content.  The hope now is that all the boxes will soon be unpacked, the fleas will be annihilated and the smell of the wayward cabby will give way to the airwick airfreshener pulling double duty in the dark recesses of what is supposed to be our linen closet.  Take care and Jack will be back sooner rather than later.