Souvenirs de Sospel; La Seconde Guerre

When I applied to be a teacher’s assistant for English on the French Consulate’s website, I was given the option of choosing three locations for teaching. I was already headed abroad to spend 3 months in Paris, so I thought to apply for someplace else and see more of france. I knew I had some family acquaintances in Nice, France, so I wrote that as my first choice. After that, it was a toss-up; I chose Guadeloupe and La Reunion, because frankly, who would turn down an opportunity to live in paradise? I was assigned to my first choice, but with a twist. It turns out that Nice is the largest city in the region, and so that is the general title for placement. I was stationed in the VAR region (the other is the Alpes-Maritimes, where the Alps hit the Mediterranean) and I had no idea that this was just the beginning of a long string of discoveries in my favor.

I have long desired to travel through the small towns that my grandfather knew in his travels in the Second Great War. I say “travels” when really it was more like fighting and forging ahead. He was an officer in Headquarters 1st Division in the 517th Airborne. They were the elite of the elite in regards to paratroopers, causing endless headaches for the German troops, as well as for their own commanding officers. Courageous to the point of what some might call crazy, these men became the most decorated unit in the entire US Airborne in the Second World War, unfortunately losing so many of their forces that the unit was disbanded after the war. The memories of these heroic soldiers live on in the minds of those still with us today, with their families, and with those abroad whose gratitude for freedom is unwavering. The 517th Airborne jumped only once in the war once abroad, forging the rest of their path to close in on Hilter’s forces on foot in the Battle des Ardennes (Battle of the Bulge). The area of this one and only jump is located in southern France, in fact, in the VAR and Alpes-Maritimes regions.

As it turns out, my family’s acquaintances in the region house a museum solely dedicated to the 517th in Le Muy, France in the VAR region, and another in Sospel in the Alpes-Maritimes. Both parties informed me of my incredibly close proximity to all the towns through which my grandfather fought and helped to liberate from Nazi grasp. I am, in fact, in the heart of it all. I am able to spend a great deal of time while here in the presence of my grandfather, of whom I have an immeasurable amount of admiration and adoration. His final resting place is on the property of our good friends Patricia and Roland, whose land overlooks Sospel and the surrounding Alpes. He has a spectacular view, one might say. Patricia and Roland own their own collection (museum in progress) of World War II memorabilia, especially of the 517th and are active players in the fight to keep the memory of the war alive in the hearts and minds of this generation. They recently hosted the festivities held in Sospel for a group of 517th veterans traveling from town to town for the 65th anniversary of their jump, and who have helped me immensely to establish myself here in France.

The following are images of the monument situated on their property dedicated to the 517th and all those who helped to liberate the Alps-Maritimes region in 1945. It is composed of WWII arifacts unearthed by Roland in the surrounding mountains. It seems the forests have not so soon forgotten the soldiers who fell amidst their trees.












The last image is of the memorial plaque in Sospel proper on the Pont de la Liberation dedicated to Company F of the 517th for their courageous efforts in the town.

dream sequence revisé

Sospel, while a small town with small town ways, has truly been a haven for my wandering, anxious mind…and for that I am truly grateful. In my time to relax, I feel as though I can actively feel my mind searching for something I forgot to do, something I forgot to say, and time and time again, it turns up empty-handed. Granted Patou and Roland have given me absolutely nothing to worry about, and well, I cannot even begin to repay them for their kindness and endless aid.

I will say, however, that while awake I find nothing to worry about, my mind manages to betray me while I sleep. It has so far managed to conjure up, in all forms of vivid illumination, my most recent string of guilty feelings, however suppressed they might have been. While Froide might have found this entertaining, I do not. I would rather not be plagued with ill feelings during the only part of the 24 hour period we call a day, when a little much-needed, jet-lagged shut-eye is actually possible. I do, however, appreciate the physiological conundrum that these stirrings bring to light—a bit on a challenge, if you will, to (a) settle any outstanding grievances with the persons involved, or if this proves to be an unattainable goal, option (b)—learning about ZEN and the healing powers of yoga and meditation---serves as an equally difficult and rewarding alternative.

Vanessa des Sources

This country is breathtaking; truly the countryside. The entire experience is a contiuation of “Jean de Florette”…right down to the groups of elderly people conversing casually, yet with an air of importance, at tables and beside benches alongside the river that runs through the town. Everyone knows everyone, even if it is through distant relatives or friends, and an hour at the weekly market is time to see the extended family--that is to say, everyone. It is a bit like a blockparty in Chicato in its early hours; people sauntering lazily, greeting each other as though they haven’t seen each other in months. They exchange the usual “how are yous.” “Ça va toi?” “Oui, et toi?” “Bah oui, maois tu sais, tous sont toujours bien.” Then they plunge into talk of “how is the family?” and “what happened with/to whoever” Then follows gossip about family/neighbors/acquaintances, finished with, “Fin, je te laisse. I have to be on my way.” Somehow, the whole interaction is so much more appealing to me in a french setting thani n the US… perhaps it is because I find everything more appealing in the French language.


I find it entertaining how certain human interactions do not really change form with the culture or language. I suppose it is simply human nature—our desire to fit in, to feel appreciated, needed, missed, and loved, to boost our confidence, moral, and importance. We are competitive, yet as being so, we are also dependant on others to feel complete. It takes a very different kind of person to take to the hills an never interact with others—they are usually viewed as either very pious (hermit monks, etc), or simply a bit off the rocker (i.e. Thoreau and Walden Pond). I am certain that some devout Thoreau followers would argue with me for days over that last statement, as it is a bit shallow in content and seems to discredit his work. Honestly, though, someone who cannot find a way to interact with his fellow homosapiens in everyday life and sees fit to leave such a social setting to be completely solitary, (revolutionary thinker or simpleton) he is typically seen as crazy.

Dream Sequence

While I have much else to write about, this will be brief. I find that it is bizarre and yet logical that when faced with an all together foreign situation, especially one of a different language, one's dreams can comprise themselves of past guilts. All of my dreams have been largely focused on events and people about whom I have guilty feelings.

The path is made by walking

I cannot express it--somehow, I do not feel nervous. I am on my way to the single longest journey I have ever taken, and it is one to a foreign country across an ocean and a 10 hour flight from home. A 7 hour time difference separates me from family, friends, and pretty much everyone I know. Perhaps my lack of anxiety is due to the fact that I have lived the life of a roamer for the last year and a half. Perhaps it is because I know the language of the locals. I would like to believe that this strange sense of tranquility comes from an unshaken desire for self-discovery. I feel numb perhaps simply because I do not know what to feel...because I have misplaced my sense of self. I feel as though I have been going through the motions, always on edge, always preparing for the other shoe to drop. I have grown immune to anxiety in a sense (not that I do not have my occasional freak-outs). For the first time in my life, I am eager to journey on my own, not for the sake of running away from commitment, but rather to define myself, to know myself more fully so that I may better serve my commitments. I feel that this is either a dangerous statement, or a mature one (can it be both?). This is not to say that I am ready for a lifetime commitment, only that I want to give 100% in my relationships and up till now I have been incapable of doing so for fear of losing my Independence. I understand now that my own independence is created by my own personal approach to life and to my choices. It is the strength to stand up for one's self but the humility to admit to one's faults. It is not simply a constant rebellion--in which case one becomes a slave to one's close-minded logic and lacks the ability to actually feel with an open heart and mind. Regardless of the commitment I choose to make, I want to embody a knowledge of myself that allots me with the tools I need to shape my independence. Such tools are those of perseverance of body and mind, a balance of humility and pride, open-mindedness and forgiveness, integrity (both professional and personal, because in either case, it is a reflection of one's true personality), curiosity for culture and creativity, and an unquenched thirst for adventure and new experiences, be it across the globe or in my own back yard.

"Traveler, There is no path./ The path is made by walking."

Honesty is the preferred policy

So, I had no intention of continuing this blog while in the States, being as I started it to keep family in touch with my happenings abroad, and also found that my life abroad was far more interesting. I have, however, discovered, since my return, that insightful occurrences have woven their way into the fabric of my everyday life and a recent turn of events. That being said, I plan to only use this blog as a continuation of thoughts previously begun "sous le ciel de Paris."

As previously stated in a different entry, I have found honesty to not only be the best policy, but the one most preferred. How often do you find yourself saying, "Man, I hope that person lies to me" or "I hope they aren't telling me the truth." Hardly ever, I would imagine. I was recently caught off-guard by someone trying to play the courtship game... something in which I used to pride myself in being quite crafty, but frankly, this time, I was stumped. I had stopped trying to play games, and instead just thought in the moment instead of planning or analyzing anyone's next move. Talk about stress relief, until you feel frustrated and confused. At this moment, I actually told the other person that I would prefer them to speak plainly, and believe it or not, the conversation went much better with both of us feeling more confident and understood. This is a perfect example of how people ultimately find relief in being frank when the recipient is receptive.

Working its way into this notion is the concept behind the restaurant by which I am employed for the summer. In looking for work recently, I was lucky to have found it at the newly opened, trendy restaurant, ZED 451 in downtown Chicago. This restaurant fits into my discussion of honesty in that I have never in my life experienced a restaurant whose approach to its guests was as focused on creating an authentic atmosphere and not simply putting on a show in the aspects of its presentation. The idea is to treat guests as though we are throwing a house party and our friends chose our house party over all the others in the city. We do not introduce ourselves nor give a speech, but instead simply talk to the guests as though they are in our home. There is a line in the mission statement that says "We do not deliver a thing, from the music to the food, without passion." There is a rule that anyone on the floor is allowed to not serve something if they do not think it is up to par. It is not a mindset of "fool the customer" but rather one of honesty and pride.

Often times pride itself can lead to dishonesty, which causes some very obvious problems and dilemmas unless one can take a step back and reevaluate why the two are in conflict to begin with. There is a line from "The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood" which speaks directly to this concept and further elaborates on the discussion. As much as I was hesitant to watch a movie based on crazy middle aged women bonding over heaven knows what, I have to say, it is very much worth watching, if only for its assertions about truth and honesty. The line I am referencing goes like this: "Eventually, you learn what people are trying to hide by how they are trying to hide it." I love this quote simply for how true it is. Which brings us back to the cliché that "honesty is the best policy." Just be honest with others and yourself and you will be less burdened by stress and lies... a pretty good trade off in my opinion.

Le Nausea: culture shock in reverse

So when Professor Brault warned us about Le Nausea brought on by one's own country, to quote Baudelaire, I was not so sure I believed that it would happen to me. I had been craving an enormous, juicy burger (or any barbeque, really) and a walk to the Lake since about half-way through my time in Paris and was looking forward to finally satisfying my obsession. But of course, Brault was right, and I do not know why I ever doubted her wisdom.  I have found that I truly prefer french fashion (in the sense of casual style, not the couture stuff, which is nice but impractical), and was told yesterday that when dressing as such, I "look weird." Sigh. Oh, America. And everything is so huge. My latte this morning at ArgoTea was about 6 times as large as any espresso drink I consumed in France and about 1/10 the quality.  Why I even thought that the croissant here would satisfy my desire, I will never know.  I feel a bit stifled, a bit claustrophobic in a way, and cannot really grasp the reasoning.  I feel disoriented at hearing the Chicago accent and seeing men with some sort of muscular physique (the french may not have any body fat, but have no muscle either).  This is not to say that it is a bad thing, only that I feel very out of place at the moment. I desire greatly to share my revelations with friends and relatives, but so far, when I have gone to express them, they escape me.  I feel myself slipping back into old habits that I wanted so greatly to change, and dream of recapturing whatever energy I found by the Seine.

I have this wild fear of losing my french, and it haunts me.  I am plagued with nightmares about not being able to speak french, I awake to my tongue poised to rattle something off in french, only to in the end feel swollen and numb at the realization that it would be wasted.  Recently, at being awoken by drunkards in the street, I desired greatly (almost unconsciously) to scream out my window down to them, "Ça suffit! Alors! Vous en bas, arretez! Vous n'etes pas chez vous! Ecoutez, respectez les voisins, alors!" And then I realized that correcting others is taboo in the US, not to mention that the streets are too big to simply yell, as everything would echo and further wake the neighbors.  

All of this being said, I am not trying to find a sad ending to my trip.  I felt very happy to be back at home where people are friendly, and you can chuckle opening upon overhearing someone's phone conversation about their friend's wild and crazy drunken night, and that they can turn to you with an appreciating smile and nod. Or that you can find a bathroom open for the public at just about anytime of the day or night. Or that you do not have to worry about an exchange rate that kills your bank account.  I had an amazing Sweet-Home-Chicago moment yesterday when I took a lovely walk through Lincoln Park Zoo, watching families gobble down popcorn and ice cream, and continuing on, listened to a live band belt the blues on the lakefront.  Couldn't get any better than that, and you definitely cannot find that in France (regardless of just how much they love Jazz and the Blues).