Chapter Seven: The Hoosier Strikes Back

Perhaps my foot slipped somewhere in the middle of the Gavotte (a traditional Breton dance). Perhaps one day the delectable Flûte Gana (the king of French baguettes) was just a bit burnt. Or, perhaps the long season of welcoming visitors and spending weeks blazing paths of adventure only to say goodbye too soon at Terminal 2E of the Roissy airport finally caught up to me.

At any rate, just as Seth the Breton had begun to drown his opponent in magical myths and tales of adventure, Seth the Hoosier rose with his endless stalks of corn to strike the former with threatening blows—blows which came in the shape of a long line of experiences which were undeniably Hoosier in nature right in Brittany, beginning with some good old-fashioned pig skin.

The Bowl

“Allez, Pey-tuhn Mah-nee-guh!” the French sportscaster exclaimed, cheering on the famed quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts. In the state known as the Crossroads of America, Hoosier pride was burning bright as the Colts challenged the ominous Bears in the annual Super Bowl. Naturally, it would indeed have to be the year during which I was away from Indiana that my state would succeed not only in sending its team to the grand finale but also in taking the national title in American football. Nevertheless, I was not about to allow this to deter my ability to cheer on the Colts live during the game.

Thus, I can honestly say that I organized that which would become the largest, most exciting of all Super Bowl parties in Lannion in 2007. Well, then again I am certain mine was the only party; but, still it was the best. Yes, the beer was replaced with Tetley tea. Yes, the pizza was replaced by sliced baguette with melted chèvre cheese on top. And, yes, instead of a room full of roaring Hoosiers it was merely a Welsh assistant named Kate and myself who cheered and jeered at the television from midnight until 4 A.M. But, nevertheless, for a moment I had been transported back to Indiana.

One corn stalk blow had hit Seth the Breton squarely in the gut.


The Parents

Next on the agenda: meet the parents. No, I was not becoming acquainted with the parents of a female companion; rather, my parents were the ones who were about to meet my new love—my love which was not a woman, but rather Breizh—la Bretagne.

One week after the Colts’ victory, I found myself sitting once again in the Charles de Gaulle/Roissy airport of Paris waiting for the arrival of visitors. Anticipation was mounting. A few confused butterflies began to flit about in my stomach. I had not seen my parents for five months, and we were about to spend two weeks traveling together in Paris, Normandy and Brittany. As this was to be their first European adventure, I wanted everything to be perfect.

An hour after their jet was posted as having arrived, I began to wonder what could be taking them so long to cross security. After an hour and a half, I became rather anxious. After two hours, I assumed there had been a hitch.

And, naturally, there was.

Tired of scanning the crowds to be sure I had not missed them, I lowered my head. “Where could they be?” I questioned. Surely any moment they would burst from security, run up to me with open arms and say how much they’d missed me.

Lazily, I lifted my head again, and then I saw her: my mother was a scant six feet from me.

“You’re here!” I exclaimed, rising quickly to my feet (preparing for the I’ve-missed-you-so-much hug, of course).

“Yeah,” she muttered, a ball cap barely shading the weariness in her eyes. “Yeah, I am. And I hate this country already.”

End of the happy reunion idea.

“What’s wrong?” I queried.

“They lost your dad’s suitcase. And I barely got permission to come get you.”

To be fair, I have only met one or two friendly workers at the Roissy airport in all of my frequent visits to it, yet my parents seemed to stumble upon one of the least friendly of all as they were trying to communicate sentences like the following: find my suitcase.

Fortunately, the suitcase was recovered, but not until after Dad had been living on two outfits for several days. Better he than Mom, though.

Even if the reunion had not gone as planned, however, I had prepared such a thrilling itinerary for my parents that I knew I would win them over to all of the richness of life I have found in France, beginning with the very first night.

After napping to shake off a bit of the travel fatigue, my parents and I left the resort for their first view of Paris. We wandered around for a bit near Ile de la Cité, the double-island center of Paris wherein one can find Notre Dame, the Conciergerie and many other famed landmarks. Then, dusk began to settle upon the city. As it was their first night, I wanted to introduce them to many of the Parisian monuments, cathedrals, and more in style. Thus, we began to march toward the dock at which one can board for a cruise down the legendary river Seine.

After nearly forty-five minutes of following the Seine, at last we arrived just in time to jump onto the boat before it set sail. Night had completely chased away the golden sun from the sky, and Paris had begun to prove why it is known as la Ville Lumière—the City of Light—with all of the ancient structures beaming as they were bathed in luminescence.

Just before the boat began to drift down the river, the Eiffel Tower itself began its hourly glimmering, and then we were off. Soon the giant obelisk marking the spot at which Louis (XVI) Capet, Marie-Antoinette and others lost their heads during the Revolution came into view, followed by Notre Dame in all of her gothic glory, each individual buttress illuminated by lights below.

From the harrowing spires of the Conciergerie reaching toward the black sky to the more subtle beauty of the Parisian twin of the Statue of Liberty, every structure, every bit of architecture found new life in the lights of the Parisian night.

“Wow,” I said audibly. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

When I didn’t receive a response, I turned to my side. Mom apparently was enjoying it so much that she had to close her eyes in delight—close her eyes and begin to breathe quite deeply, that is.

Landmarks of history and architectural wonders, it seemed, could not compete with the temptation of the Sandman.

In spite of the disappointments of Day One, however, my parents did come to appreciate the charm of Paris—from the twisted streets to the panoramic view from the bell tower of Notre Dame, from the savory scent of melted cheese in a panini to the thick custard delight of the one and only mille-feuilles.

And, then along came Brittany.


The Beauty

After a few days of solid Parisian tourism, we traded the city skyline for the more unspoilt beauty which thrives in Breizh. We climbed the mountains made of rock. We hiked the rugged coast. We chased the ocean. We listened to her roar. We stood proudly facing the salty gusts of wind.

And, then we looked down to see the tide rushing inward and panicked. Yes, once again the Ocean Chaser had allowed his desire to touch the sapphire water to get the better of him. At first, we picked our way carefully back toward the shore. Then, we became careless. When Dad looked at a large rock and remarked one could actually watch the tide rising up the side of it, Mom lost patience and ran across the forming rivers, completely soaking her shoes, socks, pants and nearly everything else.

The rush of the sea, the rise of adrenalin: it was grand.

The adventure then continued with a tour of two ancient cities I had not yet seen.

Concarneau, the third most important fishing port in France, at first did not appear to be much different from many other Breton cities. However, when we were encroaching upon the port proper, I saw what I had been looking for: a tiny pedestrian bridge leading onto a walled medieval island. Eager to explore the ancient artistry, we bounded across the bridge and walked among the ramparts which were completed in the seventeenth century. I tried to imagine the cultures which had dwelt upon the island, as it had in fact been inhabited for at least a thousand years prior to the completion of the wall.

After strolling along the ramparts and watching men preparing boats to sail, I told my parents it was café time. While my father knows the value of “Pepsi breaks” and my mother may also be known to enjoy her free time, neither of them were prepared for the laid-back pace I tried to set. Soon, however, it became apparent that they perhaps needed the slow style even more than I.

One day, for example, we had spent the afternoon hiking the wild coast of western Brittany. Dad and I enjoyed veering from the set trail in order to blaze our own paths—descending the rock faces of cliffs in order to get closer to the sea—while Mom filmed us from above. All of us, however, walked quite a bit. At the close of the day, we found ourselves in a chic French restaurant feeling—and, I’m afraid, looking—quite shabby: Mom in her baseball cap, Dad with his coat zipped up to hide the fact he was wearing only a plain white tee shirt, and me in dirty jeans.

While waiting on our meal, Dad stood to go to the restroom, not realizing he was hooked to the tablecloth, and therefore almost pulled it from the table, which would have broken the glass jar of water and sent the silverware flying. Thankfully, he did stop it from sliding in time.

Mom laughed at him as he left. She then turned to me and said she was going to the bathroom, too. She stood up slowly and pushed her chair back. “And I won’t take the tablecloth with me,” she stated proudly. She turned and began to walk to the bathroom—in a manner which is best described in my father’s words as “like Grandpa Aeschliman.” Honestly, I think both of my grandmothers could have easily overtaken her with their canes and walkers. (“You’re pushing me hard,” she later said in an attempt to justify her slowing speed. “And, we’re getting old.”)

In her pride of leaving the tablecloth unscathed, however, she had forgotten to push her chair in, thus leaving it at least three feet from the table prepared to trip the waitress who would come flying around the corner...but, I naturally saved the day.

At any rate, it was apparent that my parents could use some Breton relaxation, and the many cafés spread across the peninsula were quite content to oblige.

We also stopped in the City of Painters: Pont-Aven. Known most widely for the presence of Paul Gauguin who graced the land with his artistry in the 1880s, it is a village which emanates charm. A rushing river runs not only through the town, but under it. Indeed, the water streams under buildings which have raised foundations, and directly up to the next of others. There is no wide river walkway to separate the city from the water. The water is rather an actual part of the town’s character, coursing beneath the men making crêpes and providing an ever-present soundtrack to the Bretons and tourists wandering the streets.

Pont-Aven is also home to le Bois d’Amour (the Wood of Love), a twisted network of shaded paths which begin next to the river and lead to wooded gardens. This wood is said to have been the site of inspiration for many visiting painters, poets and musicians. However, for this Hoosier it inspired the desire to jump in the mud. When my parents gingerly picked their way across a soggy stretch of the path, I decided to show the ingenuity of my youth. I ascended the steep bank on the side of the path in order to avoid the mud, and, for a few feet, all was going well. Then, I grabbed onto a tree to leap across a patch of mud, but slipped and found myself trying to do the splits and sinking into the black sludge.

It wasn’t, I dare say, my proudest moment as a Breton-Hoosier.

Discussions of Indiana, including that of my growing niece, during our adventures gave Seth the Hoosier another opportunity to strike his Breton opponent with a corn stalk. However, wondering at and wandering in these new sites of history and legend gave Seth the Breton the force he needed once again to pick up his staff and provide the Hoosier with a grand wallop.

Current tally:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 1


The Wonder

Another highlight of my parents’ visit was a road trip to the beaches of Normandy, much of which I had already seen during my stay in Paris in 2005. The first stop, however, was the infamous Le Mont Saint Michel, the sometimes island which is at the very frontier of Normandy and Brittany and has therefore long been a bone of contention between these two lands. By definition, it is Norman, as the Couesnon river, the actual border, runs to the West of the Mount.

As the famous Breton dictum states:

‘Et le Couesnon en sa folie, / And Couesnon, in its insanity
A mis le Mont en Normandie. / Placed the Mount in Normandy.’

When the tide is far out to sea, a large swath of land and beach connects the Mount to the mainland. However, when the tide returns, it becomes an island—almost. It used to, but currently there is an auto bridge allowing for the swell of tourists who come with more force than the tide. There is a plan, however, to remove this bridge and replace it with a tram in order to return the Mount to its former glory and remind visitors why it is called the Merveille (“wonder”).

This land was once called “the Mount in Peril from the Sea,” as many pilgrims were drowned or sucked under by quicksand while attempting to traverse the bay in days of old. In the eighth century, however, an abbey was constructed and the Archangel Michael became the vigorous protecter of the Mount. Indeed, the Mont Saint Michel is the one piece of northern France which was never captured during its long history—not even during the twenty-seven years from 1423 to 1450 when the able-bodied English had a permanent fort on nearby Tombelaine island.

Leave it to the French, however, to destroy the beautiful splendor and spiritual paradise of their own Mount. During the bloody Revolution, the monastery was closed, the island was converted into a prison and some crazed Frenchman must have missed his course in Irony 101 because he named it “Free Mount.”

In 1969, however, a small group of Benedictine monks returned to the abbey and today continue to perpetuate a monastic existence in spite of touristic turmoil.

The pretzel-like twists of slender streets, formidable façades and rising ramparts, however, are best described in the words of writer Guy de Maupassant:

I reached the huge pile of rocks which bears the little city dominated by the great church. Climbing the steep narrow street, I entered the most wonderful Gothic building ever made for God on this earth, a building as vast as a town, full of low rooms under oppressive ceilings and lofty galleries supported by frail pillars. I entered that gigantic granite jewel, which is as delicate as a piece of lacework, thronged with towers and slender belfries which thrust into the blue sky of day and the black sky of night their strange heads bristling with chimeras, devils, fantastic beasts and monstrous flowers, and which are linked together by carved arches of intricate design.
(Le Horla, Guy de Maupassant)

After marveling at the Merveille, we slipped into a restaurant, and I entreated my parents to taste the ever traditional dish of mussels and fries. When the delicacy was placed before me, though, my mother’s eyes rolled upward.

“I can’t eat that.”

“Come on. Just a taste.”

“I’ll vomit,” she stated, her tone matter-of-fact.

Dad, nevertheless, reached for one, and Mom slowly followed suit. She gave me a sick look as if her stomach were somersaulting down the steps we’d climbed to ascend the Mount, then gingerly reached for a mussel and placed it on her tongue.

Suddenly, they couldn’t shovel them into their mouths fast enough. Hey, Mikey the Archangel: they loved it.

Beautiful scenery and authentic cuisine: Seth the Breton was gaining power as he sent the Hoosier looking for more ammunition.

It was tied:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 2


The Beach

The beaches of Normandy were as poignant as ever.

Once again, I walked among the gleaming crosses of white. Once again, I tried to imagine leaving behind everything I had to fight on a foreign land knowing I may never see my own again. Once again, I found myself in awe.

We gazed at the Pointe du Hoc, the jagged cliff atop which the first US sergeant had ascended only five minutes after the landing of D Day.

We were haunted by the massive batterie de Longues-sur-mer, four concrete Nazi pillboxes complete with massive gun barrels which continue to point across the Channel—still waiting.

We stood in craters made by the Allied assault.

We walked in history—again.

This topic was heavily covered in the final chapter of A Hoosier in Paris (“Sunrise, Sunset”), however, and I thus feel persuaded to leave it at that.

In light of this solemn tour, both Seth the Hoosier and the Breton dropped their weapons to salute the Allies.


The Forest

The final adventure of my parents visit was one I had been anticipating since first setting my foot upon Breton soil: an exploration of the Forest of Brocéliande.

Brocéliande is a wooded land which perpetuates the wonder of the vanished, mythical Argoat, the grand primeval forest of Brittany. Secrets of legends and whispers of adventure lurk deep within this wood which is believed to have been the home to characters of Arthurian lore. Chief among these characters is Merlin. The great wizard is not only rumored to have made his home in the Breton forest of Brocéliande; it is said that this is where he remains to this very day—in a stone into which he was locked by the enchantress Viviane.

In the early Middle Ages, Chrétien de Troyes sang of this stone (“Merlin’s stone”) and of the fountain next to it—the Fontaine de Barenton, which is also the site at which Merlin first set his eyes upon Viviane (not to be confused with the Fountain of Eternal Youth, which is hidden somewhere near Barenton but only accessible to the pure in heart)—with the following:

You will see the spring which bubbles
Though its water is colder than marble.
It is shaded by the most beautiful tree
That Nature ever made,
For its foliage is evergreen
And a basin of iron hangs from it,
By a chain long enough
To reach the spring;
And beside the spring you will find
A slab of stone which you will recognize -
I cannot describe it
For I have never seen one like it.

According to legend, if one drinks from the spring and then splashes water on to the stone slab, a mighty storm is summoned, together with roaring lions and a horseman in black armor.

Naturally, I could not resist.

As soon as we neared the fabled land, I felt a sudden change in the ambiance. The few natives I saw along the roads gave us suspicious stares, as if to question our worthiness of walking the hallowed soil. Cool, I thought. There must be something worth protecting in this forest.

But, Viviane must have known I was coming, for she cursed the land with slippery mud. Against my mother’s pleadings, Dad nevertheless turned the rental car off of the paved road onto the paths of mud leading deeper into the wood. The natives’ looks of suspicion turned to disbelief. What fools would attempt such off-roading in a non four-wheel drive car? That would be the Hoosiers.

After nearly becoming stuck, Mom insisted the adventure continue by foot—with her remaining in the car. And so, armed with a book of Brittany as my treasure map, with my father as my co-treasure seeker, I left the car and my mother behind to enter the paths shaded by a cathedral of trees.

“Is this a footpath?”

“Is that an animal trail?”

“Have we gone two hundred meters, yet?”

“Do you hear a spring?”

These were the questions which Dad and I fired back and forth as we searched for Merlin’s stone. The forks in the road provided too many options. The footpaths were too unclear. And, we were sinking too deeply into the mire.

The minutes ticked by. The mud climbed up our jeans. And, my mother continued to sit alone in the car.

Finally, after nearly two hours of exploration, I forced myself to retreat from the adventure. We returned to the car, and in doing so noted that it looked as if we had gone mudding with the vehicle. As if I weren’t discouraged enough, now I had to finish the fruitless adventure by giving the car a bath. Dad and I grabbed water bottles, filled them in a stream and washed the Ford with our hands. Mom, for her part, did an excellent job of surveying.

Yes, I was disappointed. The elements had prevented me from exploring all of the adventure of Brocéliande, from finding Merlin. But, this was only attempt number one. I have added the stone of Merlin to the list of things I must see in my lifetime. Thus, I will return, and I will succeed. It is merely a question of when.

On the return journey to Lannion, we stopped at a small farm to purchase a case of homemade cider. The name: Cidre Fermier du Pays de Brocéliande (Farm Fresh Cider from the Land of Brocéliande). This cider has been the best I have tasted in all of my Breton days. Thus, I may not have found Merlin, but the supreme quality of this cider more than made up for my loss.

The Breton was pulling ahead:

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 3


The Mission

Phone lines lit up on both sides of the Atlantic. Computer keys were clacking their way across the vast world wide web. It was an international fight against the clock—a fight to perform a mission which seemed not only inconceivable but truly impossible.

It began with a phone call bearing an ominous message: “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get the Bertsch girls to Paris before 7:00 AM Saturday morning.”

Although the message did not self-destruct, after hours of research, pleading and pulling the hair from our heads, we were ready to do so.

One week prior to this, my parents’ adventure had drawn to a close. After washing the rental car, we spent one last evening together in Lannion before returning to Paris where I bid them farewell at Terminal 2E. A few days later, though, I was already preparing for the visit of two more Hoosiers: Steffanie and Rebekah Bertsch, two close cousins of mine.

Tickets had been purchased, hotels reserved. Then, on the eve of the grand adventure I received a phone call with the message above.

Inclement weather had apparently settled above the Midwest, which brought with it fear that the girls’ Thursday evening flight from Fort Wayne, Indiana to Detroit could be delayed. However, in the end this was no matter—no matter at all, because instead of a delay, the flight was indeed cancelled due to mechanical issues.

It took a while for all of us to process the situation, but the circumstances were such that the girls were not going to be able to fly to Detroit Thursday, meaning they would not make their connection in Detroit, which of course meant they were not coming to Paris—at least not Thursday evening.

But couldn’t they easily jump onto another flight?

The entire operation was balanced upon the hingepin of train tickets I had purchased to leave Saturday morning at 9:00 AM to travel to Normandy. If the girls arrived a mere minute later than 6:30 AM Saturday, I knew our odds of making it to the train station on time were slim. And, these were a rare breed of non-refundable train tickets.

The airline company checked, double-checked and cross-referenced all flight options, but it appeared the girls were not going to be able to arrive before 9:00 AM.

Then, they issued us a challenge: find a flight plan which would work, and they’d secure the tickets. We jumped onto our computers, surfing every website of amalgamated ticket agencies and those of the airline companies themselves.

The hours ticked by.

“Have you checked Delta?”

“What about going into Newark?”

“Could they fly into Frankfurt, Germany and get a train?”

“Maybe if they make a connection in Rome.”

“We could go into London and take the Channel Tunnel.”

The mission seemed utterly impossible. When the clock read 4:00 AM France time, Seth the Breton and Seth the Hoosier laid down their weapons, too tired to fight. In two hours, I would be boarding a train to travel to Paris just in time to meet my cousins—my cousins who were no longer going to be there.

“How about Pakistani Air?”

My eyes were crossing, my fingers numb from the web surfing. In Indiana, however, the midnight oil was burning bright.

Finally: “I think we’ve got it,” I heard Steffanie say. “Just give me a minute.”

Silence.

“Yes, we’ve got it.”

Applause resounded across the globe. Team Hoosier had found a potential flight plan which hinged upon a connection in Cleveland but would theoretically arrive just in time Saturday. In this knowledge, I retreated for an hour and a half to the land of Breton dreams and Celtic things.


The Infatuation

“Welcome to Tréguier,” I stated with pride.

Steffanie, Rebekah and I descended from the bus and stood before the imposing façade of the Lycée Savina. They had indeed arrived on time in Paris, but not before another monkey wrench had leapt into the system after I fell asleep. The Cleveland flight had been completely booked, sending the remaining members of Team Hoosier back to the drawing board. Indeed, when I saw their faces just after 6:00 AM Saturday morning at the Roissy airport, I almost could not believe my eyes. In the end, Boston’s airport had provided the essential connection flight to Paris.

God bless the Bostonians.

Following their arrival, we spent Day One touring a bit of Normandy: Omaha Beach and Bayeux. As the latter was the first city to be liberated following Operation Overlord in 1944, it briefly became the capital of Free France. Today, it remains a town of character which provided the Bertsch sisters with many opportunities to begin to dabble in the exquisite delights of French cuisine: from baguette sandwiches to strawberry mille-feuilles, from the girls’ first legal drink of alcohol (kir) to a peach-shaped confection with potent, alcoholized raisins inside.

Soon enough, however, we were wandering the streets of Paris and then on our way to my homeland of Breizh.

“Welcome to Tréguier.”

Monday morning after stepping off of the bus, I took my curious cousins on a bit of a tour of the medieval village, then entered the courtyard leading up to the Lycée Savina. Walking past a group of young male students of mine, I noticed they all turned to look my way—rather, our way.

“Bonjour,” I said. They nodded in return.

Merely one hour later, I walked into a classroom with Steffanie and Rebekah to meet the teacher with whom I’d be working that morning. Steff and Bec were to stay with me in order not only to see a bit of the French school system but also to provide students with the opportunity to practice their English with other Anglophones.

“These are my two cousins,” I said to the teacher.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve heard about them already.” I raised an eyebrow. “The boys are buzzing about the two young girls they saw you with,” she explained.

A smile spread across my lips. I knew I’d have the students’ attention that day.

Indeed, my students had never been so attentive, so desiring to communicate as they were that day. Perhaps they were inspired by the color of my shirt, or maybe it was the passion in my voice. But, I dare say I think it had more to do with the presence of two other individuals—two young females who emanated foreign adventure and American exoticism.

In fact, two young males sprung for extra credit by driving to Lannion one evening to sit back and chat with us in my favorite pub, L’Atmosphère.

Motivation, indeed.

The sight of my own students yearning to form sentences and communicate woke Seth the Breton from his slumber. Another smack to the Hoosier’s face, and the Breton began to secure his lead.

Seth the Hoosier: 2

Seth the Breton: 4


The Train

The visit of the Bertsches to the land of Brittany was packed with the requisite coastal hiking and crêpe-devouring; however, soon we were on our way back to the City of Light.

“Do you smell that?” I queried.

“Do I?” Rebekah responded, her eyes wide with disgust.

We three looked at each other, silent for a moment. Then, we all grabbed madly for something to hold over our noses. We had settled into our seats on the train which would bear us back to Paris; thus, we were to have four long hours together in the glassed-in portion of the car which allowed for approximately sixteen travelers. To our dismay, however, one of our fellow passengers had chosen that day to go on strike from taking showers and was quickly filling the car with his lovely scent.

Sleep, for me, was not an option as the pungent odor actively sought passage into my nasal cavity. Steffanie and Rebekah fashioned nose plugs out of Kleenex, but even those would not stop the imperial force of the man’s putrid stench. Unfortunately, we knew we would simply have to wait for our brains to stop attending to the noxious fumes. Indeed, even in riding the Metro in the middle of July next to men and women who refuse to use antiperspirant have I not met body odor with such rancid vigor.

Whenever someone exited or reentered the room, fresh air would blow in from the rest of the car—a bittersweet blessing. For a moment, we’d find refreshment. Then, soon our senses which had just previously dulled to the stench would once again pick it up as if for the first time and we’d wait—again.

Rebekah, however, found peace in the arms of the Sandman, who, I’m sure, smelled much lovlier. Steffanie and I, not tired, diverted our attention by raising discussions of philosophical, cultural or theological matters. Brittany faded from view and the lights of Paris loomed on the horizon as we debated the good and the bad of both American and European culture, politics. Eventually, we lost ourselves in the discussion and did not even notice when Monsieur Stinky Man left the train: a blessing indeed.

Disgusted by the French penchant for not using antiperspirant reinvigorated the Hoosier within who found the strength to smack the Breton’s nose with a corn stalk.

Seth the Hoosier: 3

Seth the Breton: 4


The Farewell

Snapshots of memories flashed a slideshow of reminiscence in my mind. The Saturday after returning with the girls to Paris, I found myself once again alone in my studio in Lannion. I pulled out a DVD the Bertsch girls had brought with them to France. When delivering it to me, they had restated the commands of their mother, my Aunt Kim: “This is not to be viewed until after we’ve left and you’re feeling a little lonely.”

Indeed, loneliness seemed to be the emotion the most easy to isolate filling my mind. A long season of visitors from the land of corn had finally drawn to a close when I bid farewell to Steffanie and Rebekah at Terminal 2E earlier that day.

The days prior to their departure had provided the culmination of their adventure in the City of Light: the most Parisian of views and French cuisine at its finest—or, perhaps most interesting.

The view was provided by a trek to the summit of the Eiffel Tower. From this vantage point, they were able to recognize the soaring buttresses of Notre Dame, the gilded statues atop the Opéra Garnier, the controversial pyramid of the Louvre, the Dome church in which Napoleon’s tomb can be found and many other structures of Parisian pride—all viewed under the canopy of the night sky.

The cuisine, however, was provided in a small restaurant settled within the Latin Quarter of the city. If the main courses, veal and beef, lacked any exotic zing, this was more than made up for in the chosen entrées: mussels and Burgundy snails.

If I had found it difficult to coax my mother into tasting a mussel, I had seen nothing. Compared to Rebekah, Mom had jumped at the chance. Steffanie and I encouraged, coaxed and practically begged Bec to place the tiny treat on her tongue.

“No way.”

Eventually, she did give in, but not after putting up a grand resistance. Afterward, of course, she said, “Not bad.”

Due to her difficulty with the mussel, however, I never dreamed I’d succeed in encouraging her to taste a snail. Steffanie gladly reached for one and placed it in her mouth. She smiled and said, “Love the sauce.” Rebekah, however, looked at us as if we were insane.

Nevertheless, my younger cousin proved her fortitude. Not wanting to be left out, she reached for a snail—and her face said it all.

However, in the end, she ate not one but two snails. Furthermore, she decided that she liked them more than the mussels.

Unfortunately, however, the adventure could not last forever, and soon I found myself walking once again down the corridor leading to Terminal 2E. Months before, I had there bidden farewell to my sister. Days before, my parents were the ones to leave. Now, I was hugging my cousins and thanking them for their voyage.

After smiling, waving and watching them advance through security as long as I could, I turned and told myself I had been given my fill of Terminal 2E. It was time to leave and not return—at least for some time.

That evening, I placed the DVD the girls had given me into my computer. Faces of family and friends dear to me flashed onto the screen. There were individuals who have been present during all of my life, such as my nuclear family, my Aunt Kim and my uncle Dave. There were cousins and friends with whom I have grown up. And, there were little ones who’ve been growing up in my absence over the past six months.

Indeed, Seth the Breton had saved his most potent blow for the end—and what a wallop it was. With it, he secured the following:

Seth the Hoosier: 4

Seth the Breton: 4

The game is tied. The culture I’ve been growing to appreciate has succeeded in seeping into my being, my very existence. But, the people at home to whom I’m tired of bidding farewell at Terminal 2E give me once again the sudden desire to run from all I’ve done here and seek sanctuary in the cornfields of Indiana.

Who will win? Can there ever be an end to this battle?

I have two months left. Let the games continue.