Chapter Two: Happy Days, Happy Town

“What in the world?! What time is it?” I flew up from my cramped position on the floor and listened to the shouts from somewhere above me. My hands flew for my alarm clock; my fingers fumbled for the nightlight button. 1:00 A.M.? What in the world could be going on? I had moved out of the school for peace, tranquility. And now it seemed as if this new arrangement was no better than the one I’d had earlier . . .

Just days prior to this midnight awakening, Abraham, the Mexican teaching assistant, and I had moved into two bedrooms located within the school building next to the Welcome Center. The rooms were comfortable enough, yet it was the built-in alarm clock which perturbed me.

At 7:00 A.M. sharp the morning after I had moved into the school, the students converged upon the campus—like elephants: shouting, stomping, roaring with laughter, running on the pavement. I whirled about in my blankets, dazed and trying to shed the veil of slumber under which I had been comfortably sawing logs provided by the ever-obliging Sandman. What could be causing all of the noise? Had the strike season begun early this year in Brittany?

Stumbling to the window, I realized the students were merely preparing for another day of classes—like normal. “Well,” I told myself, “this ‘normal’ clearly will not work for me.” Sure, it is nice to have a built-in alarm clock, but preferably one which emits a soft little beep, rather than a wallop of an elephant-sized sucker punch—and one which, above all, is complete with a SNOOZE button.

However, before I would be able to move out of the school, there was one essential issue I had to consider. To live in Tréguier or Lannion: this was the question. Tréguier is the handsome, ancient village in which the Lycée Joseph Savina, the school at which I am teaching, is located. Approximately 3,000 people (plus 25 dogs and perhaps 5,000 pigs) reside in and around Tréguier proper. Thus, it is even smaller than dear old Ossian, Indiana. Lannion, au contraire, is a “city” which boasts a population of 18,000 (again plus a gaggle of dogs and a plethora of pigs). One time I made the unfortunate mistake of referring to Lannion as a village to a local Breton. “Lannion,” I was informed, “is a city—not a village!”

Now, I will admit, I am a bit of a plouc. I was homegrown in the land of corn in Hoosierland. Thus, when presented with the option of a village or a city, I naturally leaned toward the former. Paris, after all, is the city of cities, and I have already dwelt therein. However, upon visiting Lannion, I realized that it is, like Tréguier, a charming small Breton town. The architecture, as in Tréguier, is lovely. It is just as near the coast; the air is just as pure. All of the provincial appeal of Tréguier may be found in Lannion plus a few extra conveniences, such as a train station and buses which run to and from the city every few hours versus twice a day, and several more options of entertainment, including myriad cafés and pubs, as well as activity clubs to be joined and enjoy.

The one evening I did reside in Tréguier, Abraham and I decided to take an evening stroll throughout the town. And, we found no one, save two dogs experiencing la bella notte Lady and the Tramp style and a pack of students smoking something which, I suspect, was not your average cancer stick.

Yearning for a bit more evening animation, Abraham and I hauled our suitcases the next day for the last time onto a bus bound for a new home base: la ville heureuse (“happy town”), the official nickname of Lannion.

Indeed, this “city” truly is a joyful land of charm. I have often wondered whether I somehow stumbled into Belle’s provincial town:

In the morning I smell the baker with his tray, like always—
The same old (scrumptious) bread and rolls to sell.
Every morning just the same,
Since the morning that I came to this “happy” provincial town . . .

Just as in the film, the natives are a friendly folk who nod, smile and pass a “bonjour” on to strangers and friends alike. Time-tested structures of stone and, on occasion, timber dot the streets. And, just as Belle knows and trusts the bookkeeper in her village, I am beginning to know and be known by certain Lannionais shopkeepers.

In 2005, the French shook their heads as they watched this Hoosier soar down the Alps singing “The Sound of Music” at the top of his lungs. Now, in 2006 I can occasionally be seen strolling the streets of Lannion singing “Beauty and the Beast” to kind passerby.

Yes, there are differences between Belle’s hometown and Lannion. For example, instead of horse drawn carriages clanking on the road it is motorcycles and miniature French cars which fly across the cobblestone streets. And, perhaps the most accurate reason for which Lannion is currently a ville heureuse is because in the mid-twentieth century, FranceTélécom, the French telecommunications conglomerate, moved its research and development labs to this corner of the globe, attracting engineers from far and wide, as well as students desiring a future in the field.

Indeed, Lannion is a happy town. And, this Hoosier was equally happy to learn the apartment in which he would be living is located directly in the central town square. This is not a downtown full of skyscrapers and asphalt parking lots; rather it is marked by character. Half-timber houses and open-air cafés fill the square, along with le Fournil d’Hubert—the boulangerie with the most exquisite almond pastries I have found anywhere in France—and strings of Christmas lights which (though unlit) traverse the center—suspended from building to building—throughout the entire year.

Recently I traveled to Rennes, the big city of Brittany, for a medical visit (in order to prove myself free of Tuberculosis—regardless of the fact that had I been infected I would have already had more than enough time to spread my germs and render Happy Town a Sick Town). It was upon returning to Lannion after spending the day in Rennes that I realized I truly am dwelling in a small French town. Arguments may be made for whether or not small town America is thriving today, but I am certain that its French counterpart is alive and rich with character across the Atlantic.

On a side note, my medical visit to Rennes provided me with a rare moment of enlightenment. During the visit, I lay shirtless on an examination table as the doctor listened to my organs and felt for odd protrusions. Looking up at the ceiling, I was surprised to hear her suddenly proclaim, “Oh! Does that hurt you? It’s bleeding.” I shifted my vision down to where she was looking: my navel. Sure enough, there appeared to be a dried layer of blood covering my innie of a bellybutton. Unable to remember snagging my navel on anything sharp (which would be a bit of a feat considering I do not make it a point to run around Happy Town without a shirt—I said “Happy Town” not “Hippie” Town), I reached down to touch the blood. Suddenly, the whole layer came off with the touch of my index finger. Blood? Nope. Rather, it was a flattened layer of lint from my red hoodie.

Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of myself shirtless with bellybutton lint in my fingers (à la Larry in “Oh, Where is My Hairbrush”), I chuckled nervously. And, then I tucked away this bit of wisdom which I wish now to pass on to you: before medical examinations, remember not only to brush your teeth and clean behind your ears, but also never forget to clean out your bellybutton.

Revenons à nos moutons . . . (“Let’s return to our muttons,”—one of my favorite French phrases—that is to say “Back to the topic at hand . . .”)

This assistant teacher of English became a Happy Hoosier when he moved into Happy Town. And, I found camaraderie in other assistants dwelling in Lannion.

Our temporary homes, however, have very little similarity to the castle of Beauty and the Beast. This can be seen in the observations made while visiting the apartment of two female assistants in Lannion. While the apartment holds quite a bit of charm, certain aspects of it do leave just a bit to be desired. When cooking with the oven, for instance, we were disappointed to notice that the little black dots on our pizzas were not flakes of exotic pepper but rather bits of the oven roof chipping off and falling onto our entrées. The toilet seat, as well, has issues of its own. Generally, the seat is attached by two bolts at the top. Unfortunately, one of the bolts of this toilet is too free-spirited to allow itself to be held down. And, the other often seems persuaded to do the same. The result: answering the call of nature in my friends' bathroom is not merely a tiresome moment of reclining but rather a rodeo ride of bucking and swaying to keep the plastic seat from falling off entirely, which it often does. Additionally, the back of the seat does not have enough room to lean backward. Thus, in order to prevent it from falling on top of him while doing his business, the former renter had tied a string around the back of the seat and then attached it to the tank of the toilet. Very classy. After being explained how to successfully use the less than perfect “loo” (in the words of the Welsh assistant staying in the apartment), I looked up and exclaimed, “Well at least you have a fan! Does that work?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the American assistant. “When the wind blows, the fan goes with it.”

Hard to believe the former renter of this apartment was an engineer, is it not?

Nevertheless, we each had found a “chez moi” in the charming town of Lannion.

I was in Happy Town and I was truly, finally home . . .

“What in the world?! What time is it?” I flew up from my cramped position on the floor and listened to the shouts from somewhere above me. My hands flew for my alarm clock; my fingers fumbled for the nightlight button. 1:00 A.M.? What in the world could be going on?

Peace, however, soon reigned once again over the evening and I returned to my rendezvous in Dreamland.

Two hours later, though, the same shouts filled the night. Once again I shot upward from the floor. This time, however, I was more than merely perturbed. I was angry.

The blanket of grogginess I was fighting to shed, nevertheless, prevented me from attending to the words shouted by the masculine voice located in the building above me. “What did he say?” I muttered to Abraham, who was spending the evening in my room.

“He said,” replied the friendly Mexican, who had also been awakened from his slumber, “‘They are young. There are two of them.’”

Frustration coursed throughout my body. “If they come to the door . . .” My voice trailed off and I lost myself in thought of what I might yell back to the young men in French. What is the best way to say, “Take a long walk off of a short pier or you’ll find an ear of corn up your rear” in the language of love?

The cause of my anger was seated in more than merely having my beauty sleep disturbed. This was not the first time the young Frenchmen had chosen to disturb the peace. Abraham and I, while awaiting the preparation of our own studios, had chosen to share a spare room in the apartment of the American and Welsh female assistants' place. Two nights earlier, before we had temporarily moved in, they pounded on the door, rang the ear-piercing doorbell, and screamed, “Les filles!” (“Hey, girls!”) at the top of their lungs in the wee morning hours. The assistant teachers renting the apartment, both of which are female (and both of which are named Kate—confusing, I know), were of course flustered and somewhat frightened by this event. Kate of Wales (as opposed to Kate of Boston), later remembered noticing some guy watching her from her bedroom window the day before.

Thus, I naturally assumed the disturbers of the peace were once again referring to my fellow assistant teachers with the goal of either terrifying them or soliciting something from them which Kate and Kate were not willing to give. Being all of 5'5 ½" yet the temporary “man of the house” along with Abraham, I felt the need to protect the Kates. Thankfully, however, the shouts once again subsided and this time the peace which flooded the night lasted until it was time to awaken for the new day.

The next day I noticed a young man who was headed up the stairs to an apartment above me do a double take as he saw me entering the apartment. “Yeah! Just look!” I wanted to shout. “These girls have male friends. You’d better keep your distance.” I’m sure he was fearful of my intimidating frame.

At any rate, the problem has not returned. Did they lose interest? Or were they too afraid to tangle with this Hoosier? I’m sure you’ll all vote for the latter.

Happy Town, Brittany is indeed a refreshing place to be.

And now the morning sun is rising as we again prepare for a new day:

Happy town
It’s a quiet “village.”
Every day
Like the one before (since I scared away the crazy young Frenchmen).
Happy town
Full of happy people,
Waking up to say:

"Bonjour!"