Sunday, December 24, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
...well, not in the airport.
I've made it as far as
Nicest food court I've ever seen
Some things just aren't better "gummy."
The girl at the top of the tree is actually sining to the airport patrons.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Seek not and you may find...
I'm finished with France - emotionally, but more importantly, physically. Although it didn't happen 'till the last 12 hours of my time in the country, I've received my financial compensation for four months work; trust me, you don't want to know. The 630€/month food bill combined with taxes ultimately paid the "under" bets.
However, it's the positives I'll remember. The country is beautiful, and almost everyone other than the woman with whom I lived was kind and patient. I searched for truffles in the hills, hunted rabbits in the vineyards, and began to understand the French language. I visited historical sites the likes of which the United States (at least in terms of anglo history) can never know, walked barefoot in the Mediterranean Sea and stood on snow in Andorra. However, even these memories will soften and fade.
On Monday after work, we searched for and found about 1000€ worth of truffles. It'd have been easy for Charles to sell them - any local merchant would gladly pay the 1000€/kg wholesale price, and I know that he doesn't exactly "live large" on his salary working for Marie. Instead, the most important thing for Charles was that I (with absolutely no knowledge and/or experience regarding truffles) was able to take in some of the local culture. We went back to his house and opened some wine. That night, we (the four of us from work) sat around the table and ate truffles with bread, olive oil, and sea salt, ending with shredded truffle over salad - after all, who knew when I'd be back. We joked about work, the recent cold weather, and the dog that found our truffles. Later, I expressed my domestic/financial frustrations openly for the first time, with the only people truly capable of understanding - the others who knew and worked for Marie. Their response? "We understand, and we're surprised you stayed this long. If you ever visit again, please stay with us."
It was positive closure. It was communication. It was what I'd been looking for all along. It was reassurance that while I've experienced many positives during my stay in France, the net effect remains the same - I must leave. As my uncle said, "Not all the roads on a great adventure are paved, my boy. Indeed, that's what makes the adventure ultimately great!"
However, it's the positives I'll remember. The country is beautiful, and almost everyone other than the woman with whom I lived was kind and patient. I searched for truffles in the hills, hunted rabbits in the vineyards, and began to understand the French language. I visited historical sites the likes of which the United States (at least in terms of anglo history) can never know, walked barefoot in the Mediterranean Sea and stood on snow in Andorra. However, even these memories will soften and fade.
On Monday after work, we searched for and found about 1000€ worth of truffles. It'd have been easy for Charles to sell them - any local merchant would gladly pay the 1000€/kg wholesale price, and I know that he doesn't exactly "live large" on his salary working for Marie. Instead, the most important thing for Charles was that I (with absolutely no knowledge and/or experience regarding truffles) was able to take in some of the local culture. We went back to his house and opened some wine. That night, we (the four of us from work) sat around the table and ate truffles with bread, olive oil, and sea salt, ending with shredded truffle over salad - after all, who knew when I'd be back. We joked about work, the recent cold weather, and the dog that found our truffles. Later, I expressed my domestic/financial frustrations openly for the first time, with the only people truly capable of understanding - the others who knew and worked for Marie. Their response? "We understand, and we're surprised you stayed this long. If you ever visit again, please stay with us."
It was positive closure. It was communication. It was what I'd been looking for all along. It was reassurance that while I've experienced many positives during my stay in France, the net effect remains the same - I must leave. As my uncle said, "Not all the roads on a great adventure are paved, my boy. Indeed, that's what makes the adventure ultimately great!"
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I suppose you could say he left them nearly senseless?
If you’re ever in southern France, I recommend visiting a historical site called Minerve, about 25 minutes from the Narbonne. Set atop a hill at the confluence of two deep river valleys, Minerve has a history of violence to match its physical stature. Although I don’t know when the village was first established, its purpose was simple: defensibility. The original settlement boasted a double exterior wall built flush with the surrounding cliffs. It is still easy to see why the original inhabitants felt safe – there is virtually no way to directly attack the city.
The story goes that in the year 1240, during the Crusade against the Cathars, Simon de Montfort laid siege to the village after the Beziers Massacre. With four catapults – three attacking the main gate, and one – the largest, called Malevoisine – concentrating on the town well - Montfort relentlessly besieged the village for six weeks. Legend has it that to add to the intimidation factor, Montfort brought a group of prisoners to the base of the city and removed all of their eyes, ears, noses and tongues – except for the last man, who got to keep one eye. He then chained them together and forced the man with one eye to lead the others around the base of the village, and subsequently to other villages, to demonstrate his power.
Anyway, after six weeks of catapulting, the well fell and Viscount Guilhem of Minerve, leader of a force of 200 men, negotiated surrender to save himself and the villagers. The 140 or so Cathars hiding in the city refused to give up their faith and were subsequently burned at the stake.
Walking through the dry river bed at the base of the city was a humbling experience. While few plaques exist to explain the history, one’s imagination fills in the gaps readily. Creating a bit of an emotional dichotomy, the area is visually stunning. Parts of the original city walls remain, fused with new walls that together rise from the cliffs. A substantially tall one-lane bridge connects the city to the opposite canyon wall, the only exit for people and vehicles. Each of the two valleys is very deep with hundreds of feet of exposed cliffs. The river itself has carved a cave probably a quarter of a mile long and anywhere from 60 feet wide at the mouth to 150 feet wide inside. Visitors are able to walk through during times when the river has “disappeared” underground. The opposite canyon stretches north, and along the river runs a path leading to a series of natural pools. Near the pools lie the remains of a few structures and a small bridge, still standing after hundreds of years.
In other news, Marie now knows that I’ll be leaving soon and we may have resolved that little problem of my “yet-to-receive-compensation-for-my-work” status. I’ve accepted a job in New Zealand beginning February 5 which will pay nearly equal to my wage in France (this is contingent on my successful application for a work visa). However, I can guarantee my “food” cost – even when combined with my actual lodging cost – will be less than I currently surrender. I’ll be working at the second largest winery in New Zealand, near the north end of the south island. The company, Delgat’s, hires about 40 seasonal workers for the wine harvest and arranges reasonably priced housing, a shuttle service to and from work, one meal a day, and “work clothes.” They also speak English, even if it is a little funny to hear them talk.
I have an address in Prague. It is:
Jonathan Fitzpatrick
Kladska 1293/15 #10
120 00 Praha 2
Czech Republic
I’m also taking suggestions for a new title for this blog.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Legacy building?
Lately, I’ve been able to solidify a few of the details regarding what’s happening in my life over the next month. Consequently, I’ve begun to come to terms with the end of my time in France. I seem to have more questions than answers, but the time I spend each day at work has afforded much positive internal dialogue. I’ve begun to ask certain questions which have recently surfaced as important, such as, “what will I leave behind for the French to remember me by – what will be my legacy?”
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Is three months enough time to establish a legacy, or can a legacy be established in an afternoon? I’ve considered trying to build upon certain cultural similarities drawing on my own personal experiences. I’ve contemplated drawing on similarities from areas of the United States that have been stereotyped in similar ways to this area of France. While most of the time I’m left with a lot of loose ends, Thursday afternoon went a long way to connecting some of the pieces (forgive the mixed metaphor).
I don’t know exactly what happens when I get around heavy machinery, but I seem to revert to the 4-year-old boy whose father would take him to the county dump to see the earthmovers, bulldozers and other oversized, loud, and often yellow-colored machines. I begin to work less, spending more time simply watching the machines move. I’ve noticed that this phenomenon is not unique to me, but instead I’ve witnessed it in men of all ages, and now in at least two countries. There’s something about men and these machines that prompts child-like awe - and often behavior.
Take for example, my work experience at JeffCo with Andy Schaefer. Whenever we were given the opportunity to operate the gas-powered wheelbarrow, we tried to maximize the amount of stuff we could get in the box while still successfully operating the machine. While we probably did save some time, our goal was instead to push the limits of the machine, as well as our own abilities to effectively operate it. Often times this meant putting far more than the recommended weight into the box and then attempting to drive the wheelbarrow in the fastest gear down a narrow, winding trail without dumping the load. Most of the time we were successful. On a few occasions, we had to stop, right the barrow, replace the load, and even once stop serious bleeding.
So when our job Thursday was to continue picking rocks out of a field as we’d been doing for the past week, something inside me clicked, and my legacy worries were laid to rest. Lately we’ve been using a bucket attached to the back of the tractor to help load some of the larger rocks. We’d been careful not to overload the bucket because too much weight lifted the front of the Renault 80.14 right off the ground, rendering it in-navigatable (apparently not a real word). However, as I mentioned above, moving large rocks with big machines often turns men into boys, and with the added influence of after-lunch alcohol, an old-fashioned, deep-south, redneck tradition was reborn in French wine country – the tractor pull.
It took a bit of encouragement and a lot of hand motions, but I was able to convince the guys pretty easily to overload the tractor. I had taken care to position the machine in the ruts we’d established on our myriad trips to the dump site, and after lifting the bucket and dropping the clutch, I was off to the races on two wheels. We probably spent more time picking up the lost rocks and reloading them than we ever did loading them in the first place, but everyone had fun trying to keep the tractor on two wheels as long as possible. While I might stop short of saying I established an According-to-Hoyle legacy, I slept well that night knowing that none of us would ever forget our time together picking rocks from that field.
The weekend brought more juvenile behavior as I was again invited to go hunting. The day began before sunrise with men and dogs gathering near trees. I wasn’t really sure for what we were hunting, but I soon learned that just about anything moving was fair game (so, same as last time). A few fowl attempts aside, we focused on more terrestrial-based animals, such as hare, for which our efforts returned three. However, the “hunting” was so good that no one wanted to give up their gun and I returned home again with nothing but an 8pm hangover.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Is three months enough time to establish a legacy, or can a legacy be established in an afternoon? I’ve considered trying to build upon certain cultural similarities drawing on my own personal experiences. I’ve contemplated drawing on similarities from areas of the United States that have been stereotyped in similar ways to this area of France. While most of the time I’m left with a lot of loose ends, Thursday afternoon went a long way to connecting some of the pieces (forgive the mixed metaphor).
I don’t know exactly what happens when I get around heavy machinery, but I seem to revert to the 4-year-old boy whose father would take him to the county dump to see the earthmovers, bulldozers and other oversized, loud, and often yellow-colored machines. I begin to work less, spending more time simply watching the machines move. I’ve noticed that this phenomenon is not unique to me, but instead I’ve witnessed it in men of all ages, and now in at least two countries. There’s something about men and these machines that prompts child-like awe - and often behavior.
Take for example, my work experience at JeffCo with Andy Schaefer. Whenever we were given the opportunity to operate the gas-powered wheelbarrow, we tried to maximize the amount of stuff we could get in the box while still successfully operating the machine. While we probably did save some time, our goal was instead to push the limits of the machine, as well as our own abilities to effectively operate it. Often times this meant putting far more than the recommended weight into the box and then attempting to drive the wheelbarrow in the fastest gear down a narrow, winding trail without dumping the load. Most of the time we were successful. On a few occasions, we had to stop, right the barrow, replace the load, and even once stop serious bleeding.
So when our job Thursday was to continue picking rocks out of a field as we’d been doing for the past week, something inside me clicked, and my legacy worries were laid to rest. Lately we’ve been using a bucket attached to the back of the tractor to help load some of the larger rocks. We’d been careful not to overload the bucket because too much weight lifted the front of the Renault 80.14 right off the ground, rendering it in-navigatable (apparently not a real word). However, as I mentioned above, moving large rocks with big machines often turns men into boys, and with the added influence of after-lunch alcohol, an old-fashioned, deep-south, redneck tradition was reborn in French wine country – the tractor pull.
It took a bit of encouragement and a lot of hand motions, but I was able to convince the guys pretty easily to overload the tractor. I had taken care to position the machine in the ruts we’d established on our myriad trips to the dump site, and after lifting the bucket and dropping the clutch, I was off to the races on two wheels. We probably spent more time picking up the lost rocks and reloading them than we ever did loading them in the first place, but everyone had fun trying to keep the tractor on two wheels as long as possible. While I might stop short of saying I established an According-to-Hoyle legacy, I slept well that night knowing that none of us would ever forget our time together picking rocks from that field.
The weekend brought more juvenile behavior as I was again invited to go hunting. The day began before sunrise with men and dogs gathering near trees. I wasn’t really sure for what we were hunting, but I soon learned that just about anything moving was fair game (so, same as last time). A few fowl attempts aside, we focused on more terrestrial-based animals, such as hare, for which our efforts returned three. However, the “hunting” was so good that no one wanted to give up their gun and I returned home again with nothing but an 8pm hangover.
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