Lost in Translation and Looking for a Map (a working title)

Sunrise: 8:39
Vocab:
merde - shit
s'emmerder - to be bored stiff

So, I was in a grim mood when I started writing this blog post on Thursday. Here are some highlights:

Well, we're three days into December and 16 days away from my flight home. It's hard to believe that this is the last full-month retrospective-style entry I will write. I just got home from a horrible oral final at the fac, so hopefully a little bit of solipsistic cyber catharsis will do me some good.

To be straightforward: translation is the theme of this post. Before I left home I had a lot of anxiety related to different issues of translation -- not just language barrier issues, but more intangible personal transformations, too.

Beyond my adventures around Nantes and France, I've omitted a lot of l'essentiel because I have no idea how to capture the ambiance of this place in words. Sometimes I can't resist slipping including the occasional French word in my English discourse because it expresses more completely what I really mean. Instincts -- almost impossible to teach.

But, I give up. My mood has taken a considerable turn for the better and here's what I want to write about: Christmas. Well, to be precise, I want to write about the Christmas market(s) in Nantes. As I may have mentioned, it's been Noël in Nantes since the beginning of November (since, you know, only about 100 of the people in this city celebrate T-giving) and the decorations have been going up all month. I haven't had the chance to snap any photos yet, but it's a must: Nantes hosts some of the most over-the-top, self-indulgent (apparently hyphenated) Christmas decorations I've ever seen...and that includes the enormous wreathes all over Ardmore. Large green garlands and stars made from branches hang suspended between the lampposts around Rond Point Rennes; no one can even see the Place Royal fountain anymore for the Christmas market spiraling around it; Passage Pommeray has turned into Narnia.

To be honest, I'm not a very "Christmas spirit" kind of person. Not exactly a Scrooge either, but I'm not often overflowing with joyous tidings and good will towards men...or who knows...maybe that's just the status quo for me. Either way, Christmas is no big until the 25th. Well, normally. In Nantes, it's hard not to smile when a portly aproned man beckons you over to his wooden booth and greeting you -- "bonjour, les filles!" -- ladles some vin chaud into a small plastic cup. Warmed by your Christmas wine, you start to admire the wares; you start to imagine how your family would look dressed all in those Breton knits; you don't even mind when the merchants try to speak to you in English. Taking a turn through Passage Pommeray, festooned as it is with white and silver, red and purple, your eyes expand to twice their normal size. Then, you exit the passage, and this is where I start speaking in the first person again (I'll keep the present tense, though, I like this sense of immediacy I've got going on).

There's a man there, who I see around often enough. He always wears a top hat and most of his teeth fell out long ago. Today, as most days, he's playing the violin, striking up an inspiring rendition of the Inspector Gadget theme song. Even in the concavity of his face, I can't miss his smile. I'm coming back down from my Christmas high a bit, though. For such a small city, Nantes has a lot of homeless on its streets. Like this man. I wonder where he'll go when it really starts to get cold. I wonder where he goes when it rains. I've wanted to write about him for so long now. He's one of those romanticized derelicts pulled straight out of my imagination -- maybe yours, too -- too ethereal to worry about for too long. He smiles too often for that. In spite of the rain, Christmas in Nantes is a storybook.

We've crested the two week hill, folks. I'm coming home in 12 days. Soon on this very blog: my end-of-semester Bucket List. (NB: Dare me to do something before I leave and I'll try to make it happen!)