Meanderings through the dictionary

At right: Bonnie, Trev and I prepare to brave the Breton winds and visit La Roche-Bernard. Note my toboggan....

"No translation of an event, concept, or experience from one language to another can be made without distortion. It matters not how quickly the translation occurs or how dedicated and skilled the translator is. There are no absolutely accurate translations, and no absolutely identical meanings given to words of different languages."
from Resurrection: myth or reality? by John Shelby Spong

I'm (this is Emily, by the way) reading an odd combination of things just at the moment: the above mentioned book, subtitled 'A Bishop's Search for the Origins of Christianity'; the second collected volume of the graphic novel The Ultimates, recommended to me by my spouse, who usually guesses right about what I'll enjoy reading; and Wonderful Brittany, a book (in English!) about the chunk of land we now live on that a thoughtful friend found for us. Along, of course, with near-daily dips into the Bird Guide to Europe and the French-French dictionary that I finally broke down and bought myself before Christmas. It makes for a pleasant hodge-podge of ideas in which to marinate my brain.
Looking up something in the French dictionary can often lead to an Internet-like linking experience: I look up a word, find that the definition holds a word I don't know and can't guess from context, so I look up that word, and so on, until I have entirely lost sight of the original question and have to go back to whatever I was reading to find where I started. In one of these perambulations I found myself at the top of the page in the 'Ts' reading 'toast' (as in English, something one either eats or drinks, depending on the occasion), 'toasteur/toaster' (also as in English, the apparatus for turning one's bread into charcoal), and 'toboggan', which diverges from the English definition by being not the thing on which one slides down the hill, but instead the track on which one puts the thing that slides. Either that, or an apparatus for conveying items from one level to another. I stopped at that point, puzzled, and have not yet checked this with an actual French speaker (the average person tends to get a slightly wild-eyed look when accosted by a total stranger asking odd questions about random French words).
The word 'toboggan' in English has a fond, if muddled, association for me; it gained a new aspect not long after I married Trever, when, on a cold and wintry day, he asked me where his toboggan was before we set out on a walk. "Where's your what?" I confusedly replied, thinking that he had taken leave of his senses, as there was no snow on the ground. Until then, for me the word had been either a noun denoting a sort of sled, or a verb denoting the action that took place on that sled, as in 'tobogganing down a hill' (and landing in a bush, because there was no way to steer the darned thing). Either way, that clearly had not been what Trev meant, but after some discussion I learned that a toboggan was a knit cap, and we turned out the closet shelf together to save his ears from freezing. Sadly, that hat evidently didn't make it to France, as you can tell from the photo above, where I am the one wearing the fuzzy green hat and Trev's ears are forlornly unprotected.
Obviously, our life in France is often lived 'in translation' so when I read the above quotation it struck me rather more forcibly than it might otherwise have done. My French is in a worse state than usual thanks to having spent the last several weeks speaking English almost exclusively, but even when I'm in my top form I wonder about whether I'm choosing the best words to convey what I want to say. But of course, I wonder this in English was well, and reading Bishop Spong's quote threw me back to a conversation my father and I had about 25 years ago. I have no idea now how we got started, but it was a discussion of communication (I am the child of two sociologists, and I think the habit of inquiry is communicable, no pun intended). In the course of the conversation, we decided that all communication between human beings is of necessity a translation, even if they speak the same language, because the words spoken/written by one must be heard/read and understood by the other. And there is no guarantee that what is meant will be what is understood. This was a rather startling idea to me and one that has stuck with me over the years. Sometimes I wonder if I should bother to work on my French! But if I'm daunted one day, I'm sure that the next will find me digging through the dictionary again on the track of some word that has inspired me.....

Mom's Thoughts on France, Conclusion

Today's picture is a view my parents did not get to see while they were here - The inside of the Herbignac church. Our village church is a pretty large affair in its own right, especially for a town of 4,000! We stopped by but the doors were locked when we visited. Emily and I snapped this photo years ago, in the summer of 2003 if I recall correctly, one day when we were walking through town and noticed that the doors were open.

Now, on to my mom's final words about her visit to France:


We found their personal friends most gracious and kind. They welcomed us with open arms and tables full of French cuisine. Most of our fears of French food (planted in our minds by our son) were dismissed. The meals were absolutely wonderful. Different is a word I used quite often in describing the food. I didn’t mean that it was bad, but a taste I’d not had before, one that was new and undetermined to my palette. I gained five pounds.

The day after we arrived came the day of our departure – or so it seemed. It was unbelievable. Time was up and we must leave our babies in their new world. We still could not believe they had made it without us for three whole years. We were leaving home to go home. We would be a world away, but only a heartbeat apart. We left knowing they were where they were meant to be – perhaps from the very start.

Making this trip was my dream come true. I thank God for allowing it to happen. I thank God for our children’s ability to hold tight to each other during the rough times; for the passion to move beyond their dreams and for the strength that sustains them. I believe all things are possible if you have faith, love, and a little help from your friends – even moves to the far side of the world.

Mom's Thoughts on France, pt 5

We are winding towards the end - I think just one more of mom's posts after this one and then it will be back to my gibberish. When we left off, we had visited the Chateau du Suscinio, and mom was talking about the various castles and ruins all over our area:

Castles stood on hills surrounded by moats. Churches stood in the middle of each village. Everything in the villages was tiny. The homes were like little monopoly houses. Most were cream colored and a little on the sparse side. Homes in the US have adornments. Here the yards were small (if they even had a yard). There were no porches, no shrubs, no walkways, and no pink flamingos. Most residents cover their windows and doors each night using crank down metal shutters that latch tight. I wondered about this practice, especially since Herbignac had only one policeman and almost no crime to speak of. Perhaps some monster from the sea had long ago cast fear into these little hobbit inhabitants.

Which brings me to the sea. The beaches are in no way like ours. Their beaches have rocky cliffs, almost gravel like sand, and not much shore. You can crawl into caves (and be drowned there when the tide comes in). No tourists push by you; there’s no noise, and no planes flying over with streamers announcing free beer at Bernie’s. You could walk for miles and not meet up with another person. There were pig paths wrapping all around the cliff sides with lots of nooks and crannies to explore. I loved those bare beaches. They were clean and void of man’s mess.

(Well, we do still have our share of litter and trash, but thankfully you can play in the sand without much fear of stepping on someone's old hypodermic needles...)

As we walked high and low, most folks we passed seemed friendly. That’s not to say we didn’t get a few stares. There’s no hiding our southern accents and our southern ways. We have no qualms about asking questions in public or even pointing a finger at something interesting. Of course these characteristics (in France) made us look like idiots according to our children. Still they did not abandon us. They walked along with us, glad to have us embarrassing them again.

Mom's Thoughts on France, pt 4

This is how we traveled in Nantes- by tram. It was exciting. Nantes is a very busy place, full of romance and high energy. It’s a mix of old and new. The cathedral Saint-Pierre marked the high point of this destination. Never had I seen such an enormous structure. An ice arena was set up just outside the gigantic cathedral doors- a clash in time as young skaters glided around to the sound of Reggae.

Then there was the walled city of Guerande. Oh was it cold there. This was another huge giant step back into time. We walked on cobblestone streets. We peered into shop windows. We looked at unique stone shop signs and ornate stone statues. In fact, we liked it so much that we made two trips to Guerande.

We toured many castles. Some were in ruins and some were as if you could move right in and set up your kingdom. Castle Ranrouet, on the Guerande peninsula, is within walking distance of Herbignac. Standing in ruins, surrounded by what was once a moat, it inspires you to wonder about what life must have been like in the Middle Ages. As we walked around the structure, I imagined residing in such a fortress. It was here that we saw our first gypsies. We were told that gypsies are a common site and roam freely throughout the country. They travel in painted wooden wagons pulled by horses.

(Mom got a more romantic picture of this than the usual! The gypsies we saw really were in painted, horse-drawn wagons - very pretty and very unusual. Most of the "drifters" we see in Brittany travel in modern campers and are a huge annoyance. They trash up parking lots, bother the locals, steal and vandalize as they go... and they always seem to haul along several noisy, yapping dogs that you can hear howling from across the village every night.)

We visited the Chateau de Suscinio. This magnificent castle was in pristine condition, as if patiently awaiting the return of the Lord and Lady of the Manor. I wished we could have had more time to explore its vastness. There were grand halls leading from room to room. In the open arena inside the castle walls you could almost hear the sound of horses clashing as jousting took place, with veiled ladies waving and cheering. You could hear the echoing voices bouncing from wall to wall. There was a well in the center of the arena. We wandered through passages surrounding the entire chateau.

Mom's Thoughts of France, pt 3

And now for our next installment:

Herbignac was just as I had imagined. It couldn’t have been more exact. My grandcats greeted me with open paws (really). I missed these two fur balls terribly. Scanning the kitchen floor, I saw the remnants of homemade cat toys scattered about; all had been made by me and shipped across the big ocean to their precious awaiting paws. I had fifty more assorted playthings packed in the bags.

The house was exactly as I had imagined. I had seen it so often in the email pics and web cam shots that I felt as if we’d been there a hundred times before. I can’t accurately explain this feeling. It was surrealistic. I got a quick tour (the full inspection would come later), and then we were off to find our gite, far off in the countryside, yet within five minutes of their village. As part of our trip pre-planning, Trev and Em had trekked around their area critiquing various gites. They emailed pics of gites galore, in hopes that one would suit my fancy. All the gites looked divine, and it was a difficult choice. After much consideration, I latched onto the only one that had a donkey as part of the décor. Raoul, the donkey, greeted us each morning with his powerful bray. What more could we have asked for. Being an animal lover, I knew that anyone who had a donkey would surely be kind to Americans. Henri, the owner and innkeeper could not have been more gracious. His wife prepared the most sumptuous breakfast each morning. We consumed all kinds of breads, jams and jellies, juice, fruits, and of course, lots of deep dark rich café. We always had breakfast near the warmth and glow of the open fireplace. After the meal, we presented ourselves fortified, alert and ready for our day’s adventure. Trev and Em picked us up promptly each morning with map in hand, a full tank of gas, and nerves of steel. Everything was timed strategically, every daylight hour filled with something new and exciting. We saw so much, so quickly, that I hardly can remember it all. France was everything I thought it would be and more.

Serving as our driver, guide and translator for all adventures was our feisty Emily. The traffic circles were frightening, but Emily was an expert in maneuvering. Our heads turned back and forth as we tried to comprehend the road signs and pointed directional arrows. The road maps showed hardly any marked streets, but still, getting lost was almost impossible. If you exited incorrectly, you could always loop around the next circle and end up where you started. Those inside the circle had full power- those entering the circle did so at their own risk (and yours). If you weren’t capable of mastering the stringent driving requirements or just chose not to, you still had no trouble getting to where you needed to go. Thanks to a transportation system that ran like clockwork, buses and trams were located within walking distance and were always at your beck and call.

Mom's Thoughts on France, Pt 2

Here we are again with another installment of my mother's impressions of her trip to France. And without further ado:

I had planned ahead. Each piece of four bags was packed to full capacity. We each were responsible for one bag- my husband’s piece required the strength of two oxen to pull.

Trev’s required only one and one half oxen. Emily and I had the two smaller pieces, which compared to each of us carrying about a well-fed Rottweiler. After carrying this poundage through two airports, and now onto the TGV train, I pondered the fact that I could have left out a few pounds of popcorn.

(Trever's comment - No, she couldn't have!)

Sailing along on the TGV, everything so far had fallen right into place, perfectly. We finally exhaled our fears. We were ready for adventure. Then it happened, adventure showed up. The train exploded, skidded to a stop and smoldered. The knot in our stomachs that had accompanied us from North Carolina to this point once again took up residence in our intestines. The conductor came on the intercom and began muttering in tongues. Since our train was dead, other trains were dispatched to pick us up. In all, four train connections were made, linking us to our final destination, which was Saint Nazaire, where their tiny car awaited.

(For my version of this story, see my post TGVictims)

Emily, being the only fluent French speaker of this family foursome, quickly turned into Wonder Woman. We walked, ran, and jumped from train to train joined to her hips.

At last we arrived in Saint Nazaire, a bit weary and a whole lot hungry (some things never change). We packed all our monumental pieces of luggage into their tiny car. Then we opened the doors of the wee vehicle and crawled in. We realized at this point that Americans do indeed eat too many Big Macs. The little French cars were meant for little French people, and certainly not those over six feet tall, like my husband. Packed tightly inside, we were now on our way home to Herbignac, the newly adopted home of our children. We were about as excited as two middle-aged people could be. We looked forward to seeing their village, their home, and our grandcats, Loki and Freya, who we had also missed deeply.

Mom's Thoughts on France

Here's my mother all bundled up for the bitterly cold winds that whistle through our stone-and-concrete streets. She was nice enough to take some time and write down her impressions of her trip to France, which I will post over the next day or two in chapters. To kick things off:

As we began our journey to this foreign land, we packed heavy- very heavy, for this was after all a Christmas trip. We carried not only our personal needs, but also quite an assortment of gifts.

We were the Santa delivery service for Emily’s parents, all relatives, and friends.

Having never flown abroad before, we tried to prepare ourselves for the unexpected- assuming the worse scenario. Our main goal was to land safely in Paris, find our luggage and meet up with the kids at the appointed spot (that being McDonald’s, a familiar landmark to all) we accomplished this without difficulty and sure enough they appeared right on time.

Our babies were right there before our eyes. It’s an awesome feeling being picked up by your child and swung around. Then you notice that your baby has shades of gray in his beard.

Suddenly the 15-hour flight had caught up with me. My husband and I breathed a sigh, and realized that at this moment we were now the ones needing to be babied – to be hand held in public. How could a trip abroad have aged us so quickly?

The Riots - 60 Million People, 60 Million Opinions

Emily and I drove back to Nantes today to pick up (or try to pick up) our renewed carte de sejours. Alas, the lady who said she'd be in the office all afternoon was not there, and we couldn't wait forever as we wanted to catch a VO (That is, "Original English version" to non-France-inhabitants) showing of "Wallace and Gromit". After walking at high speed halfway across the city, we reached the theater to find that the film had closed out yesterday. C'est la via! We did have a nice chance to stop into FNAC (a sort of French CompUSA or BestBuy) to look at the digital camcorders. It would be great if we could record some chunks of my parents' trip here to a DVD for posterity, though I'm not sure how they will feel about this when they come staggering off the airplane after 8 hours of sleepless flight to be greeted by "LIVE On Cam!"

Today's pic is another shot of the interior of the Passage de Pommeraye, a beautiful art gallery-turned-shopping mall in downtown Nantes. The decor certainly puts Hanes Mall to shame...

Yesterday I posted that I would try to gather some opinions on the French riots from our French friends, who surely have a better insight on the situation than we do. I'm going to post their opinions here now, and possibly for the next couple of days, in somewhat edited and translated form (At least, as best I can translate the texts - I'll post original versions also). So, without further babble:

"It is not easy to be informed in this moment in France on this problem. The media choose to mask the truth in order to calm the game."
(Il n'est pas facile d'être informé en ce moment en France sur ce problème. Les médias ont choisi de masquer la vérité afin de calmer le jeu.)

"There are in the Parisian suburbs (as in all the large cities of the world: N.Y., L.A., etc.) young people who are difficult to control. They are unemployed, live in gangs, and they live of what? Drug sales, crimes, etc. The various governments tried to maintain a "pretence of order" to avoid the embarassments. They have in 3 years, Sarkozy, Minister of Interior Department (Minister for the police force), to make economies, removed 1 police station out of 3 in these difficult suburbs and cut the budget of what we call the latter "the police force of proximity" (essentially, local police stations). These last did a splendid work for all those young people who are not malicious but who are bent by stronger heads or "gang leaders".
Many people (like me) said "one day or the other, this will explode! "I was even astonished that this has not occurred faster. And then one night (11 pm) Sarko went into one of these difficult districts and he" insulted "the inhabitants. In fact, he tried to make a media operation, to recover the support of the right-wing side for the next elections because, for some time, the surveys said that he had lost votes. Sarko never would have dared to go to Corsica (or Brittany) and say: "you are a band of rabble, I will clean the city with the power hose!" If he had said that to me to me, I would be insane of rage! Because in these suburbs, there are 80 % of people "decent" who work and live normally. I saw interviews of people of my age questioned on the spot and who said that they approved the reaction of these young people. Too much it is too much. This was foreseeable, that this ignited the gunpowder, and, very sincerely, I understand them (I do not approve, but I understand). The only solution to calm the situation would be that Sarko resigns, but he will not do it..."
(Il y a dans la banlieue parisienne (comme dans toutes les grandes villes du monde : N.Y., L.A., etc.) des jeunes qui sont difficiles à contrôler. Ils sont au chômage, vivent en bandes, et ils vivent de quoi ? Du trafic de drogue, de vols, etc. tout le monde le sait.
Les divers gouvernements ont essayé de maintenir un "semblant d’ordre" pour éviter les débordements.
Il y a 3 ans, Sarkozy, ministre de l’intérieur (ministre de la police), pour faire des économies, a supprimé 1 poste de police sur 3 dans ces banlieues difficiles et il a coupé le budget de ce que nous appelions « la police de proximité » cette dernière faisait pourtant un travail magnifique pour tous ces jeunes qui ne sont pas méchants mais qui se laissent entraîner par des fortes têtes « chefs de bandes ».
Beaucoup de gens (comme moi) disaient « un jour ou l’autre, ça va péter ! » J’étais même étonnée que ça ne se passe pas plus vite.
Et puis une nuit (11 pm) Sarko est allé dans un de ces quartiers difficiles et il a « insulté » les habitants. En fait, il essayait de faire une opération médiatique, pour récupérer des voix de droite aux prochaines élections car, depuis quelques temps, les sondages disaient qu’il avait perdu des voix.
Jamais Sarko n’aurait osé aller en Corse (ou en Bretagne) pour dire : « vous êtes une bande de racaille, je vais nettoyer la cité au karsher » ! S'il m'avait dit cela à moi, je serais folle de rage ! Parce que dans ces banlieues, il y a 80 % de gens "bien" qui travaillent et vivent normalement. J'ai vu des interviews de personnes de mon âge interrogées sur place et qui disaient qu'elles approuvaient la réaction de ces jeunes. Trop c'est trop.
C’était prévisible, cela a mis le feu aux poudres, et, très sincèrement, je les comprends (je n’approuve pas, mais je comprends).
La seule solution pour calmer le jeu serait que Sarko démissionne, mais il ne le fera pas … )

Emily's first post

Here I am, squinting into the evening sun at La Turballe in June. I'm not a hostile person, really! And I don't hate our HTML editor, it's just that Trev hogs the computer all the time (so there). And I seem to spend much more time trying to type around the cat than he does, also. I'm looking forward to this addition to our site -- I hope you'll hear a bit more from me! (I still can't believe this internet stuff......hard to imagine a person on the other side of the globe reading this.....)
greetings to all, Em