Au revoir, mes amis - Adieu, Metz

When you leave the suburbs of Detroit to live in a medieval French city of honey colored stone, of course the "real world" ceases to exist, no matter how much you say to the contrary. To go from driving everywhere to walking everywhere, from speaking English to speaking French, from obsessing about your weight to learning how food and drink are truly some of the best pleasures in life (even if they make you gain 4 kilos), from a stressful, joyless full-time job to the endless rewards of teaching children, from doing what everyone expects of you to do daring to do what you've always dreamed of... is enough to change who you thought you were... or perhaps just awaken the being you should have always been.

At any rate, my fellow assistants and I are dealing with the return of reality, as we begin our goodbyes, and prepare to scatter to new jobs abroad, or return back to our home countries of America, Canada, and Australia.

Dealing with the impending departure has made me question who I am, with this altered mentality. I am no longer purely American, nor will I ever be French. I'm trapped somewhere between. In France, I will always be a foreigner... but I fear that if I go back to America, I will feel like I'm from another planet. The only people who understand this are my assistant friends who were thrust into the same circumstances I was, nine months ago. The stress, joy, and common experiences could not help but unite us in an almost immediate, intense bond. Saying goodbye is one of the most difficult trials of my life.

Kathy, Jenn, Avi, and I gathered at dusk at our favorite meeting place, Vivian's Pub in Place Saint Louis, to bid farewell to Elli, the first of us to depart. As the sun set, the lights illuminated the gothic façade of the medieval covered arcade. We greeted one another la bise, as always. Jenn and I ordered Monacos, like normal. It appeared to be just like any other of the endless nights we sat en terrasse, discussing everything and nothing at all... except this was in fact, the end.

Elli stood to leave, and we all embraced. That hug held all the joy, laughter, fear, heartbreak, and experience that we had shared throughout the year. I don't know who broke down first, but suddenly we were all in tears. Jenn accompanied Elli away, leaving the rest of us in silence at our once convivial table. As I watched them about to disappear around the bend in the road, Elli buried her face in Jenn's shoulder, overcome with tears. In a few strides, I caught up to them, and we erupted anew into sobs, embracing again.

Unbeknownst to us, Avi had stepped back to photograph our goodbyes, tears and all. When we finally noticed he was there, we tried to smile for the camera, failing miserably as you can see.

I walked home that night, gutted inside, taking my normal shortcut from Place Saint Louis, to En Jurue, passing the house of the poet Rabelais, walking underneath a charming arch above the narrow, uphill street, until meeting rue des Trinitaires, where my studio was. My shoes clicked against the cobblestones, echoing in the still night air. I entered the courtyard of my apartment

complex, saying "bonsoir" to the two sculptures of strange old men, who I had come to regard as friends.

How many times have I walked this route this year? How many intimate home-cooked dinners and conversations at Kathy's studio? How many croque monsieurs did I share with Avi and his great dane, Roc? How many times did Elli and I go running around the Plan d'eau? How many Belgian beers with my conversation partner and friend, Patrick? How many English lessons turned therapy sessions with Anna, my adult student? How many tickets de 10 voyages did I purchase for bus fare? How many pain au chocolat did I consume when running late to school in the morning? How many cups of coffee did I consume with colleagues every school day at 10am? How many times did I give my students "the look" to quiet them down? How many more times did they win me over with their cuteness? How many times did I, as if for the very first time, stop in my tracks in awe and wonder of the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, especially when standing on rue Taison, where the architecture beautifully frames her astounding flying buttresses? How many catastrophes has life abroad caused? How many joys? How do I measure how my life has changed this year, and how do I define the way I am feeling right now? It's difficult to imagine what my life will be from here, but even more impossible to imagine what my life was like before I lived here in France...

...avant que j'étais en France.

Au revoir, mes enfants

It's hard to believe that the school year has ended. 

Between my two schools, I've been consumed by a flurry of end-of-the year picnics, vocal concerts, cocktails with colleagues, and goodbyes.

My last day of school, I fought back tears as my students presented me with a bound book of drawings, letters, and thank you notes.  They also had cards for my fiancé Jim, which they instructed me to deliver unopened! Even though they only met him once, they adored him, and had never ceased to ask about how he was doing, and whether or not I returned every weekend to the USA to visit him! (I wish, hehe!)

I handed out handmade certificates of excellence for their performance in English class, and received hundreds of hugs and bisous in return.  Several cried, imploring me to come back next year. Gently, I explained that I didn't want to leave them, that if my contract had been renewed in Metz, I would not be going to Toulouse. I promised them I would never love my university students as much as them. One girl, Manon, was sobbing inconsolably. Interestingly, she's the last kid I'd expect to react this way to my departure, seeing how she was quite the troublemaker this year! 

I already feel such a void for my students and colleagues. I would absolutely live for 10am coffee breaks in the teacher's room, where we'd share cake and swap jokes and stories about problem students.  Shortly after my arrival, I would sit back, struggling to understand the nuances of their conversations... and now, nine months later, I understand everything, and even contribute.  

My colleagues presented me with a large decorative candle and a beautiful silver necklace to express their appreciation for my work with the kids.  I was praised by colleagues and parents alike for 'working wonders' with the kids and for being dynamic in the classroom. But truly, the kids were MY educators. Unbeknownst to them, they  helped my French more than I ever helped their English. Every time they asked a question, tattled on one another, or simply spoke amongst themselves, my French vocabulary grew. They taught me to laugh in a way I never thought possible. They drove me crazy at times, but never would I have had it any other way. They are my living proof that love knows no boundaries, no matter what language or nation we hail from. 

I will never forget my first French teacher, Madame Boehmer, at Heritage Junior High. At 12 years old, my love affair with France and the French language began, thanks to her. Her passion and enthusiasm made the language come alive to me, and she will always dwell in my heart. If I managed to touch the lives of these children a fraction of the amount Madame Boehmer touched mine, I will have succeeded. 

I came to France because I wanted to live in the country of my dreams.  Nine months ago, teaching was simply a means to get here. Keep in mind my degree is in graphic design, not education. That was of no concern to me; I would have done anything to get here... 

I just never expected teaching to become the most fulfilling thing I've ever done.  I wonder if I'll ever be capable of doing anything else again.

My CE2 class (second graders)

Group hug!

Un bisou!

Balloon release 

(the kids attached their names and the school address 

and phone number to see where their balloons would travel.)

Up, up and away!

Some of my colleagues at an end of the year picnic

Running in the Rain

Last night, Elli and I embarked on our run much later than usual (after 22:30). We took to the sleepy streets of Metz, still glossy and reflecting the streetlamps in the glorious calm that always follows the rain. Crossing the river, we passed the Temple Protestant, illuminated by golden lights and casting a perfect mirror image into the dark waters of the Moselle River below.  We always bring our iPods, but seldom end up using them, as we invariably end up discussing our hopes, dreams, and loves.  Tonight was also such a night, and the enchantment of Metz under her veil of night encouraged especially intimate conversation.  After all these months, we are still spellbound by her beauty in all seasons and all times of day. 

As we rounded the lake, a light drizzle became a steady rain, refreshing and cool on our skin. The rain increased in intensity as we crossed the bridge and slowed to a light jog as we continued on the naturally sloping path. At the water’s edge, under the rain, reclined on the wet grass, was a couple, blissfully unabashed, in the throes of passion. Anywhere else in the world, it might have shocked me, but somehow, it seemed perfectly natural and appropriate for this setting.  We giggled to ourselves as we passed, resisting the urge to turn around for a second glance.

The rain increased to a downpour as we crossed the campus of Université Paul Verlaine, and we were completely drenched, laughing hysterically, invigorated. The cathedral loomed high above the city in the distance, the green copper roof and golden brick taking on an otherworldly glow.  We noticed some graffiti on the side of the university restaurant, which said “SEE THE WORLD.” We paused. It had not been there on our previous runs. It was like an omen. We threw our hands in the air and screamed, lost in the beauty of the moment.

As we reentered the centre-ville, we raced down the center of the road, as there was no traffic.  Many Messins, caught without umbrellas, were taking shelter from the downpour in the doorways of cafés and beneath arcades.  They seemed so awkward, so constrained in their dutiful efforts to preserve their immaculate clothing, makeup, and belongings, and completely bewildered by the two joyful spirits sprinting past, unencumbered by rain, by anything. We were free. We were flying.

We even dared to run through Place Saint Jacques, where well-dressed women smirked at our antics while the men shouted encouragement! “Allez les filles! Allez les sportives!” “Prenez votre douche” “Bon courage!”

“Bonsoir!” we smiled, without losing stride.

Amazing how something as simple as running in the rain could create such a profound memory that neither one of us is likely to forget. Whether or not I return to France next year, my days in Metz with these wonderful friends are numbered.  Only a few precious weeks remain of our nine months together, and I find myself clinging to each moment like a priceless jewel, trying to lock each one inside my mind.

METZ in the spotlight

Grand Opening of Centre Pompidou Metz

With great anticipation, my fellow assistants and I awaited the grand opening of the Metz Extension of the Centre Pompidou, and with great fanfare we watched it all unfold. This is the biggest thing to happen to Metz since Saint Clement drove the Graoully out of the city.  The architectural marvel created by Shigeru Ban and Jean de Gastines, the Pompidou center has been a work in progress since long before our arrival last September.  We watched as it progressed, often wondering if it would ever make its deadline.  The feminine curves of the roof, dramatic, angular galleries jutting out of the exterior, and juxtaposition of building materials has created a new dimension, giving Metz relevance even 3,000 years after its birth.

We waited over two hours to be among the first to enter the museum opening day. The queue went as far as the train station. In line we heard a number of languages, and we beamed with pride, knowing that OUR city was in the spotlight, that the whole world was watching HER. As we walked inside, we could hardly contain the excitement of being a part of this historic moment for Metz.  The interior space is just as astounding as the exterior, it's a truly remarkable space. It felt like walking into a room of old, dear friends. Picasso. Matisse. Chagall. Warhol. Braque. Kandinsky.  We're all on a last name basis. The galleries have enormous windows, framing the greatest masterpiece of all, the city skyline of Metz, dominated by the cathedral.

We partook of the festivities surrounding the opening.  One night, white umbrellas equipped with flashlights were distributed to the throngs of people, who were instructed to wander around the museum grounds, the brilliant white of the illuminated umbrellas uniting with the white fiber glass roof of the Centre Pompidou.  We all became a living chef-d'œuvre, or Masterpiece. The effect was stunning; startlingly beautiful against the night sky.  We played rowdy game of follow the leader, weaving in and out throughout the crowds, twirling our umbrellas, spinning around, and changing directions without warning. A beautiful, childlike joy overflowed within us. Such simple pleasure... the best kind. Other festivities included a most impressive fireworks display, outdoor concerts, parades through the street, and even a mass freeze, in which we eagerly participated.

The Centre Pompidou promises to revitalize the city, bringing tourists from all over France, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, and beyond to a city previously overshadowed by surrounding regions. Vibrant new signage indicating the directions toward the train station, museums, centre-ville, and cathedral give the streets new life. Metz has taken the center stage, and I’m so proud to see her shine.  I grin as I pass my favorite bakeries and tea rooms, watching the crowds of visitors clamor for their delicious specialties.  With pride, I give directions to passers-by, even to French people.  It legitimizes me as a citizen of Metz.  To have more knowledge about a French town than an actual Frenchie is a pretty awesome feeling! 

Admittedly, I am a bit taken aback by the sudden invasion of tour buses, foreign tongues, crowds filling the cathedral, and tourists photographing my apartment building.  All of my favorite places are under siege by outsiders. I was quite content to live in one of France’s best-kept secrets.  However, I understand that Metz is an extraordinary place, deserving of admiration, exploration, and inspiration. If she can do for others even a fraction of what she has done for me, it would be life-changing for them.  I know deep down that I must be content to share her.

Kathy, Kappes, Elli and Cole waiting in line for the Centre Pompidou 

Centre Pompidou

Picasso

Pollack

Gorgeous interior space

The line 

The illuminated umbrellas in front of Pompidou

Concluding the evening with a glass of Bordeaux

Fireworks finale

Springtime in Metz

The abnormally long and cold winter in Lorraine has finally retreated, yielding to tulips, pansies, and hyacinths. The outdoor cafés of Place Saint Jacques are once again overflowing with patrons who come to sun themselves and sip Perrier or espresso.  Gone are the black pea coats; in are the sleek leather jackets, delicate scarves and sunglasses.  The fountain at the esplanade is once again gurgling with life, sending a pleasant mist into the air, and lovers inhabit nearly every park bench at the Plan d’Eau.  Kayakers and runners are out in full force along the River Moselle, as are children who come to feed the swans.  It’s so wonderful to see life breathed back into Metz. 

Le Jardin Botanique

Le Jardin Botanique

Avenue Foch

The Esplanade

Nothing like  a coffee en terrace at Place Saint Jacques

Holy Week in Metz

Patisseries and chocolate shop window displays are truly something to behold.  Oversized chocolate eggs, chickens, rabbits and lambs tantalize passers-by.  Storefronts display trees strung with colorful eggs.  I was able to restrain myself from partaking of the seasonal treats until one of my students presented me with a Belgian chocolate egg filled with smaller chocolates.  It miraculously disappeared within 24 hours! My adult student Anna also gifted me with an adorable chocolate chicken, which has been banished to the refrigerator until Jim comes to visit. We’ll see how long it lasts there!

More enjoyable than the sweets are the services in the Cathedral. On Palm Sunday, old women in kerchiefs sold bouquets of palms outside the cathedral, and the familiar reading of the Passion was especially beautiful in French.  Holy Thursday services were even more solemn and beautiful; the air filled with incense and Gregorian chants.  The sight of the bishop of Metz and dozens of priests clothed in white was something to behold, lit by candles and the waning light through the stained glass windows.    A man in the pew next to me had noticed me staring at the vaulted ceilings for most of the service, and as we processed out, he asked me how I found the cathedral.  “She’s magnificent.” I replied.  He noticed my accent right away and asked what brought me to Metz.  After whispering together (as the procession was still going on) he revealed that he was an assistant to the Bishop of Metz, and that he was delighted to see a person of my age in the cathedral.  “C’est beau, la foi.” he said. “Gardez-la pour toujours.”

The anticipation of the Easter season is one of my favorite times of year, but admittedly, my faith has suffered here, dealing with separation from my loved ones and crisis after crisis with living and financial situations.  France is also a highly secularized country, and not the ideal place to grow my faith, as I had previously imagined.  But those simple words from the distinguished man in the cathedral gave me chills, and I walked away feeling inspired and filled with hope.  Winter has been long, and at times, hard, but the promise of Easter and spring fills me with anticipation of things yet to come.

Chocolate eggs and rabbits at Patisserie Jean

Easter tree window display

Pascal lambs cakes

My palm from Palm Sunday  (Dimanche des Rameaux)

Palm Sunday in the Cathedral