Saturday number 21

To start, Hello to my readers from the Philippines, Denmark and Russia! I’m really touched to see you’re checking in on me! I'm back in Antibes with Mémère and Pépères for the weekend :D

Admittedly, I slack, and neglect this blog, but this week, I honestly haven’t had a moment to write, and I fear that this blog is going to boil down to a weekly summary. There will be the occasional doses of poetry, and rants. 

Let’s start with a haiku:

Dear Canada Post

I hate you, corrupted, you

Christmas gift thieves

The 8kg package that I spent a small fortune to send home, and to fill with gifts, chosen to remind the people I love that I’m not there, but I’ll always be here, was ‘delivered’ this week. The only things that arrived, albeit in disgusting condition (I spent three school nights to wrap everything individually and meticulously), were soaps and under five gifts. I’m disgusted, and dissuade you all from sending things by mail unless completely necessary. I’m sure there are legal issues with bashing an organization, so I will leave you all with the question, who would steal the ties a 16 year old girl spent two days picking out for her brothers? Books and clothes for little cousins? Though I am convinced there is good (note, the rest of the blog), some people are sick. Enough on that note, because too much incredible has happened this week to stagnate on that topic. 

When I look back, at the end of this year, at the end of my studies, at my retirement, I have a chilling feeling that I will have distinct memories of this week.

My world has been slightly overturned since the conseil de classe on Wednesday. The day before, I went to a job interview for a nanny position, and turns out, I started the next afternoon. Between that, and the first day of having to go pick up keys to my classroom on Friday, there are no more huge gaps in my schedule. 

These things, of course, though hugely exciting, aren’t by any means life changing. 

Neither are having the highest average of my class in french, second highest average in my class, the highest commendation possible, and excellent marks in my vocals. Though flattering to be praised for my work as a delegate and with my prépas was flattering, that didn’t pave a fork in the road for me. There are three paths that I can choose to follow from here, each leading in opposite directions, fulfilling different facets of my potential, and none of them meeting in the middle. The choice to leave, to come here wasn’t a deciding factor in who I will be in this life, but it was the first step towards choosing who I will be.

The staff panel working with me has invited me to stay, to finish my studies in France. 

My application for Pearsons College is almost ready to be sent off. 

Or, I could go home, and actually have a high school diploma. 

This translates to my future as

The risky road that winds around a cliff bend, overlooking the ocean. The 50/50 path, the one who is naturally and physically beyond my control. If all goes well in operatic training, around the blind corner, there could be a spectacular view, if things in turn, go spectacularly, my life could be what every little girl dreams about. If I’m not careful, and things go less than impressively, I may be running headlong into a drop off, and drown in the music industry. I ignore which is the better, and which the worse, but it’s even more likely that a storm makes the going too dangerous, and without a visa or two year commitment for lodging, and the road is closed. Heads, I could be an opera diva. Tails I could be another unexploited potential, another ‘what a shame’ who had the makings to be somebody. This is my ethereal, hell bound walk, paved by gold stars or cold streets. 

On the flip side, I could choose to walk a stable path, with harsh scenery, and no fluctuation in luxury, since there will be none, and know that every exhausting step I’d take would leave an imprint. I could be a teacher, and blaze a trail for countless third world children, a delegate beckoning for others to follow and to lead, a journalist opening eyes and learning lessons the hard way. My life would always be modest, I wouldn’t have evenings in big theaters, or keep company of orchestras, but I would never feel guilty when I saw a SOS children's villages commercial. I would have the rare, and unmeasurable gift of discovering people and places as they are, and would learn far more than I would teach. Each moon would rise on me too emotionally attached, but more deeply rooted in fulfillment. This is my organic trek to find heaven on earth. 

But then again, all roads lead home.

I’ve grown up too fast, and looking back, it pains me to realize how early that trail was prominent in me, this feeling being enforced by the fact that I already have perspective on my childhood: I’ve outgrown it. That doesn’t make me better than or better off than anyone my age, it just means that I’m limited by that exact number. 

A high school GPA, an awards night, a school play, a Christmas with family, a prom, an acceptance letter. 

How ordinary. How exceptionally extraordinary. 

And since after all, home is where the heart is....

Saturday number 22

If all my saturdays are destined to be like this one, there is no living for anything other than the weekend.

My brother said he would take me running, and it only took a few minutes to realize that either the trail was for hiking, not running, or my cardio has failed miserably since I’ve left home. The minutes that had elapsed before I admitted defeat and started walking were so few that I’m lead to (hope) believe it was both. 

He was very patient with me, and didn’t make fun of me for marveling when we finally made our way out of the brush and onto the mountain chain trail. It reminded me of Cape Breton, only with parasol pines, and little villas freckling the hills. For a moment, I was immobilized, and moved, and craved hearing an eagle cry. I felt so far from home. A good friend wrote to me once, and asked that I have an unconquerable faith in my dreams, but that I never fly so fast that my guardian angel couldn’t keep up. 

I had a lonely moment, and conveniently, had a trail to run it off. He’s much faster than I am, but he walked with me when I stopped, and waited for me to catch up. Sometimes words don’t make it better, and sometimes cold is a sage healer.

Mountain air ripping through your lungs, feeling a tense wind tearing through your hair, coasting from the waist up and feeling your heart beat in your heels it chilling. It took hail to warm my heart. 

On the 27th of november 2010, it started snowing in Nice. 

Global warming, yes I’m sure, say what you will, but someone was out to remind me that home is where the heart is. No eagle graced the sky, the shriek was mine, but in glee. You don’t have to see to know someone is there, just as I didn’t need to see the snow, that melted on foreign soil so quickly one could doubt it’s existence. I know he was here. 

We hurried home, and brought in wood, found Christmas decorations, spent an hour trying to find that one box that goes missing every year. We went to a Christmas fair, and took our time examining local art, and I walked the stands, thinking of Grammy with each angel, of my Mom inevitably at each stand, Nana when I came across a pig in a manger set, Pépé at the honey stand, Parrain would love that apron for summer barb-qs, that necklace would look so pretty on Nanny. Nothing makes a person more homesick than wishing you could be there to give the people you love a reason to smile. 

I was less jolly walking out as I was walking in until we opened the door and snowman material snowflakes started cascading from the sky. Silly me. 

We bought a christmas tree on the way home, even though they usually just use a fake one, we came home and tried to find a christmas CD, squabbled over what goes on first, the ornaments or the garlands, and ended up all smiling in the salon, imagining the fires and roasted hazelnuts to come.  

Changing plans at the mast minute are always a massive pain, and in less than 12 hours, I’ll be halfway down town to meet up with my friends, assuming everyone got the same message, and everyone is on time. And assuming busses are working in my particular case. 

To end a splendid day, I saw from start to finish for the very first time, Little Women. Is there anyone who can get up and stretch, feeling four sets of emotions swelling in their chest, and not feel peaceful? Reflective on one’s own life, the time we have to change it, and the things that are so much closer than they seem. 

A thank you goes out to Louisa May Alcott for reminding me of the standards I have set for myself. Do I dare hope for a tomorrow as good as today?

I do believe I do.

xoxoxooxxoxxoxooxo

*O*

I have been 16 for 33 percent of a year today- Christmas day in one month!

Okie Dokie.
I'm having a harder time maintaining this than I had anticipated... Everyday it seems like there's something else on top of the schedule, still buzzing fresh through my mind. Every other Friday from here on out, I'll be tutoring sets of 5 of my prépas for an hour each before my spanish lesson.
Today, I had lunch with them, and I am completely inspired. They are without a doubt the most dedicated people I've ever met. 12 hour days of solid lessons are far from foreign, and they're bolting for a goal none of them deem themselves successful enough to achieve. Their drive for a dream they've filed as unrealistic for the satisfaction of being the best they can be. It's an honour to work with them, and I do believe more frequent lunch dates are in order :)
Less good today, I spent an hour, flabbergasted and more than slightly repulsed arguing with someone who believes in child abuse, to install and enforce respect. I'm going to leave that there, since I already feel nauseous.
I want up to the conservatory today, and one of the guards (security guards I met before I started to understand the laws of the bise, so I'm the adorable little Canadian, and none of them bother with the tough face around me :) asked if I would potentially be interested in a babysitting job. !!! I miss munchkins! Of course I'm interested! So I'll be getting details on that monday at the same time that I'm meeting a fellow Canadian (Québecoise).
The azure sky is particularly enjoyable sitting on a tended lawn under olive trees with music wafting through the airs and sonatas from the building a few feet behind. There's a little patch of lawn in front of the CRNN, walled with the usual stone plan, and it makes a great picnic spot with the ladies. I took a break this afternoon, and chatted about Christmas, rock bands from years ago (think Sum 41, Blink 182, Simple Plan, all that good stuff :P ), country air and the world in starlight vs. full moonlight.
In other news: I am finally going to see Harry Potter this Sunday! I'm coming Daniel Radcliffe, my darling! It's almost sacrilegious that the girl who went as Hermione Granger four consecutive halloweens  to not go see her first crush almost die on the big screen. This is a grave error on my part, but fear not, there will be a gushing, lamenting review as soon as the issue is rectified!
Shall we play a number game?
Not including breaks (Christmas break I'm gone, February break is potentially claimed, this leaves spring break, and then it's summer (!!!), and not counting any days of summer since I don't know how much time I'll spend here, tomorrow marks the first of the last 22 Saturdays I have in France. This is a number I don't dare share with my girls, who had their bi monthly "you're staying. You're not leaving. Don't be silly, you can't leave" day. I love my class, they're cute :) It's flattering, but I feel guilty since, after all, I am leaving them.
This Wednesday coming (that would be the first of December already ladies and gentlemen!!), is the trial date of one of the guys in my class: Depending on the decision made at the Class Consultation, he may be expelled from the program, in which case, he would have to return home, and go back a grade level since he can't join the normal classes now. He's not a strong student, and this would be a condemnation. Fighting for him, and trying to find a loophole to shove him through, anything to convince them to let him stay would be condemning the rest of the class to two more frustrating and inefficient terms. To complicate matters father, another girl in my class, his buddy, has decided that she wants to drop out and couldn't be bothered to attend school today. That would leave our class toll at 8. They would be a group of seven come fall.
Numbers, numbers, numbers. In one month, I will have already adjourned and represented my class, serving as the defendant of all voices (I may sound as if that's exaggerated, and I'm sure in most cases it is, but it turns out, it's for cases like my class that the official document had to be signed when we accepted the position.), given not only the major result of guy and girl in my class, but distribute results, and play messenger between teachers and students until all the wrinkles are ironed out. I will have squeezed in two courses with my prépas ladies, three more sax scale sets, packed for, driven to and spent a week in Paris, and creme de la creme, will be in the land of Christmas! :) One week later is back to school and diving back into second term. Ack! time should really slow down a little bit, I think I'm prescribing the poor thing a nap, it must be exhausted from running all the time.
A friend pointed out to me today that I can either lock myself in my room here, and have things go by slower, or hold on tight and treat this like a really fast ride. He says that I'd do better to leave with the wind knocked out of me and as many memories as my mind can hold than to leave and simply go home.
There are times when I'm serious out of my element, I recognize that I still don't know all the rules and that there is a stark difference between the norm and the outsider, but I'm pleased to report that the line is starting to fade. I don't think when I speak, I understand jokes (so long as my lack of sense of humour doesn't interfere), and expressions don't escape me like they used to. Even when I don't know things, I can usually work my way through them.
I'm going to wrap this up now, because I'm singing along to John Lennon and my host brother is going to sleep now.
I'll write again before the weekend is over and tell you how Saturday number 22 went.
Much much love
xoxoxooxoxoxoxoox
*O*

Roller Coaster

Recap:
Last Sunday was a great day, spent with Rhett, his mom and little sister. We saw my viola player in Ta Bouche, second row, and were entertained by the set of munchkins in the front row who found playing peekaboo with me almost as entertaining as watching their parents squirm in risqué passages. Then, our quarto braved crowds to get into the final showing of Natalie Choquette, the Diva from Quebec, and what a show it was! If anyone ever gets the chance to see her, jump on it! She's an operatic comedian, if ever a wonderful operatic diva, there was, Natalie Choquette is one because, because, because, because, because! Because of the wonderful show she does!
Monday, it poured as though the sky were mourning the end of the world. I had the high heeled construction boots mom just sent me, and when I got off the bus at the wrong stop (it was the first night I headed for my MAO course), I stepped in a rather rapid river up to my ankles. Unpleasant to say the least. I made it to my course, bringing a comedic value that only a bewildered student could bring to a teacher, after having run through rain. The punch line is that it was too windy for an umbrella. My bag left a puddle. Enough said.
I can't remember anything particular that happened on Tuesday. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Wednesday, I went to the fair in Monaco, and it was a lot of fun once I convinced the girls to get on a few real rides with me. We ate churros; a delectable deep fried pastry that you dip in melted nutella, and temporarily paralyses you after you work your way through a dozen of them (you're stuffed after 5 or so, but the thought of such a scrumptious treat wasting away in a trash bag is practically unbearable, so one only forfeits around 10). The other class delegate and I drove there and home with her parents, and stopped in at her house for a little while... I love being there. It reminds me of home. Not sure why, since both of her siblings have moved away from home, and it's a very musical family, but I just feel like me there. Choir went as well as Bach can go, followed by a rough night.
Thursday was both polarities: excellent, and catastrophic. My english lesson to the prépas went so well she assigned me another topic to cover this week, and by Friday morning when I had my english class with my homeroom teacher, they had spoken, and apparently, it was as if I had replaced her, and given a real lesson. As of next week, I'm taking on a smaller personal class for another hour! The girls invited me to have lunch with them if I like :) But of course, that didn't last. The very next class went from a moving conversation about our work done on WW2 to escorting one of my classmates by the elbows to meet with the head of the lycée, where we stayed for an hour despite three interruptions, all turned away, because he was dealing with a very serious matter. Youpi. The collateral damage should be reported next week after the second meeting and report is written, but in the meantime, another blinded us. Well, one of our other classmates rather. See, he couldn't. Something is wrong with his eyes and it's been two weeks now that he's been having an awful time (two trips to the infirmary for him alone this week), but the minute I walked out of the class, my attention was frantically brought to my friend, who was unable to open his burning eyes. Needless to say, the canteen meal of pasta was typical, and almost as fun to deal with as guiding him through the city to the conservatory. I survived my harmony and sax lessons.
Yesterday was almost as fun as the precedent. My morning course was fine (c'est à dire English), math was a madhouse since everyone shouts and whines and laughs hysterically as we slowly lose our minds for lack of concentration. A friend rescued me from both babysitting a second day in a row, and from getting lost trying to find an obscure little side street where my sax mouthpiece had unexpectedly come in and needed to be retrieved that afternoon. I've never taken the bus back to the lycée. I got off at the wrong stop. I took the tram in the wrong direction. I missed my spanish course. I have evaluations next week to asses my level. I was not happy to say the least. Even better, I needed to go get new jeans. It was night when I got off the bus at home and had to walk up the drive in the pitch black, and turn off the alarm alone. I ended the evening with a late night chat, and had a surprisingly difficult time getting to sleep.
This morning (note, it's Saturday), I woke up late at 640am, and leapt out of bed, and had my new jeans half on before I noted that it was Saturday. I proceed to sleep until noon, and drizzle the gloomy afternoon away in dribs and drabs of french comics, National Geographic s, history magazines and a few songs on replay.
We just finished watching Schindlers List, and I'm in a rather sober mindset, so, I shan't depress you all. Tomorrow I take back up running! Enthusiasm!
It's snowing at home. It's still 15 during the day here...
On that note :P
Goodnight <3
xoxoxooxoxoxoxoox
*O*

I lied, but this can't wait until tomorrow.

I have to tell you about the concert tonight, tonight, because I’m already losing precious details that I need to share.

The day was planned around going in town to meet up with Rhett, and see the John Williams tribute concert, day two of C’est Pas Classique. And until I got into town, and realized that I could squeeze in a few minutes at a Satie concert in Old Nice, there was no trip for Soca and some other unidentifiable desert in the plans. However, walking back from the so called Satie concert (a bunch of children and their parents... Turn out they were playing the entire set, which lasts 20 hours, so the shifts aren’t always well known musicians per say) with my host parents, I almost walked into a mob of people in front of the Acropolis! What is this blockade? I have a concert to get to! Silly people!

... Who are all trying to get into the same concert as I am.

Oh Dear.

I made it through the jungle of people waiting in line, and grit my teeth, ignoring the people who cut in line, because I knew as soon as I got through the entry doors, Rhett was waiting to accompany me in doing the same. Ickyyyy. 

We arrived to the front of the line where he and his friends had already been waiting for an hour just as the wave of people flooded the floor. Security guards chopped the line literally in front of us and told us to wait, that the first two floors of the 2500 seat auditorium were full. -WHAT- Which would have been fine, had Rhetts mom and little sister (who is my buddy, she drew me a picture!! <3) had already gone ahead of us, and would be waiting with seats. 

The first time we tried to force the doors to get to them, we got yelled at by a security guard, who proceed to go yell at someone else. Rhett put on his serious face, walked up to the door man and told him that we were going to go meet with his mother, and that two more people were coming later to join us. The guard, though not as impressed as I was, was enough so to let us all pass (five of us!) into the “full” levels, and sent us off with best wishes for the evening. 

The family charm obviously doesn’t start or end with the future delegate, because by the time we caught up to his ladies clad in pink, they had sealed us an entire row, for whichever friends were going to join us later. A feat near enough to impossible, since as I already stated, this was the floors closed to the public already. But as always, it gets better! 

Which row did the adorable smile of a little girl in a pink jacket win us? 

Third. Yes. Three rd. 

My host brother managed to join us after pulling a needing to find his parents line, and also be escorted by Rhett, and I can’t tell you how hard he laughed when he seated himself, and received a call from two friends on the balcony letting him know he had an identical twin sitting way up front. 

None of that was pressing enough to make me stay up and write, so say farewell to emoticons and exclamation points, and brace yourselves for an excessively wordy text. 

The announcer started the evening off by congratulating us on surviving getting seats, and said that it was only fitting that we started with what easily could have been our theme song for the past two hours: Indiana Jones. One hit knock out. I was sitting dazed clapping my hands numb by the end of the piece, startled that a band of 100 could be so perfectly synchronized, and keep an audience of two and a half thousand so perfectly silent. 

The 7 by 15 meter screen in the background displayed movie clips, and the next to be featured was Jurassic Park, the very first scene with the little girl, crying out that she found something. I wonder how many others in the audience had the slightest idea what she was saying. It was then that I realized that while my attraction to this show was a union of famous movie music, that every other soul in the room was there to have their will to speak taken away, be gracefully and perhaps even gratefully silenced, to understand something beyond the spoken word, whatever language it may be.

The next piece gave me goosebumps before the solo violinist had even raised her bow, and that’s a powerful statement, since the first notes played in the Schindlers List theme  belong to the soloist. My memories of the film are few, and faint enough as to only induce one tear, as I tried to recall the plot line. The violinist on the other hand, was visibly possessed. No, possessed isn’t the right word. How can I describe the way she swayed, the way she drank into the notes? It was as though she had no instrument, but a third limb, and she was being consumed by it’s tragedy, writhing to escape from the murderous grip of their fingers and strings tangling. The piece reached it’s climax, and the release was not only that of a single sustained note, but of the breath of thousands, a simultaneous oxygen rush, so unified there was a change in the pressure of the room, though the unmistakeable shift in objectivity may to have been to blame. To be granted the right to breathe, breathe free...

Naturally, I was so lost in my thoughts at this point, the Superman theme song struck an unpleasant chord within my currently peaceful and pensive soul. My mind wandered, and waited out the end of the melodramatic chords, and decided to stop on the song lyrics to Insensitive by Jann Arden. 

Bringing me back to earth, and almost giving me the impression of being brought home, I laughed out loud when a shot of Emma Watson in the Sorcerers Stone flashed across the screen, and images of me four consecutive Halloweens flashed before my eyes. I guess some things will never change: I still have a crush on Harry Potter, and I would still tolerate Hermione’s hair to be go to Hogwarts. Embarrassing confession checked off the bloggers to-do list, we move onto another series embedded into my memory. 

We were treated to a 5 part Star Wars: Luke’s Theme, Leia’s Theme, (we were invited by the director to put on our official Darth Vador masks for the) Force Theme, (and were invited to exchange the Darth Vador mask for a shrink ray and little green suit for)Yoda’s Theme and finished the show with a bang on the finale. 

My first instinct was, as predicted, a reflection on all the times I refused to watch the Friday family movie because it was Star Wars again, how mad I would get when I had to hear Anakin’s theme for the second time in one day, and that if I heard a light saber one more time on the car ride to Cape Breton I was going to snap. Believe it or not, I smile thinking back on those days. 

I didn’t reflect too long on memories though, because the familiar spectacle or listening and seeing mesmerized me again. Suddenly, I was day dreaming about the Nutcracker, where not only did I know which notes come next, but the rise and fall of the bows and chests of the musicians are familiar, predictable even. 

Being in the audience of a concert like this was different. I knew all the notes, but there had never been a visual like this, all I ever “saw” when I “heard” Star Wars was film clips. This time, and despite a lack of a score, I saw what I heard for the very first time. There were no staves, no notes, no rhythms to count, or dynamics to account for. But the orchestra looked like a loom with a hundred needles, treading each fine thread of the melody together into a tapestry, rich in all it’s colors, and richer for it’s absence of a particular image. Does a song not warm the cold heart more deeply than any material? They're the same, but one you can touch, and one you can feel. 

I’m no good with the written word when it comes to expressing what only the written harmony can express. Being able to give a material, personal form to each nuance in a song is mind blowing, and slightly out of body. As you try to stretch your mind around the concept that the four arms leaning and dipping, seemingly tied by their unique strings to some ethereal puppeteers finger is perplexing enough without expanding your focus, and realizing that for the metaphor to be accurate, they would be tied to one finger, and to each tutti their own. Who could possibly master the complexities and abilities demanded to read a dozed lines of a different languages, translate and program  it into the corresponding individual’s heart, while simultaneously teaching and accompanying them in the recital of this new prose? Who could fluently speak such languages, posses the patience and technical ability, and emotional fluidity? Who could overcome the massive and impressive beast that is the connexion uniting a song?

A composer, who interprets the undeniable inspiration. 

An orchestra’s director, who interprets the unidentifiable intention.

A musician, who interprets the unspeakable inflection.

A human, who interprets the unalphabetized indentation on the soul that is music. 

Khakis or kakis?

Though knowing my luck, there is probably a third way to spell what sounds like "kah- kiis", and that's probably how you spell the fruit we picked today.
The orange gourd-tomato type fruit still isn't ripe despite the trees nakedness, and has to be lain out on boards to dry out before they're edible.
I'm told they're not related to tomatoes... But if they're not, they're pretty good at identity theft if you ask me. Perhaps my favourite horticulturist can clear up the situation?
For the past few weeks, I've been working on an application to a school in BC, and this blog came up in one of my questions. I expressed what a great outlet this is for me, and how often I smile at the demographics of my readers, so this is a shout out to to my international readers! Hello world!
In all seriousness though, I really appreciate knowing that people who don't know me care to know the comings and goings of my séjour. So thank you :)
In other news, my package arrived from Germany last night! I suppose it's logical that sweaters and scarfs made in Canada are made warmer, but logic didn't make the surprise any more pleasant. Also tenderly swaddled in bubble wrap (which was very quickly and much less tenderly popped) came a few gifts to pass along (one of which being a bottle of prune and blackberry jam my momma made from my grandfather's orchard and the boughs of our front lawn), a spectacular necklace from my german grandparents ( <3 ) and more sweets! YUM! I'm spoiled rotten (my teeth have a mind of their own). One of the people who I shared the gingerbread puffs with particularly appreciated the gesture, because her great aunt used to send them to her! This is course made me smile.
I know he doesn't read this, but I feel like everyone should know that my baby brother chose the cutest card ever to stick in the goody bag. Please in mind that he is a 10 year old boy trying to express how he feels about the big sister that only last week he replied "fighting with her" when asked what he missed about me. The front read: If anyone were to ask me if I miss you, I would have to answer "yes".
I was thanking Hallmark for giving him words that I knew he never would have found himself, when I opened the card, and realized that he very well could have chosen the words printed inside:
"And then kick them in the shins for reminding me."
There you have it folks! Be careful not to ask my playing-in-the-provincial-football-tornament-this-weekend little brother if he misses me, because you will get kicked in the shins. I tease, but I know that in little boy that means "I love you O".
So I love you too Buddy.
This is short, but you'll hear from me again tomorrow, and I shall bear news of tonight's John Williams tribute concert, and tomorrows 'Ta Bouche' operette! There shall be musical reviews, most likely accompanied by a barrage of childhood Star Wars related memories.
"Stick around, things get much stranger. "
- some pin I saw a while ago when I was going somewhere
Oh! Spoiler Alert: next week the olives will be ready to pick!! :)
xoxoxooxoxooxoxox
*O*

l'Armistice

November 11th 1918.
92 years ago today, millions of girls just like me were crying, not unlike the day that will have precede it, or the months that precede those days. But for the first time in four years, they are without a doubt, tears of joy. Maybe some of them already have their husbands, their fathers, their sons, their brothers back in their arms, because night has fallen on a peaceful France, Europe, World.
The end of WWI. The atrocities were over, and in retrospect, had only begun.
My grandmother asked me to attend a ceremony today, and bearing in mind the monuments and plaques that I seem to see everywhere, I got up early, dressed in black and headed out to church.
Churches intimidate me as it is. I played the right hand of a song my host father sang, and my host brother played the organ in mass, stood when called, and said Alleluia with everyone else. But I couldn't help but be distracted and fall behind in the prayers that are unfamiliar to me as it is. My mother tongue is english. Everyone surrounding me were French. Reflecting on all the wars that came before the War to end all Wars, I never could have been here.
And the world still has so far to go, because there is still someone dying tonight.
The graveyard that we went to say a prayer to my host father's parents was beautiful, covered by flower pots left over from Toussaint. The part of the ceremony that we got to consisted of playing the french equivalent of The Last Post, and the mayor reading off the names of the young men who died, to which the solemn crowd muttered each time "mort pour la France" which means died for France. There were men in old uniforms, and an American flag represented, because they liberated this town.
Today is hugely important, more so than May 8th, as is the case Canada as well. However there is a startling difference. Here, November 11th is strictly l'armistice, the end of the first World War, not Remembrance Day, in recognition of peace, and respect for those lost to war. The losses suffered by France in the second World War were a tiny fraction of what they lost in the first, because most of the losses in the Second were members of the resistance: France was taken so swiftly in the second, they didn't lose many men in battle before they were under German rule. The first, on the other hand, was 52 straight months of bloodshed.
I think it's time people swallowed their pride, and accepted that no matter how superficial the statement has become due to medialism, world peace is the greatest dream of them all.
After all, it's the rare, good and dazzlingly simple things in life that are the most sought after.
This post is short, but so too is the day of recognition, and thus sobering to admit that it's fitting.
My closing statement is brief:
The parents, lovers and children we are shooting at recognize that we are parents, lovers and children too. The problem lies in being paranoid and over protective parents, proud lovers eager to come home heroes, and that when both sides are reduced to terrified little children, we'll both just keep shooting.