Tag Archives: Caen

Day Twenty-Four, Chores

I was given notice yesterday that the place I’m staying is currently up for sale. The realtor would be popping by to show the place today, would I mind? Uh, well…since I have no real choice in the matter and I feel like refusing would jeopardize my current arrangement, Yeah, sure! A while later I was messaged with a Whoops, sorry. Rescheduled to next week.

Five flights of stairs is not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but I’m fat and tend to be sedintary if not motivated to accomplish a task. Hey, I come by it honestly, my mother is the same way! The idea of dragging anything up and down those stairs sincerely makes me consider exactly what I’ll need to do once I get down the stairs (THAT’s no problem).

  • Take out recycling (Google image translate informs me that it’s on the ground floor)
  • Take out the trash (Also on the ground floor)
  • Do a load of laundry including towels (Ground floor and over two doors)
  • Pick up some groceries (.2 miles away is the Monoprix Hypermarket)
  • Get nail clippers and hand lotion (Pharmacie across the street)

I double/triple checked that I had all my dirty clothes and towels loaded into my handy buggy. I got the trash out of the can, tied off the bag and put that on top of the dirty clothes, securing the slide. I put the recycling bag handles over the buggy handles. Double/triple check, yup. That’s everything.

Grabbed my bag and keys, unlocked the door from the inside with the key… Pulled my buggy into the dark hallway, locked the door with the same key I used to open it from the inside…Open the stairwell doors and descend.

Down to the lobby where there are three doors. One goes to the outside. One doesn’t open. One reveals a storage area with a closed door off to the right. I open it because it will and I found the trash bins! Hooray!

I didn’t see a place for the recycling to go until after I’d dropped it into the cans I’d found. It was behind another closed door. Dudes, I thought about correcting my error, but truthfully, I was grateful I even found the trash bins.

I am not a graceful person. I’m large but unaware of my size most of the time. I don’t feel like I’m a size 20. In my head, I’m much smaller. I could be reading more into it than is necessary, but it’s rather magnified over here.

As I’m in the grocery store, shopping by picture, guessing at words, refusing to translate because I’d have to translate the entire store, I felt an ineptitude that I’m not a fan of feeling. It really snaps my awareness into a clarity about what it could feel like to be illiterate. I’m practically mute because although I can say simple things like please, thank you, good day, I’m sorry and my numbers, I’m ridiculously unable to do things I take for granted back home.

I’ve observed that the people I’ve interacted with have primarily spoken more than one language. They have at least a rudimentary conversational base which I am lacking in their native tongue. I feel small here. As if I could be quickly and easily forgotten. I want so badly to communicate, to let them (whomever that may be) know I exist. Maybe I’m like Ariel, wishing to be a part of a world that doesn’t belong to me. Perhaps.

Why did you get the emotional roller-coaster? It turns out that the laundromat is slightly different than the one I used before. I tried to will my brain to translate the words into ones I could understand, for some of them it did, but not enough to know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t ask for help. I just stared at the sign, trying to make sense of the symbols.

A young man, maybe 22-24, asked me in accented English if I were going to be staying long in France. Yes, until the end of the month. He suggested getting a laundry card and loading it. Instead of paying 4 Euros per wash, I’d only pay 3 Euro 60. Well, heck. That’s a pretty darn good deal. I followed his instructions. Voila! I have a loaded laundry card.

An hour for a wash. Yikes. I toddled across the street to the pharmacie, found nail clippers but no lotion. The woman behind the corner kept trying to engage me by asking me questions in French. I smiled and nodded, thank you I said. I tried to explain that I needed a small bottle of hand lotion. She stared back at me with an equally blank look on her face. I felt a little better. I relented and pulled out the translator (Why aren’t babbelfish a real thing?) A bit of back and forth and I tucked my purchases into my pocket-bag.

I’m reading a book by Jenny Swartz. Freddie Nechtow gave me the book “The House That Walked Between Worlds” and I finished that three book series. Now I’m on a new adventure by the author. Maybe it’s because of what I described earlier about illiteracy, but I don’t typically read for fun any more. I like to get lost in the world the author created. I like to ride the emotional pony around the imaginary carousel. It takes up a significant chunk of time which is why it’s not something I readily do. However, I sure am popping them back like illicit drugs trying to get a reader’s high. I returned to the laundromat and read.

After my clothes were dry, I folded them and stacked them compactly into the bottom of the buggy. I headed off to the grocery. The weather was gorgeous out, if not even a wee bit warm. But the sun, the people, the neighborhood feel of Mondeville created a sense of being. It was good.

I arrived at the store, picked through the aisles, collected my necessities, checked out, loaded up my buggy, and walked back a different route.

What steps I have traveled on roads
past tense and presently, 
altared;
a communion of daily lives
exalted as the fevered prayers
of the faithful
knelt in the pews with bowed heads
whispered words of conversations,
of confessions,
of wrong paths and right roads taken
A map to their righteousness
emblazoned on a rosary bead.
I sit in the silence, aware.
I wonder if their God would understand
if I spoke prayers in English.
I wonder if the forgiveness would
somehow taste different or
if the mercy would cold shower me
with a condemnation...
con-damnation?
Instead, I don't press my luck.
I return to the community I don't belong to
hearing the voice of the God
that doesn't speak my language.
MM 2023

I tugged the buggy up to the top floor. I unloaded the groceries then my clothes. I texted with my friend Jen who is currently in an inconvenient situation. I dozed for a bit, then woke up to tell you my eventful/uneventful day. Tomorrow I plan to go to church (at 4PM here) so, there will be plenty to do while I’m waiting.

Peace be with you wherever you go. You are loved!

Day Twenty, The Church that tilts

On today’s excursion to the bus stop, I found this church with a distinctive tilt. I noted the street where I found it with the note to self to look it up when I returned to the apartment.

Church of Saint-Jean de Caen

This church was originally built in the seventh century at a crossroads of the lower valley of the Orne. This became the main route between Bayeux and Lisieux which evolved into Exmoisine road, and currently on rue Saint-Jean.

Now why anyone would build a church in a bog, who knows. This church is no stranger to destruction from wars. It has been rebuilt several times. In 1944, although the tilted tower stood, the rebuilding of the sanctuary removed the last remnants of the Roman influence.

In 1969, an artist, Danièle Perré, was asked to replace the windows in l’eglise Saint Jean. The resulting work is simply beautiful. With light touches of abstract design, colorful depictions of faith and love, a new breath was breathed into the revitalized church.

The history of the places I’m seeing is like rooting through an old trunk in the attic. It’s discovering lost treasures that were there all along. I have described it as feeling like history is pulsing in my blood, but I don’t know that it’s exactly like that.

It is more like looking through a dirty pair of glasses. I can see the contemporary buildings because they’re obvious. But if I clean my glasses a bit, I can step further back in time, to when the restoration took place. If I use a cleaner on my eyewear, I can see into the past like a magic mirror exposing architectural secrets to the sharp view now afforded. It’s a new way to observe what is preserved instead of destroyed.

I traveled to Rosel today. I went through the routine of exercises with him. I had to coax him a bit to go for a walk. He finally relented. We walked down the narrow rural road to the corner where there are four horses in a huge field. There is a black one, a dark brown, a light brown, and a white horse. Three males and a female.

We must have caught their attention because after we turned around, the horses came over to the fence to greet us. The black and the white ones were first. They eyeballed us up and down keeping pace with our awkward movement. The other two joined in and walked us down to the corner. It was joyful for me and seemed to brighten my client’s mood as well.

I’m planning a trip to Honfleur for an overnight on Thursday. I’m going to meet and paint with an artist there. I’m also going to drive for the first time in France in a stick shift car (Yes, I know how to drive one. I was taught to drive in one.)

When I was describing the plans to my client’s wonderful wife, she was impressed with how organized I am when it comes to going places. “I know what I want and I make it happen.” She said she wanted to get a painting or a sign of that saying because it was a good life lesson. I don’t suppose I should amend that to say, “If nobody else can help, do it yourself.” Which is the real reason I am going to drive there. I had rides set up twice but one was on the wrong day, the other got cancelled because the driver wanted to spend more time in Caen than he thought.

With all the things that have bowed to the whimsy of Murphy’s Law this trip, I’m just abiding. I sail along whatever waters there are. I don’t have the friend resource here like back home, so I have to make sure I take care of myself, my well being, my safety, and my adventures to the best of my ability. So far, I’ve been enjoying the flow of the days.

Peace go with you. You are loved!

Day Eight, Caen Botanical Gardens

I woke up late because yesterday I drank too much caffeine and so I was still wide awake this morning at 5AM! That’s only 11PM in East Tennessee, but still. I wishy-washed about what to do and finally decided I’d start with a double espresso (Will I ever learn?!) and some breakfast. I went to the spot where the man speaks enough English to take my order.

It feels sort of sub-human not to be able to do much but grunt and point. I have mastered the order for espresso, so that’s a plus. Bon Jour is common, Merci’, Desole (Diz-ole’) which means Sorry, Au revoir. So far I’ve been able to skate by with those small phrases, but if anyone asks me something in French, I just stare blankly at them, point to my chest, and say American. Most of them laugh at me, which, truly, I deserve.

While enjoying the atmosphere of the restaurant, I decided to look for a park.

I asked Google maps for the nearest parks. I sorted them by distance, selected a Botanical garden and set off. Now, before I go any farther in this story, let me explain something Google didn’t get. When I asked for a garden or park, I didn’t mean the street name. I arrived at the destination only to find that it was a street. MAOU!

Looking at the map, however, I noted that the Caen Botanical Garden wasn’t far away, so I adjusted my sails and set off again.

The little car was painted like the Love Bug Herbie. It was cute and the woman who owned it was an older woman with dyed dark hair. When I put up my camera, she smiled radiantly and laughed.

The screeching I could hear echoing off the building walls turned out to be this handsome seagull. Skyrats I’ve heard them called, but he was none to happy to be hanging out in the neighborhood.

The next picture is a shot down the street where Google sent me to the wrong place. It felt a bit overwhelming with all the details involved in the shot, but the street, itself, was quiet.

The last picture in this set reflects the height, the gothic style, and the detailing of the old homes. Each house on the street had a different, although similar, style. Some had carparks, others had on street parking. I recognize some of the car brands, but there are many I don’t.

At the end of the street, I turned left and walked a good length of block. At the nearby roundabout, there were people bustling about their day. Many of them seemed to be about 65+, carrying groceries, and dressed conservatively.

This is a sign. No, really. I understand the basic words, but I had to use Google translate to really understand. I didn’t bother with the names of the plants because they are carefully curated, marked, and I wanted to enjoy the time I had.

Yes, that’s me. A face with the name. Mare Martell.

Noel Bernard (1874-1911) demonstrated in this greenhouse the symbiosis or fungi in tuberous roots of orchids.

The scent of the earth in the garden was so rich with alien fragrances that it made it hard to breathe…breathtaking. Even in early Autumn, the flowers and plants were holding true to their lives. The temperature was 64 degrees, partly sunny, a breeze blowing but the redolence cleansed my spirit.

Several groups of French schoolchildren were being ushered through the phytology. The teacher attempting to hold their attention was chattering to them as much as they were chittering to each other.

I sat on a bench for a bit to engage my senses with my surroundings. Other than the children in the distance, it was peaceful. Hidden birds in the trees sang praises to the sky. Life is good.

The music of water called to me. I heeded the melody to an eight foot tall cascade tumbling languidly into a shallow pond. I wanted to sit and watch the waterfall, but the carved log bench across from it had been knocked off its base and was resting in an awkward angle removing that possibility.

To the left of the waterfall were some rough stone steps. I climbed up them to the top. The first picture in the above series was my reward. The third picture shows an odd growth pattern. It stretched across the ground for about nine feet before reaching its trunk to the sky. The last picture is a water garden feature. On the bottom right, you can see where it meanders into a stream. The lily pads were growing as if an artist had chosen that precise spot to place them. I sat on a bench and drank in the beauty for a while.

And then there were the sculptures scattered among the natural features. These were a bit more contemporary, but the following statues follow a more traditional sense of aesthetic.

The neatly trimmed hedges that give background to these was being trimmed by a man on a very tall ladder. They are precisely cut to 90 degree angles at the top, forming a box-like structure to them.

An interesting trellis.
The ceiling in the bistro.
A fiery flower near the trellis.

As I made my way back to the apartment where I’m staying, I reflected on the sensory contentment I experienced. It’s like history pumping through my veins in such a magical way that I’ve been absorbed into the world. The architecture is so beautiful that even though things are close together, even touching or seamless, there is a sense of spaciousness. A liberation of the senses that I’d equate to a dream-like state that I don’t want to wake up from any time soon.

My spirit is happy. My heart is full. My body, although cranky, is grateful for the vigor in which I’m engaging with the city. My guidance is to travel as often and as far as possible. Although I’ve traveled quite a bit of the United States, experiencing the uncertainty of the unfamiliar has been extraordinary. And to think, if it weren’t for my clients, I wouldn’t be here! Peace be with you.