Let me start this off by telling you that I once fantasized about building and living in a portable tiny house. I had the plans picked out and the dream was real. I shopped on Tumbleweedhouses.com and fell in love with the Aspen. I really wanted to make it happen.
However, the new place I moved into for the next 20 days is tiny. I mean…
This is smaller than my storage room in my house in Tennessee.
The bathroom is super tiny and I’m rather concerned about how I’m going to manage to shower in such a small space. I’ll figure it out, no doubt, but it’s going to be a challenge.
There is one really nifty feature about this place. It has a composting toilet. Whatever goes in gets ground up after you flush. It’s something I’ve never encountered before so I’m sharing it.
Don’t worry, there’s nothing in the toilet.
Now before you start thinking I don’t like the place, that’s not entirely true. It’s neat, tidy, art on the walls, plants to decorate it, functionally succinct. It doesn’t have a stove, but it has a microwave. There is enough storage that I don’t feel like I’m living out of my suitcase.
Plus side, my butt is going to be amazing after the stay here. It’s on the top floor (aka the 5th floor) with no elevator. Try carrying a 50lb suitcase up those puppies. My arms and my back are reminding me that I’m an idiot. Another plus side is, I only had to carry them up once and don’t have to carry them down for 20 days.
The woman whose daughter owns the place met me this morning. She allowed me early check-in and drove in from the countryside to do so. She was dressed impeccably with a short blonde bob, square thick framed glasses, and a working understanding of English. She was so kind. I enjoyed speaking with her very much. I gave her two Appalachian potholders that were handmade by an artisan from back home. She gave me an assortment of cakes. We chatted for a bit about this and that. She actually carried my grocery buggy and my carryon up all five flights, then came back and carried my overstuffed big suitcase up the last flight. With keys in hand, we bid adieu.
I unpacked quickly. I made a short list of items to get (sharp knife and a bread knife, bath towel that would fit me, and a real coffee mug). I returned to the MonoPrix store which is a couple of blocks away. I was able to find everything I needed to stock my fridge too.
The chair I’m sitting in is a white plastic sling chair with metal legs. I’m telling you this because I farted in it and it amplified it to the point it startled me a bit. Desolee’ (sorry).
There is a small window, I think it’s facing North.
The street sounds filtering in are loud for motorcycles, quieter for cars. It’s currently 60 degrees, nearly midnight and I’m satisfied with my life.
I have spent the last twelve days in an apartment in the middle of Caen. It feels comfortable enough to poop with the door open. Oh, come on! You know that kind of freedom is a luxury! I’m reluctant to begin the packing process, although I won’t have to do it again for another 20 days.
What does home mean to me? I’ve been thinking about this all day since my life has become rather transient since I arrived here. I have walked more here because I can that I ever did back in Tennessee. I’ve done this solo. Although I get to work with my clients regularly, I’m on my own the rest of the time.
In the Captain’s chair (which is what I call where I like to sit in my kitchen), I feel at home. I’m surrounded by my things that I’ve collected. Each item has a story behind it of how I got it, who it came from, where I got it, what the sentimental value is to me. It feels safe.
Home is a haven for me. It’s a place where I can think at my own pace. I can clean or not. I can interact with the world or not. It’s a place where the coffee is always a brew away and the door is open to my friends (family by appointment!). It’s the place where I can be honest with myself about what it is that I actually want to do with my time. It’s a place where I make my own decisions about my life. It’s my space.
Here I am today with a different take on it.
The walls here are without ornamentation. They are plain white with deep red curtains hanging around the three windows that fill the room with natural light during the day and an annoying security light by night. (I just figured out I could pull the curtains last night, OY!). But home? This is where I am. This is where I’m staying, but I’m still me.
I thought home was a place as I’ve described, but it’s transmogrifying in my perception. Home is where I am. Home is the feeling of purpose and belonging. Right now I feel like I belong to the world. The space I take up here, although small by physical standards, is an explosion of my senses. It’s a courage and bravery that I suspected and had periodically reinforced with choices, but dudes, I can’t even speak the language here!
I’m doing it. I’m taking in everything I can see. Each time I ride the bus I see something I hadn’t noticed before. I’m engaging with life in a silent role out of necessity. I don’t have to make small talk. I don’t have to fill silence. I can just be. It’s been the ultimate practice of Dudeism for me.
I got up this morning and went to the laundromat. I washed what needed to be including the towels and pillowcases I’ve used. I didn’t do the sheets though because I’m still going to use them tonight. While I was waiting, the double espresso kicked in. I needed to use the restroom. I asked the location manager where the nearest bathroom was. She directed me to a Tabac/Brassiere down the street. I followed her directions (her pointing), found it but it was closed.
I returned to the laundry. She asked if I went. Non. Closed. She gestured for me to follow her. She brought me into a room behind the dryers that was filled with clothes in various states of neatness. In the corner was a lidless toilet. Merci!
With all that accomplished, laundry warm out of the dryer, I folded what I had and stored it in my rolling buggy. Good stuff, that.
I had a doctor’s appointment at 1PM (7AM in East Tennessee) for a prescription refill. The woman behind the reception desk didn’t speak English but a tiny bit. Like me, mostly numbers. With a little help from my trusty companion, we conversed enough for me to know I was paying a whopping 25 Euros to see the doctor. No kidding.
The doctor was pleasant, spoke English, explained how my prescription was going to be filled (in a box not a bottle) and I have to go back in 30 days to get the other half of the prescription. He also prescribed me lancets because I didn’t bring enough with me. He wasn’t pleased that he could only do 30 days at a time, but I got the prescription so I’m a happy camper.
He had a scale in his office. I asked if I could check my weight. He enthusiastically agreed. As it turns out, walking does wonders for ones weight. I’ve lost nearly six pounds since being here. I’m still eating mostly like an American, but I’m walking everywhere. Grocery store? No problem. Walk. Pharmacie? Close enough to walk. Laundromat? Down the road and around the corner a bit. I’m absolutely enthusiastic about the walkability here.
As I was walking to the bus stop to catch the bus to my job (37 minutes by bus), I passed by the headquarters of Twisto (The public bus company in Caen. They also rent bicycles by the hour, I’m debating). I wanted to know when my month pass expires but I couldn’t figure out how to find that information. A friendly woman tried to help me, but she wasn’t familiar with the app either. Her supervisor wasn’t sure either. Several phone calls later, multiple times hearing my name spelled out in French, and they had an answer. Since the infinite use ticket is good for a month, it goes from the first time you board the bus. Each time it’s validated, it checks against that date. Good to know.
As I waited at the stop, I got thirsty. I went to the MonoPrix store that was not even a block away. I picked up a couple of drinks and some croissants (Buy 3 get one free! WOOT!) I pulled out my handy foldable bag, loaded the goods, and off I went. By the way, dollar bills aren’t a thing here. They have coins. 1 penny, a nickel, a dime, twenty cents, fifty cents, 1 Euro, 2 Euro. I’ve been hesitant to pay with the coins because it gives me a bit of anxiety. Today was different. I counted out the coins with little trouble. Gold star on my forehead!
Back at the stop, I decided to eat a croissant. An ordinary pigeon with two toes on one foot that didn’t appear to be hindering its stroll, walked around in front of me. What the deuce? I tossed a tiny piece to the bird. That was like an alarm siren going off because almost immediately there were about eight of them hunting by my feet.
These are just a few of them. They have such unusual coloring compared to what I’m used to seeing. The bird practically in the middle had a dark green ring of feathers around his neck with a purple (although it looks brown in this picture) ascot. That was a really pretty bird. They all were. I gave them a bit more and watched them battle for crumbs. When I put it like that, it doesn’t sound quite as pleasant as what I experienced.
After getting my prescription filled on my way back from work, I was walking through that bistro area I described before. It was filled with what looked like University students. Every chair was filled with lively conversation, lots of cigarettes, and beer. Off to the side was a trio of men, likely in their mid 20’s.
One of them men was laying down, tucked up against the building with his coat pulled over his head. He was sleeping. The dude on my left, in front of the sleeping man, had long, dirty blonde hair that had braids sporadically placed. He looked like he was pretty high because his eyes were nearly closed, bloodshot from what I could see, and his body swayed as if gravity was coaxing him to do the wave.
The man to my right had quite the collection of sketches splayed out on the ground. As I approached, he was having a conversation with a pretty curly haired blonde girl whose arm was in an immobilizer. Her friend kept looking up the road where all the people were gathered as if silently imploring her friend to leave. When they did, I stepped up to admire his work. I asked how much, but he didn’t understand. A woman dressed in combat fatigues that fit her very well, translated. He said, free choice. I selected the ones you see here, plus one you don’t. I asked his name.
I told him it was important to credit the artist when you like their work. He gave me this.
I have two family members in the hospital right now. One is in rehab gaining strength to go home, the other is in ICU on oxygen after being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Covid. Their spouse also tests positive so they can’t visit their very sick partner. Say a prayer if you got’em. P.S. My mom is out of the hospital and doing pretty well considering.
I’ve dawdled long enough. Off to pack for my move in the morning. Thank you for reading. You are loved!
I started out with the plan to go to the Caen Memorial. It’s the number 2 bus from nearby that would take me there. But, I was running a bit uncomfortable in the Euros, so I went in search of a bank thinking that it would be a quick stop, change things out, and I could make my plans happen.
While I was trudging along to the bank, I saw a Pharmacie. Since I’ve been carrying the empty bottle of my thyroid medication around with me for three days, I popped in to see how to go about getting it filled. Luckily the Pharmacie tech spoke pretty decent English. I showed her the empty bottle, explained I wasn’t in immediate need, but would be soon.
She looked genuinely sad when she explained that they couldn’t refill it without a French doctor’s prescription. I explained to her that the pharmacy I use back home filled all but this one that I take every day. No can do. Must see a doctor. Okay. Well where do I find one of those when I don’t reside in this country.
She gave me surprisingly accurate directions to a nearby clinic. I thanked her profusely for being so helpful. Off I went to find the doctor’s office.
I should note to you that where I was is a rather large shopping zone. There is everything you’d want or need within a several block radius. I decided I’d better change out my dollars first. I found the bank.
Did you know that many businesses close between the hours of noon and 2pm? Including banks? I didn’t. As it turned out, I’d seen a shop that was open right around the corner. I explored the multitude of colors, scents, and suggested flavors. I picked up a couple of things as souveniers. I still had some time to kill, so I went window shopping.
I didn’t find anything interesting enough to catch my eye so I headed back to the bank which had just opened the doors. The young woman asked me a question in French.
“English?” I asked pointing to myself.
“No, non.” She replied.
I pulled out Google translate and explained I needed to exchange money.
“No, non.” She shook her head. “Wait here, I’ll go find out where you can do that.” Google translated.
She returned about ten minutes later with an address written on a sticky note. Her ones looked like: ^ (that’s a carot if you can’t see it.)
I verified the address, typed it into Google maps and with a smile and a wave, I went exploring again.
Plus side, I got a LOT of walking in today just running errands. I followed the path religiously until I found the shop. As luck would have it, it’s directly across the street from where I’m moving to on Saturday! Woot! Bustling neighborhood too. Walking distance.
I waited in the queue for my turn. Upon entering, I was in a small bathroom sized room with a screen rolling the exchange rate for various countries. Behind a high counter with glass up to the ceiling, a tray was pushed through the wall onto my side. The man spoke to me, I asked for English, he switched easily into our transaction.
With a bit of back and forth, I ended up a bit lighter than I’d expected, but not too bad considering. Au Revoir! Into the sunshine I went with a feeling of getting shit done. Still some things to take care of, I decided to head back towards the open market where there was a carousel for the children in a gaudy pink.
As I followed the walking map, I noted a clinic on the corner where the pharmacie tech had directed me, several in fact. I crossed the road and went in.
One of the three behind the desk spoke English. I showed them my empty bottle and explained what I needed. For clarity, this clinic had both medical AND dentistry in the same building. I further learned that today was a dentistry day. I’d have to return tomorrow to see the doctor. Would I please bring the bottle back with me when I return? Why, yes! Yes I will.
The woman at the computer asked for my name. I gave her the bottle. She smiled and typed from that. She asked for my birthdate. I recited it in French (THANK YOU MY CLIENT). She laughed at my pronunciation but when she repeated it back, it was correct. Then she asked for my phone number. I also recited it in broken French. She nodded approval at that one, read it back to me correctly and now I have an appointment tomorrow at 1PM, 7AM Knoxville TN time.
I’m 12 and this made me laugh so hard…HA! I mean, dude. This is ripe with blue humor…HA!
Everywhere I go, there are flowers planted. On street corners, on sidewalk dividers, on road dividers, in planters, around street lights. Why don’t we have more of this in America? It’s just freaking beautiful.
A pretty pigeon.The companion pigeon.Very pink carousel.
I did not, in fact, make it to the memorial today. My intentions were to do so, but when I finally got done with all of the things I’d accomplished, I was worn out. I walked back to the apartment fighting the urge to hop a bus.
I made it back safely. I fixed tuna with black olives and goat cheese diced in it with a squish of mayo (The French version has dijon mustard in it which is pretty tasty.) I drank the last of my coke zero, gathered clothes for the lavage tomorrow, took a bath after dinner (REALLY!), and now I’m writing for you.
Tomorrow I have to hit the laundry, the doctor, the pharmacie, back to the apartment, catch the bus to Cairon, work, then back home to pack up before I move Saturday. It’s going to be satisfying and busy.
I know what the cow is, but I don’t know what the object in the crook of the tree might be or what purpose it serves. Any ideas?
Yesterday I did so much walking that I got blisters on the bottoms of my foot. I followed what the Mayo Clinic says to do and am keeping it clean, dry, and covered. It’s pretty tender to walk on, not too much, but with the distance I’ve been putting on my hoofs lately, it’s a challenge.
When I went to the museum yesterday, there was a lot to see. There is a video presentation that depicts footage from that time in history. I expected to see bombs. I expected to see guns. I expected to see violence. I mean, it’s a museum about D-Day for heck’s sake.
As a Death Doula, my calling is to make sure that people die on their terms. The setting as ideal as I can create it to be at their request. Each person I’ve helped through the transition from the breathing life has died on their back. Sometimes with loved ones nearby, sometimes a solo flier, but they died peacefully while laying in a bed.
The video I watched progressed pretty much as I’d expected until the part where the American, English, Canadian, and French soldiers marched through a mountain of rubble from destroyed buildings. On the ground, in the forefront of this footage, was a dead body laying face down in the mud.
The soldiers continued past the body as if it were a brick, or a twisted monument of violence. I couldn’t tell by the brief (maybe 5 second view) if the man who died was a soldier, a civilian, or a casualty of mistaken identity. It disturbed me enough that I’ve had to take over 24 hours to process that.
What I also didn’t expect was the immensity of the tanks, guns, transports, and even the bulldozers. I, for whatever reason, thought they were smaller. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen them in films (not documentaries) or in TV shows depicting the era. I stood next to a bulldozer on display and felt like a kid staring up at dad working as I did when I was like nine years old.
Caen was occupied by Nazi’s. On the very streets I’ve been walking and enjoying there were horrors committed against these people’s elders (then young folk). It snapped a sharp picture in my head that the history I’ve been feeling in my veins isn’t just that of William the Conqueror, but that of a city that has fought to survive.
June 6, 1944, D-Day, the Normandy Invasion
320,000 German soldiers became gravestones.
135,000 Americans didn’t watch another sunrise.
65,000 United Kingdom soldiers didn’t return home to waiting families.
18,000 Canadians didn’t get to watch/play hockey again.
12,200 French soldiers didn’t get to eat another baguette.
Over half a million people lost their lives during the Normandy Invasion. That would be like wiping out the entire population of Tuscon, Arizona. (Beautiful city, would recommend a visit). Gone. Extinguished.
The immensity of the loss of life has been downplayed in history classes I’ve taken. It’s just a number, right? It’s like trying to figure out how rich you’d have to be to not worry about what something cost. It’s all speculative numbers. Until you actually consider that those deaths meant more than just a number. They were people like you and me. They had loved ones they wanted to return to. There were birthdays they would never again celebrate. They were humans.
There was grief and mourning that couldn’t take place because D-Day wasn’t just one day. Operation Overlord didn’t complete until the 19th of August 1944 when the Germans retreated back over the river Seine. That’s 74 days of intense fighting.
Tomorrow I’m going to go to the Caen Memorial and pay homage to those souls that fought for the liberation of their way of life. My mom asked me to say a prayer for them. I will honor that request. I feel it’s the least I can do.
Aloha! Welcome! Today was a pretty great day overall. My left foot has two big blisters on it from walking so much, but it was totally worth it. I saw so much that it’s difficult to process. What I’m sitting here debating with myself is whether I want to share the beauty or the horribly necessary violence. Beauty it is!
This is a bit of beauty that I experienced today. To hear the birds sing in “French”, make sure you have your volume adjusted.
I visited here today with my clients. I’m still processing the immense loss of life, the violence committed, the size of the weapons used to destroy everyday life for a cause of justice, liberty, and freedom.
Where I’m staying was occupied by the German forces. There were big campaigns rallied to drive out the oppression but success took a few attempts and an incredible loss of life, destruction of homes, businesses, families.
I have failed to take pictures today. I thought I did, or maybe I thought the pictures in my head, but I didn’t document anything today. You’ll have to deal with my storytelling of which I’m not sorry.
I was up shortly before 9AM (3AM EDT). I sat on my bed deciding what I wanted to do for the day. When I went to the laundromat yesterday, I saw a shop with beautiful things in its window. I visited an organic shop where they actually had oatmilk, on the shelf. Apparently this is common and also why I couldn’t find it at the larger grocery. Shelf-stable milk is a thing here.
I promised my return after work which I’m sure that shopkeeper hears all the time, but dude, seriously, oatmilk. Cow’s milk doesn’t taste the way it did when I was younger. Even my excitement at getting cream on the milk didn’t make it any more palatable. I was excited to get what I’m accustomed to back home.
I rode the bus out to my stop, but almost missed it because I was engaged in a book by the author, Frieda McFadden. I recently read two of her books, The Housemaid and The Housemaid’s Secret which were really good books in that they were entertaining with some plot twists that were satisfying. The book I’m reading now is called, Never Lie. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured this one out already, but I’m going to keep reading to see if I’m right or not.
I walked through the countryside aware of the flowers clinging to brightness, the ones who had passed their prime, the smell of the grass and cow flops, the sound of the cars passing me, the taste of the cool water that I refreshed myself with, the air not moving in my damndably hot pants that look so nifty. The stone that got caught in the bottom of my boot annoyed me enough for me to pry it out of the sole. I didn’t take the way my GPS told me, I took the road that passes the horses instead.
On my way to that road, I happened upon a sign that read: Oefs frais biologiques (Fresh organic eggs). My curiousity got the better of me and I wandered up to the small shed that had an open door. The left wall (nearest the road) was filled with decorative hay bales that had a price marked in chalk on the wall above them. On the back wall there was a locked mailbox that said Peiement (Payment). There was an open slot on the top. In chalk on a board were written the prices for the goods layed out on the shelf farthest from the road. There were dozens of eggs, cartons, and pressed oil made on the farm. Above each item, written on the wooden walls in chalk were the prices that were on the chalkboard.
Knowing that my client was having company for the next several days, I decided to bring them a gift. I selected and packaged a fresh dozen of brown eggs. I dug out my handy folded bag and packaged the purchase. I pondered and decided the oil was a good idea too. I put the Euros in the box as requested and returned to my trek.
As I turned down the road that would become the street they live on, I noted that the sides of the narrow road rose up steeply on one side, but were relatively level on the side I was walking on. The shade from the trees granted me relief from the sun, despite the cooling air.
As I was turning the corner, three houses from theirs, I recieved a message asking if I’d work Tuesday and Wednesday. I replied with “Uh, I’m actually at your gate right now. If you don’t need me, may I please use the restroom before I return to the city.” Instead of replying, she opened the gate and welcomed me with a warm hug.
Last week, I worked Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday because I’d just arrived in Caen and she wanted me to get acclimated to my neighborhood. This week, and each week after, I’m supposed to work the three days, more if required. I conveyed that understanding to her and the lightbulb came on over her head (not literally). Ironed out the wrinkles and we have a schedule and a plan.
They asked me if I’d be willing to go with them to a museum called Le musee de la bataille de Normandie. They want to go while their grandchildren are in school since they show little interest in the history of where they’re currently living. We set a time and I will make sure my client is safe, steady, and comfortable.
What I didn’t expect was the conversation after she asked me if I’d been to the Caen Memorial yet. No, I admitted. I went to the Abbey d’ Homme instead. I told her of the things I learned about William the Conqueror. Her eyes lit up. She asked if I wanted to hear a story. Of course I do!
She told me how William’s wife, Matilda of Flanders, came to be wed to him. It was a great story with rejection, acceptance, and love. Then she asked if I wanted to know why William, in his youth, was called William the Bastard. My eyes got big and I encouraged her to continue. I already knew he was called that, but I wasn’t sure why.
The gossipy version of the story told of a young Duke of Normandie living in the Chateau de Normandie with a bunch of his knights. He was in his late teens at the time. One day he was looking out his window toward the river when a group of village girls showed up to wash clothes in the water. One girl caught his eye in a big way.
So much did this beauty capture his imagination that he sent his knights to discover who she was (A Tanner’s only daughter and only child) and to tell her to come to the castle at his request. The knights set out to do their Lord’s bidding.
When they found her father, they asked him to tell his daughter to come to the castle. He said, “That’s really up to Herleva. You’ll have to see what she wants to do.” So they did.
The peasant girl, Herleva, said the only way she’d visit is if there were certain criteria met. First, no sneaking through back doors, she was to cross the drawbridge like a lady. Second, she was to be provided a horse to ride because she wasn’t going to show up all sweaty to this meeting, and finally, Robert I, the Duke, had to personally invite her to his home. The dubious knights returned to the castle with the requirements for the young woman’s visit.
To their surprise, Robert I readily agreed and offered an official invitation, provided a horse, and lowered the drawbridge. They met and talked for several days. Duke Robert I was smitten, and apparently she was too. Shortly after the visit began, she sent word back to her father that she was going to stay in the castle.
Several months after that, William was born out of wedlock to the Duke and Herleva. He was considered a bastard because it wasn’t possible, because of their different stations in life, for them to marry.
That didn’t stop Duke Robert from taking good care of his son. But the weight of his sin, of having a child out of wedlock, bore heavy on his soul. He went to Herleva and told her that he was seeking redemption from his sin. The only way he could see that happening was if he participated in the Second Crusade. She objected because it was basically a death sentence that many didn’t return from. He reassured her that he would return.
To make sure that his son remained cared for, he enlisted his most trusted friends to insure that William would not only be protected at all costs, but that if anything should happen to the Duke, William, as his only son and rightful heir, would be given the title of Duke. His friends agreed.
Ironically, the Duke Robert I was returning from the crusades when he died. His friends had protected the young William and fulfilled their promise to Robert. It nearly caused a civil war because many didn’t want the bastard to be put in a position of power, while the other camp kept vigilant. History tells us, the friends won the battle and William the bastard became William the Conqueror.
My client’s wife ended her story with a flourish. She was delighted that she could share the knowledge with me. Me too, really. When history is told in stories, making the names in history books come to life, to be human, it really gets it for me. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn the stories that make boring dates and names come to life again? Okay, anyone? Is it just me?
Tomorrow there will be pictures, I promise. Thank you for indulging my fascination with this part of the world by following my adventures. It really means a lot to me to see when people read what I’ve written. It motivates me to continue to share what I’m learning, experiencing, and witnessing.
P.S. My mom is still in the hospital because she can’t eat anything. Liquids seem to be okay, but that’s not good for long term. They’re putting her on high powered antacids in hopes of getting whatever is pissed off and causing her pain when she eats to settle down and behave. She sounds irritated that she’s still incarcerated in the hospital (HA!) but she seems to accept that until they understand why she can’t eat, it’s just how it is.
Don’t worry, kids. This post is going to be shorter than the others because I didn’t really do anything today except go to church at ORUUC on zoom and laundry. There is plenty going on back home with my mother being admitted to the hospital for kidney failure due to dehydration. At this writing she is sounding much better and the doctors are cautiously optimistic about her recovery.
Church is one of my favorite activities on Sunday. The people who attend the church I do have given me such a gift of their support, kindness, and love that I have integrated into the mesh of the congregation. It’s THIS church that I belong to. It’s THIS church I support as I’m able. It works for me. It doesn’t have to for anybody else, but I’m glad it works so well for so many stellar people.
Okay, laundry. It’s my custom to do my laundry on Sunday afternoon while spending time at my Beastie Diane’s house. We talk, watch crime dramas, share worries and concerns, and generally enjoy one another’s company. With me being so far away, that’s not possible right now. She IS taking care of my little dog Phoenix while I’m here. Diane’s top hat all across the board.
My beautiful Phoenix (Phoe)
First I had to find the place which wasn’t too difficult. I’m getting used to navigating this city now. I’m not an expert, but I’m learning new things every day. I found the Laverie automatique (Laundromat) on this corner with a hopping cafe across the way.
I’ve used laundromats before. You put in the coins, push the slider in, and your laundry begins. Not so in this place.
First you put your clothes in the desired machine along with soap (which I nearly forgot). Then you go to a console on the wall that gives directions in French how to use the machines. You punch in the number of the machine you want to use then hit the V button for enter. Then you deposit 4E50 ($4.50) into the slot, or you can use coins, or you can pay by credit/debit card. That feature was an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. Once done, you go push start on your machine and it works.
The place was small but clean. Everyone in there was courteous to one another. The guys using the dryer 11 put a comforter in it which blew up and filled the drum with fluffy bits of polyfiber. When they went to take it out and realized what happened, I learned some new cuss words in French!
I helped a young man figure out how to use the machines after I had to be shown. He spoke broken English but was grateful when his dryer started to run since he admitted it was his first time here. I nodded sympathetically, “Me, too.” He thanked me and wandered out into the street.
Learning how to adult the French way has been quite the painful learning curve for me. But, with every challenge, I’ve eventually figured it out. I suppose that’s what adulting really is, keep trying things until it works or breaks. I am truly enjoying the experience of being somewhere with “new air” as my friend Melissa Kay likes to say.
Despite the issues happening at home in the States, I’m grateful for this life. I’m grateful for this opportunity. I’m so glad I was asked to come work here with my client.
Today started off as a humdinger when I walked out of the bathroom and the lens of my glasses clacked to the floor. I wear bifocals, so trying to find that itty-bitty screw on the wooden floor was not something I could accomplish easily. I wasn’t upset, frustrated, but not upset.
Lucky for me, a short walk from the apartment I’d noticed an optician’s shop. I discovered the gentleman who worked there spoke English and was able to get my glasses repaired, gratuit (Free of charge)!
How lucky am I to be paying attention to the world I’m experiencing right now?
This is the place where I find myself commonly indulging in a double espresso each morning. The people are friendly and I haven’t tasted anything that wasn’t total top hat.
I decided I’d had enough of the stringy ends of my hair. I visited a salon called L’instant Chic Coiffure Feminin-Masculin. The Artist that agreed to my transformation was named Aurelie. She was a bit younger than me and had been doing hair for 30 years!
BEFORE
DURINGAlso DURINGNectar of the Gods!
The artist and her medium.
Aurelie is the talented artist that brought my crowning glory back to life. While in the shampoo chair, I got a massage which was incredibly relaxing. 100% recommend!
AFTER!
One of my besties told me that to go back to the apartment would be a waste of a million bucks (Since that’s what I told her I felt like), and my reply was, as it always is when she’s right, “Stop talking sense!”
Although it looked like it was going to rain, I braved the cool air to go to the Abbey de Homme. I’ve posted pictures of the exterior a few times, but I’m about to give you a video tour of William the Conqueror’s final resting place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a church this large and ornate in person. I hope you enjoy the bits I can share with you.
Every day at noon, this is what I’ve been hearing. It rings every hour until 10PM.
I tried to give you the feeling of the vastness of this space. I don’t think I could possibly do it justice. It was extremely reverent to the point where I didn’t feel like I should speak at all. In fact, nobody that I observed seemed to be speaking either. There were stations where you could purchase prayer candles to make requests of the saints honored within the walls. I got one of St. Joan of Arc.
Saint NicholasSaint ThereseSaint Joan of Arc
Jesus of the Sacred HeartHis mom, MaryAnd Pops, Joseph
The tomb of William the Conqueror
September 9, 1087, age 59
(Natural Causes)
He was born in 1028.
As originally posted in French.The translation to English
This is an induction cooktop. In the United States I’ve either used a campstove, a gas stove, or an electric stove. I’d never seen anything like this. I gave up trying this morning with a vow to master it this evening having stored all the ready to go ingredients in the fridge.
The Oracle has spoken. I had no idea what I was doing until watching this informative video.
SUCCESS! I learned how to use an induction stove! I’m giving myself a gold star on my forehead for this accomplishment!
A portico.Note: the handle looks like a pull, not a push.This was by the bus stop I used today. The corners of the building are rounded which I thought was pretty cool.These are pretty common to see in random places. I’ve noticed them primarily on roundabouts.
This is a bakery in Cairon. The displays are lovely, the people are kind, and the treats that can be found here are fantastic! I made my selection. They packaged it in a very pretty little box. Even in my bag it didn’t damage the contents.That is a lemon meringue tartlette. I was in heaven when I had it for dessert at dinner time.
Today was a good day. My client has made a dramatic improvement in three exercise sessions. We even took a walk down the rural road to see the white horse that lives there. We played ball together, counting to 100 in French and 30 in Spanish before he tired. His lifts from his chair were stronger and faster without as much support. He’s just plain wonderful and I love him in a familial way.
I think, in order to do what I do as a caregiver, I have to be willing to fall in love with my clients. Not romantically at all, but to see them as a human who is doing the best they can with what they have to work with. It allows me to grant grace, and even sometimes mercy, when things don’t work out like they want them to and they get frustrated.
I love my vocation. I love what I do. I love being love in a service type of way. It’s so deeply enriching to my life that I honestly don’t know what else I’d do that would create such a great degree of satisfaction.
I extend that into my daily life as well. It is good to be needed. It feels good to know I can help. It is empowering to know that something I do, say, or offer is putting more love out into the world. It’s easier now for me to accept that same love that’s given to me by so many beautiful souls. I sometimes can’t believe this is my life.
But, it is. I’m living the life I always dreamed about. I’m doing things I thought weren’t even possible. I’m learning (albeit with a shockingly painful curve) every day to do new things. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything!
The other day when I went to the grocery, I picked up some delicious things. My plan was to cook for myself, but I kept putting it off. This morning, I got ambitious.
I took out the spinach and put it in the colander and poured boiling water over it. I cut up potatoes into tiny little pieces. I chopped up an onion and put it in the pan with what was sure to be a gastronomic pleasure. I popped in some vegan butter, and tried to turn on the stove.
I was pushing buttons like it was a typewriter, and nothing happened. Nothing. I tried turning it off and turning it on again, but to no avail. I tried for a good 15 minutes to figure out how to work the stove, but no.
The stove was smarter than I and I ended up going to my favorite place for breakfast. They make better coffee than I do anyway.
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Mare Martell 