Homage to España

I spent one week in Spain in December. I went there, like I went to Athens, barely knowing a thing about the country. I'm not sure how it's possible, being around anarchists, reading the news, knowing some things about twentieth century history. I even read For Whom the Bell Tolls on my own at the end of high school, though I found it monotonous, like a lot of Hemingway. I don't know how I was fortunate enough to have friends to visit in Greece AND Spain, where seeds of revolution have been planted for so long and not actually know a thing until I got there.

But this is not a post about bitter lament. This post is about Spain. I finally got around to reading Homage to Catalonia, which I'm about halfway through now. On the drive between the Zamora-area countryside and Vigo, I was tired from travelling but still totally fascinated by the stories of Irati's father. Apparently, back in the 70s, he and her mother were dedicated Marxists. He was telling me all about Anarchists during the Civil War and suggested I read this book. I'm glad I'm reading it now, late as it is. Orwell is a gift to the English language and all of human literature. I'm actually quite in awe of how a person who spent only 47 years on this Earth could have experienced so much and graciously left it with the rest of us bystanders.

I'm not going to go as far as saying that I regret not sticking to Spanish as I had planned and tried and not applying for the Spain assistantship. I am merely saying that when I can catch bits and pieces of real understanding, I feel lucky and privileged.

OK so this is not entirely about Spain. More to come.

***

I finished the book. Orwell's gift for language also extends to his ability to write so much in so few pages.

Back to Spain, where I started 2011. Some of the most beautiful views, captured more deeply in my memory than in these images:

Baoina, Galicia

After meeting Marine at CCL, the way we really connected was through our tiny Spanish class at the Union Française de Jeunesse, which I took seriously for quite some time. There was one point in Spain where I had to dig up my Spanish skills, just to communicate with the family. I imagined the possibility of applying to be a teaching assistant in Spain and now I'm wondering if that wouldn't have been a good choice. But that's not my journey right now. That is Rebecca's journey.

I also had imagined going to the Primavera Festival in Barcelona at the end of May, to see Pulp together on stage for the first time in 10 years. I had so many ideas of going back to Spain, after just one week of being there. Amazing how much can happen in one week. There was even a Korean girl there, and already then I was laying the foundation for the idea of teaching in Korea.

Irati told me about this farm, run by French people. I wanted to go there and help out over the summer too. Spain, why did I abandon you?

August 2011 Houston - The Dark Place

Houston, Texas

A place I haven't been to in quite some time. Different than the late fall troubles and the winter blues in Lille. Different even than post-Calais. Different than high school boredom and desperation. Different than pre-Cambridge Coop depression and frustration about the future. Different because I have just hit 24 years old, still quite young yet too old to be where I am now. The dark place. A place where all my small errors, huge mistakes, rash impulses, overanalyzing, bridge-burning, awkwardness, social ineptness, making heaviness out of lightness, melodrama, self-absorption, inconsideration, cruelty, feeling/thinking over action, travel burn-out, political awakening, city blues and perpetual state of loss hit me like a ton of bricks. The dark place. A place where all the beautiful/painful memories I have purposely or unconsciously repressed, the problems I never resolved, the childhood/adolescence insecurities, the broken family pieces, the personal and professional "failures" that I haven't recovered from, the displacement in a familiar place overwhelm me to the point of numbness. The dark place. A place where I doubt all that I have accomplished, the connections I've made, the foundations I've laid, the good times I've shared, the changes and progress I've decided on. The dark place. A place where I must "breathe the air and walk around." Where I must accept exactly who I am, own and take responsibility for each one of my actions and the fact that they affect my family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, everyone I come across. The dark place. A place that can teach me more about humility, compassion, love, laughter, risk, respect, communication. The dark place. A place where I can plant new seeds and strike new matches. The dark place. The underground bridge between two continents, civilizations, huge pieces of land in huge bodies of water, a huge shovel digging out fat worms feeding on fertile earth.

Who hasn't gone to this dark place? Who hasn't experienced so much that they are unable to sift out the flowers from the shit? Who hasn't taken their created suffering out on others, trying to unload the weight on those who don't ask for or deserve it? Who hasn't sunk their head so far below the water that they start growing gills? Who hasn't run on empty for so many miles that the shock of stalling, crashing, burning is hard to admit or accept?

And this is all the psyche. I am healthy. And loved by my family that I get to stay with. And supported by amazing individuals who have no obligation to be patient with my neurosis. Food in my belly. Roof over my head. Blah blah blah. "First world problems." No, just internal.

In no longer than six months, and probably only three, I will be in South Korea. I won't escape myself and this time around, I won't pretend that it's possible. But I know that there, with all the concrete new things to do every single second of every day, the dark place won't welcome me with open arms. It will lock me out and push me away from the door.

So while it's still possible to be here. Welcome to the dark place. Breathe the air and walk around.

May, June 2011 - Three Weeks of Greek Mountain Magic

At long last, I have found the courage to gather together my best photos from WWOOFing at Peliti. As I look back on them now, I definitely feel the magic in full force. I can also see things more clearly from distance and time and of course there's quite a bit of sadness. But also the realization that I was pretty self-centered and childish, even during this time. I like to think that I learned about love, generosity, patience and humility during these three weeks through the actions of others. I hope that my mistakes and inconsiderate behavior were not judged so harshly by the wonderful people I met, as I now judge them myself. In any case, I can still say this was (one of) the best experiences of my life, with awe-inspiring natural surroundings, spirituality, delicious food, truly great human beings, dogs, seeds, quiet village life. So so much.

May 16, 2011 I arrived in Mesohori, a tiny Northeastern Greek village in the Rhodope Mountains. 

Of course, it was not quite a smooth arrival, knowing me. I took a 3.5 train ride from Thessaloniki, somehow managed to not get off at the Paranesti station and ride all the way to Xanthi, the end of the train line. I managed to leave a message on my host's telephone and he did pick me up in the evening. I must have been quite busy and awestruck the first day or two, because I didn't start writing immediately. From my first journal entry: 

May 18, 2011
I'm afraid that I will leave this place before I am able to grasp the entire, immense beauty of it all. Today, we planted "Peliti," the Ponti dialect word for "oak tree." Just a few small pots with tiny oaks will grow to become gigantic trees over years and years. Amazing.

Today, we also got the bike going and I am determined to go as far as the thermal springs if I am allowed. 

I am starting to fill up my body with nutrients again - spinach and local rice, salad greens and raw milk. Honey and fruit and walnuts. I am eating just enough to keep me full - maybe I will actually trim down a bit after 3 weeks. 

There is no other time in my life when I will have the chance to live next to old Greek women with whom I can only communicate with short words and gestures.

May 2011 - Last Day in Sofia

May 13, 2011
Directly from my journal, with added links

I am staying an extra (4th) night because there is yet another talk tonight at the The Red House, on women immigrants in the labor market. I came at a fortunate time, it seems, right in the middle of the TransEuropa Festival, where lots of international guests are giving presentations in Haspel, the social center, and the more centrist Red House. Yesterday, I left Raia's place late (again) and walked to the Court House, from where I walked to the end of a scavenger hunt of Haspel's neighborhood, a "quartier populaire" it would be called in French with a mosque, synanogue, church, public baths and a Roma family squat across from the social center. I want to explore this part of the city more today before the debate, as it seems really cool and it's nicer out than the other days. Yesterday was also really intense because I spent the entire day from 1:00 p.m. with anthropologists, anarchists and Transeuropa international guests. On our way to the scavenger hunt end from the Court House, I talked with Bulgarian Maria, who just came back from 7 years studying anthropology in the States and her guest, Mary Taylor, an anthropology professor at Hunter College in NYC. Mary studies Hungary, speaks Hungarian and will talk about Hungarian social movements tomorrow, after I leave. Also two guys from the center, friends of Raia's, gave me a good history of Haspel's founding and Bulgarian anarchist history. It was fascinating to listen to and learn from these few active radicals in Sofia, the only real activist spot in the country, according to first-hand accounts.

Things got more intense when I learned about Oleg Mavromati, who was also at the Roma debate, and his fugitive status in Bulgaria. He is fleeing Russian persecution for a performance art piece that he did, an anti-religion commentary in which he was crucified. It was funny to speak Russian with him and Nika, a Russian woman living in Berlin, who came to speak on socially-engaged art with Oleg at Haspel last night. It was also a fascinating talk, complicated by the Skype-from-the-U.S. presence of Oleg's wife and translation across Russian, Bulgarian and English. I learned about right-wing tendencies in Russian political art and how things like this don't really happen in Bulgaria, perhaps a more pacified or apathetic place, especially after ascension. After the talk, I was happy to go back to the pizza restaurant and get another delicious vegetarian dish. Oleg turns out to be an 8-year vegetarian, for ethical reasons, which is really cool and sort of belies his appearance. Being vegetarian has proved to be yummy and easy in Sofia, but I'm not sure if I can live here, due to the apparent lack of good cycling infrastructure. The orange trams are lovely and the park is beautiful, but I'm becoming such a die-hard cyclist, I would have a hard time.

Anyway, after dinner, we ended up going out for drinks until 3 a.m. with Raia, Sando and three Hungarians, 2 of which were on the Roma panel. It was so fascinating, funny and crazy to sit and listen to their old Communist jokes, stories and shared experiences. I learned a tremendous amount ant it was especially funny when a big Irish guy came up to us at the end and told us about Orwell's description of tripe in "The Road to Wigan Pier" after overhearing the Hungarians talk about the delicacy of tripe soup and its onomatoepia in the Hungarian word. As usual, I am absorbing a surreal amount of life here and I think I've really found my traveling niche. I'm looking forward to seeing Rose the Haitian woman from Paris to speak tonight. Translation: French to English to Bulgarian? Only in Sofia!

May 2011 - First Day in Sofia

May 11, 2011
After a night of eating cheap, delicious Bulgarian food at a cafe (a positive trend throughout my experience in this country) and getting to know my new host at her place, we got up pretty late. It might have been after noon, which became a strange pattern for my four days in Sofia. Here is what I wrote early in the day, reeling after my arrival, later reflections interspersed:

Raia's apartment is undergoing renovation.
I remember stress about the workers coming every day, communicating with the family and not being able to go out as much as desired. She has beautiful views of the city and mountains. Last night, she left her cell phone in a cab, but we came home and drank some homemade wine to make up for it. I feel really good right now. Good as you can feel after surviving and even enjoying a 2-day bus ride across Western Europe to the East, and having someone to greet you, put you up, feed you and show you around a city that you've wanted to visit for years. Good as you can feel wandering this city in late spring, with all the green trees in bloom and the air clean and fresh and the sprinkles of rain coming and going between the warm sunshine. Good that I will learn about the activist movement here, small as it is, and not get the whitewashed touristy angle. Good that very soon I will leave behind the city life for 3 weeks and I will be in Greece again! Tonight Raia is taking me to a debate on the Roma and tomorrow, I will see the social center.

Some of the things I've learned: it's possible to be vegetarian, but vegan is harder. The left is constantly under threat from the fascists, much more so than in the U.S. or France. There is rampant anti-Communism, seen publically in the tags on old Communist monuments, but Communism seems to have been replaced by neoliberal, pro-capitalist tendencies, which continue to marginalize "real" dissidents.

May 2011 Paris-Sofia Bus Ride II

A stream of consciousness retrospective, from more journal scribbles.
May 9, 2011

9:30 a.m. They turn on a movie, subtitled in Bulgarian!
This is a nearly empty bus, I think I'm the only non-Bulgarian...
we are passing mostly boring countryside, racing eastward on an empty autoroute in France.
11:00 a.m.We start passing more beautiful greenery, less cleared farmland - when will we cross a border? Germany?? Lots of wind farms, I think they are ugly, even if they are "good for the environment" and are they?
249 km. to Strasbourg, so that means the border is still at least 2.5 hours away, putting us there around 2 p.m. This is a part of France I've never seen before, wow!
20 minutes stop around noon, we've now just made the same distance as Boston-NYC, barely a dent in the journey, but it's gone by fast and smooth
The weather is nice and the bus is not too hot, especially with so few people! Will more people get on?
12:30 p.m. We just entered a huge, fancy city! BOURGEOIS CENTRAL...is this Nancy? Metz?...METZ, so it turns out, we are making 4 or 5 stops in Germany/Austria before Sofia and the bus keeps going to Burgas! We're picking up people, but it's still a nearly empty bus for now...
Apparently, we're in Germany now, and it's only 1:30 p.m., though I have no clue where in the country. It's been far too long since I've looked at a map of Europe, I feel like I'm in open, unknown space...grateful for the ample amount of stops so far. The dark Bulgarian man next to me is listening to Eurotrash dance music on his laptop, without headphones. He just turned it up, looking to have a party with the beer he just bought. We're driving through some quaint German countryside now and my cell phone has yet to lose service. I am confused! I'm reading the bike journal I bought at the anarchist book store in Houston and it's really been worth the wait, making me determined to rent/borrow/cheaply buy a bike in the East. ça y est, the cell phone is MIA! The man is now taking video of his friends on their journey. Bulgarian seems to have the same intonation as Russian, yet it sounds different and I definitely can't understand it. If it takes (only?) 6 hours to get to the Western border of Germany from Paris, I wonder how long that bike ride would be?
German cities: Uberherrn, Ensdorf, Lisdorf
3:00 p.m. The signs are pointing towards Luxembourg and the dance music is slightly better, as well as the countryside. Suddenly, we're in a huge ass German city, super urban, I don't know where we are! There are tramlines here, that's pretty real...we've started with the American action movies again, subtitled in Bulgarian.
3:15 p.m. So now we are STUCK at this bus terminal of this still unknown German city and I don't have the courage to ask the Bulgarians where we are. We can't get out of the bus either and that's annoying. I'm not sure why we're standing with the bus still running.
3:45 p.m. We're on the road again and I switched seats with a Bulgarian family. I started speaking in French with the Bulgarian dance music man - he is nice and tells me that we may arrive earlier than expected tomorrow, around 19h. He speaks a bit of Russian, but since he has been living in Metz for 5 years, he has forgotten a lot of it.
4:30 p.m. Woohoo, another German bus terminal
5:30 p.m. I am now sitting next to the Bulgarian man, apparently his name is Tiundjel and he has a 17-year-old daughter named Shenay, who only sees on visits back home. Raia, my host in Sofia, later tells me that his name doesn't sound Bulgarian, he's probably Roma or Turkish. Sometimes we have a hard time communicating in French, since his language skills aren't stellar and I don't speak a goddamn word of Bulgarian, basically.
9:00 p.m. The sun is setting, pink and orange over the green landscape. I think we're still in Germany. The Bulgarians have informed me, the silly curious American girl, that we will also pass through Austria, Slovenia, Croatia and Serbia on our way to Sofia. It's nice to find out surprises on the road. The sign just pointed to Munchen and Aubsburg - I guess there will be invisible things in the night. I just finished the bike almanac - a lovely, inspirational read. I've made it through more than 12 hours on a bus, with a dance music and loud children. Maybe I could have avoided this in the front of the bus, but it's kind of funny to interact with these conventional-minded Bulgarians, one who offers me beer and speaks some French, so sits next to me and goes out of his way to be a gentleman.
10:30 p.m. We are in the MUNICH bus terminal! According to the bus placard, this is the last stop before Sofia, which is strange and maybe isn't true. I am watching the Munich metro go by behind the fence on my left. I want to go! There is something wearing about travelling alone long distances after a while. I think I sort of stand out, a lot more than I had expected. I seem to be the only young single female traveller. There is a young straight couple who boarded at the same time in Paris and the girl stares at me strangely, as though she doesn't really understand. Of course, the language barrier doesn't help things, so you can't really tell what people are thinking of sometimes trying to explain. Hand signals need to be read carefully and sometimes I am also not very good.
11:00 p.m. We're about to get moving again. I think if people would quiet down a bit, I could get some sleep with my earplugs, scarf over my eyes and the seat back. It's been awhile again since I've gotten proper sleep. I'm dreaming of 3 weeks of physical labor at Peliti, with restful nights. But I'm going to miss biking!

May 10, 2011
6:00 a.m. We're at the Croatian border! (NO BORDER) They took my passport to stamp it, LOL. For some reason, they check twice. This time, the lady cop come around with a stamp, though I already had one. I slept badly, as in barely at all. I'll try to continue sleeping through the morning. I just missed a photo of the "Welcome to Croatia" sign. It's a beautiful morning, with green hills in the distance.
9:50 a.m. Slovenian border, another document check. So many freakin' stamps in my passport. Now it seems that the bus driver is collecting IDs. Also, I am totally lame and didn't realize that Bulgaria isn't on the Euro, but has its own currency, the leva. Way to travel to a foreign country without knowing a goddamn thing!
10:00 a.m. So apparently, we bypassed Slovenia and now we're at the Serbian border. So many lady cops. You'd think that with all the non-feminist conventional cultures, there would be less women in these roles, but I guess they've increased. Lots of women join police forces - I wonder how they feel working alongside men, probably steeped in sexism? Guarding a border - a seemingly monotonous, bureaucratic job. Their faces are never kind, never someone you'd want to go out for a drink with. These are special kinds of cops, maybe the worst. Apparently the Bulgarian border is supposed to be really nasty.
11:30 a.m. It's still hot and sunny out, maybe it won't rain in Sofia as predicted. Where are my notes from Eastern European Politics Fall 2007 when I could use them? I don't remember the colorful details anymore. It was powerful to be in Prague Spring 2008, but now we're passing through former Yugoslavi and it's like some kind of surreal, alternate reality. We're coming up on Belgrade soon.
11:45 a.m. I asked Tiundjel what life was like for him under Communism and the only real answer I got to my actual question - what do you think of capitalism? - is that the crisis forced him to leave his family, his 17-year-old daughter behind to go to work in France.
According to his story, his wife also left him because of the distance. So I guess no wonder he was happy to talk with a female and to drink - I turned down his offer of a beer though. Sometimes he got slightly overbearing, but still a fascinating person to meet.
Because we don't have enough common language between us to talk much politics - and he says he's not good in this domain anyway - I'm not getting a whole lot of insight but I think he's happy to learn about me. He has never met an American before and he says that people in Bulgaria wouldn't believe him if he said he rode next to one on this bus. He's going home for a month with his small team of Bulgarian contract construction workers. He says he earns 2,000 euro/month in France and he doesn't pay for housing.
12:10 p.m. We are passing through an industrial part now, with Belgrade on our left. I want to go! I can't believe we're passing bu all these cities that I can't stop to visit. Tiundjel's friend can speak better Russian and wants me to meet his daughter, studying in Sofia, at the station. They've turned on another violent movie again, this time in Bulgarian.
15:30 p.m. "Face/Off", with Bulgarian voice-over. We're by Nis and we just passed a sign that points straight ahead to Thessaloniki and Sofia to the East. There are lots of mountains to the right and hills to the left. Nis is a huge, red-tiled roof city at the base of these mountains. It seems to be expanding ever further outwards. Now we've passed the city and entered into more farmland (Stara Plenina).
16:00 p.m. Such beautiful views, everyone gets up to look and I take a video. Really amazing cliffs, a rolling river and train tracks. Tiny villages, farmland, the most beautiful views so far, makes you want to get out of the bus! Signs point continuously to Sofia. Red-tiled slums now or rather poor farmers. Now it's all green plains and hillsides all around - I think we're nearing the Bulgarian border.
17:00 p.m. REPUBLIC OF BULGARIA! Another lady border cop! I guess it's more pleasant to have a good-looking woman walk down the aisle of the bus. She was surprised by my American passport - maybe the only one, or one of few, that she has seen here. I don't see any rainclouds - looks like I get lucky with a nice night.
17:20 p.m. To get across the Bulgarian border, everyone had to get out of the bus and walk through the border patrol. They asked me questions and maybe entered something into the computer - real or just to show their authority? Now I'm wondering if I'll actually be harassed at the French border, but I guess I will deal with that later (yeah, there's no French border back in, but they were quite puzzled with my visa when I was LEAVING France for the last time to go to England. Oh, Europe.) Anyway, the sign said 57 km. to Sofia, so we're getting in a bit early. The placard pointed to Athens and Istanbul - those are really far! We still have beautiful greenery here by the train tracks. The sun is really beating down, casting shadows on the forest. Now it's opening up into a sparsely populated valley on the right. Sofia - 36 km, the first part of the journey is coming to an end.
19h - 19h15 - it's actually an hour ahead here. We're in Sofia. THE END.

Raia met me at the bus station, after my dumb ass spent 15 minutes getting oriented to where I actually was. I was nearly ecstatic to be in Sofia, but I was so tired I couldn't really fully feel it. I had wanted to visit this city for years and as we took a cab down to the center and south, I knew I had finally arrived. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you to Tiundjel, for having chatted with me and let me use his cell phone to text Raia, but I couldn't find him again :( Here's to you, Tiundjel, wherever you are. I am really grateful for your kindness, as everyone else's I've met along the way. I hope I didn't come off as the careless American who just left, but mostly, I wish you the best of luck in your life. It's hard. You don't deserve it. May it get better for you and others like you.

May 2011 Paris-Sofia Bus Ride

Paris. 8 a.m. Monday, May 9, 2011. I board an all-Bulgarian Eurolines bus, heading for Sofia. We are scheduled to arrive around 8:00 p.m. the next day. Expanded notes from my journal scribbles.

I can't believe how much and yet how little, time has gone by since my last trek out East. How much has happened, how much I've learned, how much is yet to come! This bus ride to Sofia is a kind of necessary purgatory, a time for overdue reflection, to find out what really hurts, what can be let go of, what can remain in place and what needs improving. In 7 months, I have learned to live deeply, fully, listening more and more to my body, my mind and my heart. The "promise" of Greece has begun to bloom in a real way now as I go back in that direction and know and am becoming increasingly aware of my life's potential and limitations. Perhaps the return to Athens will hurt, perhaps the veil will be lifted. Perhaps it will be even more magical than before. Note: I never did go back to Athens, bypassed completely "The Battle of Syntagma Square" and all the memories. Got carried away with Northern Greece. It is frightening and also liberating to travel alone, relying on the kindness of strangers, accepting that you won't connect with everyone, that you can't do everything right but that when it's right, it's really right. Opening yourself to the possibility of mistakes, even big ones, in the name of learning, growing, pushing forward. Realizing that even those who seem put together crumble, fall, tear to pieces from time to time. Talk less, listen more. Know when each has its place. Judge less, both yourself and others.

Spring 2011 - Journeys of Friendship

This is one of the most important entries I will write. These were some of the most memorable moments of my life and they greatly influence my life today. At least my inner life. 

The use of the word 'migrant" in the Calais section sounds weird, even to me, but I don't know a better term because that's the one usually used. To me, they're just people. 

April 25, 2011 - May 8, 2011 

My teaching stint in France ended in anticlimax. The students barely even knew I was leaving and I had no real time to say goodbye except during classtime. Seven months and poof! I was gone. Like I was never there. Why? [Later note: Again, I'm grateful for the Korean system that places us for a full year, full time, gives us housing by the school and does their best to integrate us into the teacher lifestyle. At least, that is my experience.]

So a lot of my anxiety revolved around that, feeling like my time at the two middle schools had been a waste and nobody cared. It could have been my responsibility to integrate myself better though. And plan better lessons. And care more. I did care though.

But that was it - teaching was over and I gave myself no time to reflect. After the last leg of the Cyclotour des Paysans and the farm video shoot, I was anxious for some quality time with friends instead of strangers. Before the journey East to Bulgaria and Greece, there were about two more weeks of even more experience overload in and around Lille. Sounds impossible, even now, but there it was. I would take in another long bike ride, May Day and the Soup Festival in Lille, two nights in Calais immediately followed by a goodbye hangout in the Fives garden and packing up my entire room to make room for a new Fives housemate. 

Spring was beautiful, sunny and vibrant. The last band of the cyclotour landed at the Fives house and garden for a night and when they left the next morning, I had a sudden panic because suddenly I had a few days to myself. Time to think. And thinking was not something I wanted to do. 

"Two Sexy Ladies on Bicycles"

For a while, Marine and I had been planning a cycling trip from Lille to Bruges - from the northern Flemish tip of France to the northern Flemish part of Belgium. Though Marine is the more organized one, in true la-di-da fashion, we only had a printed Google map and directions, pieces of which gradually flew away in the wind. 

We made up a song "Two Sexy Ladies on Bicycles"

On the Friday morning of May Day weekend, we set out from cobble stoned Vieux Lille - the old, wealthy neighborhood in the northern part of the city - with our pretty crappy bikes. Our route was something like 80 km, but we were on the road all day, arriving at our lovely Couchsurfer's place in Bruges around the 8 p.m. sunset. Along the way, we passed ugly construction at the Belgian border, a big pink hippo in a pond, expertly crafted Belgian bike routes along waterways and small towns, lunch on a bench at the Lille-Bruges crossroads, 1 dollar Belgian beers on the ground outside a convenience store near a rushing highway after bouts of frustration. Marine: "I want to take the train!" Me: "No! I don't want to say I got there by train!"

After we got our bearings and put ourselves back on track, we rode on miles and miles of flat, open countryside where the sky suddenly opened to shower us with a torrential downpour. We rode it out, through breaking trees and distant cracking lightning until the roads turned into puddles and then waited it out in shelter with two hardcore road cyclists who only spoke Flemish. Amazing the difference a few dozen miles makes in language and culture! 

Our landing was as cobble stoned as our beginning. Pulling into Bruges on Friday evening  was a dream. Clear, warm, dry, charming, welcoming Bruges. Where there are so many bikes that no one locks them and apparently no one steals them. Our Couchsurfer Hady, fluent in English but only basic in French, was tired from work and chilling at home. So after a nice rest and dinner, we went out on the town, meandering through the main square and park lit up at night, finally settling in a bar with good music and impassioned conversation. 

We called it a pretty early night and crashed on couches, waking up to a sunny, clear Saturday morning. Marine and I were in good spirits and Hady decided to take us to the Bruges farmer's market. We couldn't have asked for a more beautiful, clear and not-too-hot day. Hady was a great host with a year abroad in Australia on the horizon. We enjoyed lunch on a patio, roaming around the market stands and being entertained by a travelling musician. Marine is a fan and practitioner of street theater so she really loved this. 

Hady left us eventually and we kept exploring on our own before making the final decision to add another 30 km to our journey with a round trip ride north to Knokke-Heist, a seaside town on the Netherlands border. It was a beautiful spring day and we were sea bound. From east Bruges, we passed a row of large windmills and continued on through some of the most beautiful, green, lush, countryside along canals and through a forest. I absolutely loved this part of the trip. (Later I would meet a Belgian activist in Calais who hated the Belgian landscape because the government has forcibly cut down so many forests and left all this flattened farmland. But we weren't thinking about it at the time). 

Nearing Knokke-Heist, something I don't remember caused another argument between us. Although none of it could really be called "arguing." It's always just heated discussion with Marine and I - us being the passionate individuals we are. Vegetarianism, mental health, self-confidence, non conformism were hot topics. And Marine always cares deeply about her friends' lives and she's always full of ideas, so she kept encouraging me to continue documentary filmmaking. Which was painful for me to hear, especially having just shot on my friend's family farm and fully unconvinced that I would actually edit the footage. (To this day, I still haven't). We finally made it to the beach, had ourselves a fancy lunch on another patio, but in the ongoing saga of squeezing everything into a short span of time, we had to haul out of there back to Bruges to catch a train back to Northern France. And I mean HAUL. We rode as though our lives depended on it with the sun beginning to set and providing us with more beautiful scenery. 

But we made it back to Hady's, took a last photo at her place and made that train. Chowing down on strawberries, we relaxed on the ride back to just below the Belgian border, riding to a place where we stopped for food, hopped on a tram with our bikes and road back to the main train station Lille-Flandres where we parted ways for the night. On that ride, we got to talking with a nice middle-aged Moroccan man about travel, culture and Morocco because I had just been there 2 months before. Brief connections, they're the best. 

I loved these 2 days. I think Marine did too. I loved them because I had nothing to prove to anyone. Because all I had to do was enjoy the company of someone who had grown to become a dear friend and even more so on the trip. Because of the challenges and little joys we discovered on the road and exploring a new place. Because there were no political undertones, no drama, no reason to do this other than we wanted to. We had a goal and we made it happen. It was a journey of friendship. It reminded me of what that word really means. Because sometimes, often, I forget. 

May Day

This adventure started the morning after the return from Bruges and spanned 2 days because it ended up at Marine's house after a wild and beautiful Wazemmes street party for the annual Louche d' Or (Golden Ladle Soup Festival). There was a travelling couple from Berlin who needed a place to crash, so we took them into our craziness. I showed them a bit around Lille the next day, in the heat and my stress. Less relax, more party.

My room was already nearly empty and I was sleeping downstairs, but I had to finish it all on May Day because the man with two beautiful little girls was moving in. The morning was spent mad bike-rushing between the house and the May Day parade in Wazemmes. I could have chosen to go to a radical book reading at a library, but thankfully, I decided to not include that on my list of a million things to do. The parade surprisingly disappointed me, it was nothing like Boston or even the retirement reform demos, no grand speeches, not much. Oh, well. I guess the Soup Festival was grabbing Lille's attention that day. 

When I got there, I was alone in the park. The soup crew hadn't made the time to actually make any soup and I missed most of the other tastings. So I was just waiting for the festivities to begin. And I was alone, with time to think. And still, thinking was not what I wanted to do. My time in France was quickly coming to an end, I'd experienced so much and met so many people, how could I be subjected to even one moment alone, my irrational brain thought. Where were my friends?? Fellow assistant teachers, activists, artists? Marine and her crew, why were they not here? I was running into people and I hated being seen alone. Clearly, I was overwhelmed and under rested. 

But the party went down for sure. We all gathered, danced in the streets, which were full of music and food vendors. I'd never seen the Wazemmes market that packed. Marine's friends from Paris and elsewhere added even more life to our event. Not surprisingly, I increasingly felt less and less inclined to leave Lille. At all. Ever. How could I? But I did.

Calais 

 What can I say about Calais? Not much that's not already said on the   site. There's the story, and I really played no part other than as a   visitor. I went there before with two other activists from Lille and   slept in the activist space, but this time, I went by myself and slept 2   nights on the floor of the dark, broken-up squatted building with the   Belgian activist and the migrants, most of them from central Africa.   At 6 a.m. every morning, they wake up with whistles around our   necks to watch for cops coming to raid. Every morning people do this. And at night too. It's unbelievable. It's no way to live. Not in Europe, not anywhere. 

I was able to speak Russian with one of the migrants, the only white man, who is from Lithuania. His was a particularly sad story and I have no idea what happened to him after I left. I have no idea what happened to any of the many migrants I met, as eager to share their tales of woe with me when they got the chance as with the other white kids. But the other No Border people were there for weeks, months, years. They're veterans. The one other female activist that I barely spoke with, she seemed to be accustomed and not be actively dealing with what was quite obviously sexual harassment by the migrants. It was tough for me there, as a woman. I wanted to talk to someone about it more, but never got the chance. These men live together in as much solidarity as they can muster, with few if any women coming through. They're from different cultures. They don't necessarily understand all facets of oppression, even though they are being oppressed. They're just human. I didn't have the back knowledge or the skills to call some of the men on their behavior at the time, though I wish I did. 

But sometimes, it was just innocent. Like the next day after lunch at the meal station, the Belgian and one of the young Sudanese decided on a spontaneous walk to the beach with beers. I was near them at the time, so I went too. Calais does have a nice beach. Even before the first No Border trip, Rebecca and I went there for a day trip that she desperately needed at the time. This time, it was warm and it was just a few hours on the beach, some boys surfing, drinking beers, playing in the sand, just young people enjoying a good time, right? On the walk back, I got a sober reminder of where we were and why. Apparently, a desperate migrant trying to swim the Channel to England had drowned or something along those lines. A police boat was circling the waters. We had to hide ourselves, because the Sudanese man was undocumented. If he was desperate enough, it could have been him.

When we were sitting on the beach, the Sudanese, who was in his late 20s, kept tracing circles on my bare foot with his fingers. It felt nice, not violating, not weird, not even romantic, just an innocent gesture. I don't remember his story, but he spoke some level of either English or French. He was a friendly guy with a nice smile. I think he lost some of his family, or he left his whole family. I hope he's OK now. I hope he has or will somehow escape the hell of the border system. 

I do remember the Belgian's story and I bet he's still around Calais. I couldn't believe he was a few years younger than me, but looked so much older and with so much more life experience. His dad was a sailor and had taken his son to so many places, including the North Pole where they were out alone with their boat. With his family and others, he had spent years in a Belgian forest occupation. That's why he hated the Belgian countryside I told him about, he knew full well what that comes from. I really respect this kid and those like him, his dedication to justice, his fearlessness and his unabashed love of life despite the darkness. When we got back to the squat, there was a rowdy soccer game on outside. Later, we sat in the dark, with migrants roasting raw potatoes over fires. There was an Italian photographer with us at some point and overall, this whole day was just a surreal experience. A different world. 

The next morning, there was a raid. I was frozen. I had no clue what to do. I had a whistle, I had my feet, I had my brains, I had my 45,000 dollar a year college education, but I had no idea how to react in this situation. I wasn't trained. The stupid blond female cop pulled me out of the clearing, made fun of my "American woman" passport and rummaged through my bag. Embarassed, I joined the rest of the No Border team and migrants outside the squat. I don't remember if they made arrests or just checked IDs. Many African men were hiding on the roof, looking down on those of us on the ground. I took the train back to Lille at some point that day. I said goodbye to the Lithunian man and promised I'd be back. I couldn't say goodbye to the Belgian guy because he was fast asleep when I was leaving, exhausted from the previous day and stress of that morning. I got a few email addresses and was told I should come visit some of the African men in England when they made it there. If they made it there. 

On the train back, I don't even remember my emotions. I don't remember feeling anything but emptiness. It's normal. It's just the atmosphere of that whole place, the endless violence, physical, psychological. The constant threat of raids, arrests, detention, deportation for these people who are mostly innocent of anything but not having the "right papers." The overwhelming privilege of being white and of having a valid passport, especially a USA passport. And the seeming hopelessness. If I stayed, I could probably do a lot more. I hated this sickly feeling of being nothing but a tourist, just on my own, with so little background knowledge. I just wanted to go there for myself, for my own education. I felt stupid and they probably thought I was. But I don't regret it, not one bit. I only regret not having the determination to stay. Guilt. The feelings are valid and it's all worthwhile. People are doing a lot right now. The situation is growing worse in summer 2012 because of the Olympics training. Calais is being cleared. But a new space is opening. There's a bigger community growing. There is always hope, even in the darkness. 

Goodbye For Now

I was really insane. I had scheduled the goodbye party in the Fives garden for the SAME NIGHT as my return from Calais. Why? I didn't realize I was in shock until I started crying when my roommate asked me how I was when I got back. I was not OK. I needed a retreat from retreats. I needed to meditate. I needed to sleep. I needed so many things that I wasn't giving myself. Teachers from school, Lille friends and acquaintances came and went throughout the night. It was a lovely hangout in our lovely garden. When I look at the pictures, though, I think what the hell was I wearing? A red top with a hoodie over an orange skirt. Crazy on the outside too. I couldn't talk to everybody I wanted, couldn't donate enough time to all these great people that had helped me and been such great company throughout my time here. Thankfully, Marine and Riquier stayed through most of the night. They are good anchors for a wayward sailor. 

The last night was the most wonderful yet, if that was possible. Marine performed at Metalus, an awesome performance space in Loos, on the border of Lille. We celebrated spring with a vengeance - many people that I loved and had gotten to know were also there. An artist/alternative life paradise. I rode back by myself late into the night.

The next day, I was off to Paris to catch the Eurolines bus to Sofia. I could write about how awful of a guest I was at the couple's apartment in Paris, for a second time, but that would just be overkill. I was self-centered. I apologized later.

I would be back to France at the end of June. But for now, I was heading East again...

April 2011 - A Northern France Spring: Sunshine, Bikes and Farms



The Fives garden 



Sun appeared at some point around mid-March and it stuck around. Northern France, land of 'les chtis,' is known for it's endless slew of cold, gray, rainy days and the equally endless supply of friendly, hospitable people who throw epic parties and concerts to stay warm. Everyone was ecstatic about spring's arrival and the city poured into the streets. Yet my favorite place was always the Fives garden. I lured as many people as possible into this small earthly paradise.

One of the 6 housemates, a reclusive middle-aged woman, was horrified with some of our efforts to "dewild" the garden - even though she herself is a gardener. We cut down part of the tree to make room for sunlight for the raised bed, which we filled with compost from the cleaned-up compost pile. By "we," I mean mostly the 30-year-old gardening enthusiast.

I was gearing up for summer travels, which started in May. And Marine and I were planning a cycling trip to Bruges. Before that, the Cyclotour happened. I saw a flyer one day at Cafe Citoyen and knew that I wanted to ride at least part of the way, even though I couldn't do the full, intensive 2 weeks. It was a great chance to see the Northern France countryside and even a bit of wandering over the Belgian border. And I could get a deeper understanding of sustainable farming efforts in the region, from which we were all removed while living in the city of Lille. 

So directly after my last day of teaching, I joined another housemate and her partner on a mini-leg of the tour.

I wish I had the right language to convey the simultaneous feelings of excitement, peaceful enjoyment of country cycling but also being out of my element. I sense that oftentimes while living in France, I underestimated the communication barrier, assuming that my level of French was enough to overcome all language and culture differences. Despite my keen interest in sustainable farming and preserving rural life, I felt that I couldn't understand or connect with all of the farm visits to the maximum. Greenhouses, goats, trees, yurts, young people in a collective house, older couples working for generations - a great diversity!

Because the Cyclotour sparked so much interest, I came back for a few days a week later which was ultimately a good idea. I directly followed it with a semi-spontaneous day of filming on my housemate's family farm.  In retrospect, I made the whole experience far more stressful for myself than was necessary. Over two weeks, I crammed in pieces of this moving cycling collective, frantically preparing for summer travels and my imminent departure from Europe! Obviously too much. Knowing myself as an easily stressed individual, it was terrible planning which led to a near nervous breakdown by the last week in April, the last part of the tour. Too many strangers. Too much activity. Of course, all was beautiful and I absolutely loved the farms and the countryside on two wheels. It's a good thing there is still so much more time and opportunity to do this in Korea and elsewhere!

March 2011 - Mint Tea Memories and Souvlaki Imaginings

Marrakech Market

It is now the end of March. My last day of work is April 15. On May 16, I am supposed to start a 3-week long WWOOFing stint in Northern Greece. Afterwards, I would like to WWOOF in Bulgaria until the end of June, at which point I would like to come back to France for a Lille to Paris bike ride, culminating in the beginning of July. Then, the idea is to fly through Iceland to Boston and figure out what to do next in my life.

Essaouira Sunset

    So yes, it's a whirlwind. Morocco was quite the  

    adventure. I traveled with my friend Kristin, a 

    fellow American assistant and she made a good 

    companion, which was important. We got back on        March 3 after 10 days, but it seems like forever ago      now. It was a wonderful trip - what makes a place 

    great is the people and the Moroccans we met are 

    some of the most open, friendly and hospitable 

    folks around. In short, a welcome change from the 

    somewhat reserved coldness of France, though I 

    don't want to down the great people I've been 

    fortunate to get to know in Lille.

We passed through dreary, chilly Paris on Sunday, February 20. We saw the Pompidou Center, ate some delicious falafel (in preparation for Morocco, I guess) and generally got overwhelmed by the constant craziness of this city which I personally can't take for much more than a few days. We spent the night in a charming, family-owned inn in Beauvais, near the tiny airport. We were met at the train station by the family and we really enjoyed the short stint in the country.

In retrospect, I would have hitchhiked or carpooled to Paris, saving a lot of money, if not as much time. I didn't think too hard about this at the time, though, and you have to make compromises/practical decisions when you are travelling in a pair.

Bright and early Monday morning, we rushed to finish our fresh bread breakfast and hurried into the van that drove us through the rain and fog to the tiny airport - resembles a train station. We crammed onto the RyanAir plane and settled in for a not-so-long flight. I talked to nobody, but Kristin sat next to a French-Moroccan woman and her little son, so they somewhat kept her company.

We landed in Marrakech before we knew it, happy to see sunshine and mountains. In France, the controllers barely glance at your passport, but they like to take their sweet time in Morocco so that coupled with exchanging money and waiting for my ridiculously huge backpack put us into the afternoon when we got out into the parking lot. We were met by Abdoul Bouasria, the short, gray and bespectacled father of my Moroccan friend in Lille  - quite the personality! He was our chauffeur for the duration of the Marrakech stint. I really enjoyed the ride from the airport to their house, complete with Arabic radio music, warm sun streaming through the windows and witnessing the insane Marrakech convergence of cars, bikes, motorcycles, pedestrians and everyone in between. This is a very modern city, with all the noise and pollution that one can imagine.

Our three days with the Bouasrias in Marrakech and the vicinity included highlights such as an unofficial tour through the Jewish Quarter, a hike in the High Atlas mountains, a traditional women-only hammam and clandestinely hanging out with 18-year-old Ali and his friends. I say clandestinely because the parents like to keep a tight lid on their son, so he can successfully finish high school and go to university in France. They don't entirely succeed in this aspect, but the dynamic still persists. Personally, despite the delicious food, comfortable bed, free chauffeur and tour guide services, towards the end I felt sort of stifled by these two retired science professors and looked forward to escaping to Essaouira, the blue-tinged Western port.

And escape we did - on a Moroccan, read: non-tourist bus with no AC and random stops on the roadside, on a hot late afternoon. Essaouira is cooler and more relaxed, though certainly not free of hassle by the locals getting in our faces. In fact, we were pursued more doggedly here because we were
no longer accompanied by a Moroccan male so we really faced the gauntlet of men, boys and women trying to sell us everything from housing to cakes to restaurants. Two white females traveling alone - not so much an outright risk as an open invitation to harassment. However, I enjoyed the freedom of
planning our own schedule, which we were sort of deprived of in Marrakech. We stayed two nights in a hidden hostel, a renovated riyadh. The guard who works there is an extremely sketchy-looking Moroccan man, who speaks nothing but Arabic (possibly Berber?) but who was also very sweet and hospitable. I felt bad, as he seemed to be picked up off the street to spend his time roaming around this place and sleeping on a couch. The hostel was halfway empty for some reason, though it was dirt cheap for pretty good accommodation. We were able to spend one full day and two nights exploring Essaouira, taking in a gorgeous sunset over the sea, not-too-hot weather and authentic Argan products from a women's cooperative in the area.

I didn't like fending off the horribly disrespectful men, especially the one who got in my face with selling his cookies and telling me to go back to France, while I was taking pictures of the clear sunset with the seagulls. Kristin didn't believe that I experienced - maybe I was looking extra feminine, with my dress.
 
We left the coast early Saturday morning, spending an entire day in transit. We went back to Marrakech on a tourist bus and from there hopped a train up north to the imperial city of Meknès. After much needless worrying, we were met by Jamel, his friend Adel and Adel's Couchsurfer Christina, another American. We spent a wonderful two nights with these two guys, staying with Jamel's family and being further impressed by Moroccan hospitality. Meknès' medina is maybe not as interesting as Marrakech's but it has plenty of other things to offer. Our first night, we went out with the guys and tried Meknès wine, all while being thoroughly hypnotized by live Berber music. The drumbeats, droning guitar-like sounds and wailing female vocals will never leave my mind. The second night, we smoked quite a bit of chicha at a café and enjoyed existential rants with the guys, while laughing at Lebanese pop videos and saying goodbye to Christina, who left for the desert that very night.

Monday afternoon, we again felt sad to leave but very much looking forward to Fès, only an hour away by train and I believe the crowning achievement of our trip. Northern Morocco is lush, the opposite of the Southern desert, and hills and mountains surround this beautiful imperial city, truly a jewel of this country from what I can tell. We were hosted last minute by Said, whom we only saw at the end of our first evening. We spent the day getting thoroughly lost and frustrated near the medina, searching for and finally finding the Jewish quarter, with its huge cemetery looking over the mountains. I enjoyed walking through it at sunset, with the shining colors lighting up the white tombs and blue doors. We didn't like being ripped off by the cemetery guard, though. What can I say about Fès? Well, just look at the photos. A fascinating, mazelike medina and again, wonderful people. We spent some time with the Polish girlfriend of Said's cousin, who is studying in Spain. A truly multicultural encounter.

Said was kind enough to call his cousin in Tangier, where we spent our last night in Morocco. We were very proud of our ability to hail down a "grand taxi" to the airport the next morning. And just like that, in no time at all, we were back in Paris. Of course, we still had to wait for an hour-long train up north to Lille. As I say, this all seems like ages go. Yet writing about it now brings it back, in all its colorful, mint-tea flavored glory.

If I were to regret something, it would be to not have met anyone involved in the social movement in Morocco, specifically the February 20 uprising. The king came to Marrakech and he was welcomed with essentially a parade in the streets, but that's not the whole picture. There is still burgeoning discontent in this least revolutionary of the Northern African countries and it can't be buried. It is a crime to speak out against the king in public, there's no real social security and women with no jobs have virtually zero protection if they are abandoned by their men, so they end up in the streets - often with their kids. I also liked meeting Adil and Jamel's friend Nabil, an older, soft-spoken, dapper, Western/English-style gentlemen wearing a hat and sports jacket. 

Back in Lille, I have just three weeks left of teaching. I've realized now, towards the end, that I really love my kids. Not that they don't make a mess in my classroom on a regular basis - they sure do. Not because I think I've helped them improve their English - I'm not so sure about that. I guess it's the way their crazy energy and excitement to see me can light up my day, and how their innocence is so outside of the world I inhabit. No doubt about it, I learn as much if not more from them than they do from me and frequently, I wish I could drop the authority figure role and just hang out with them. It's hilarious how the same 15-year old kids who literally get up and walk around my classroom, throwing pens and paper and shouting, still walk up to me and make me laugh outside of class. And I'll never forget Nina, the girl adopted from central Africa who enjoys speaking to me in her brilliant English and who seems to appreciate my presence the most.

The makeshift Food Not Bombs Lille project is on a roll, with Thursday afternoons and evenings dedicated to open-air market leftovers, bread pickup, organic and supermarket chain dumpster diving. Friday is usually cooking day and late Saturday morning/afternoon I find myself in a lively group of five to seven folks, traipsing through the city on foot and on bike, with loads of soup and bread to distribute to people we find in the street. The idea seems to be taken up by other French acquaintances, with added talks of a new squat that might host a "cantine populaire" and perhaps joining forces with an alternative cafe to hold a meal outside its door. All in all, I'm extremely pleased with the progress we've made, which started with an innocent chat over a beer with my friend Marine. I've learned of many other social justice projects here and I continue to go out and get to know as many people as possible. Building a network and integrating oneself into a community is not the easiest thing in the world, but when I think that I've only spent five months total in Lille - with vacation cutting down the time - I can't help but feel like I'm jumping forward in leaps and bounds. 

I've learned SO much, from my housemates, environmentalists, anarchists, feminists, musicians, teachers, students - everybody I've met. I would very much like to come back to Lille this fall, but I haven't been able to find a guaranteed way to do so. I'm looking into a Master's in Linguistics at the local public university, but I'm not sure whether I'll be able to fill out all the dossier requirements on time. It seems that the most I can do is to aggressively pursue assistant renewal, which is definitely not guaranteed. I am trying to keep my head up and look at other possibilities, such as teaching English in Asia, with the view of maybe coming back here next year at the very worst. I figure that everything must happen for a reason and if it works out to stay here, great. If not, something just as wonderful will find its way into my life.

Speaking of wonderful things, I am super looking forward to Greece and Bulgaria this summer. I honestly think it will be a lovely experience for me, which will hopefully push me further in my agricultural/food justice work. I'm sorry to say that I haven't taken out my video camera at all this whole time, though I've collected many still photos. Marine reminded me of this recently and so I say, now is the time. Starting this week, I will start filming the life around me, as I see it. We had absolutely incredible spring weather here this week and I spent some magical moments sleeping and digging in my big garden. Working in the earth is one of the beautiful tangible joys of life and I intend to continue with it for the rest of mine.

 

February 2011: A Northern France Carnaval

Flashback to here. Post-Morocco early March. Ten amazing days, first time on the African continent, first time in a Muslim country. I still think about that time, that place - the colors, the smells, the sun, the warmth, the food, the people - such a change from gray dreary Lille in February.

If time was a falafel sandwich, Morocco was the falafel. The pita bread was Carnaval, directly before and directly after. Dunkerque, the war-famous northernmost French city, is also famous for it's nearly 2 month long weekly celebration of all things colorful, draggy, furry, feathery, drunk-on-the-beachy, and nearly getting crushed in a street parade with linked arms. Yes, people definitely die or at least get seriously injured every year. But it's a classic ch'ti tradition and I couldn't miss it.

In February, Vélorution Lille - the city's Critical Mass/bike advocacy group - organized a Saturday bike ride around the city and northern suburb La Madeleine. Of course, we were dressed to the 9s, me in borrowed gear.

I love and miss this wacky, no-holds-barred street party side of Lille. Reclaim the streets in style. There's nothing like cycling through the city with dozens of horn-honking, song-belting Carnavaleurs.

I never did get as involved with Vélorution as I wanted, never learned to fix or build bikes much, but it seems that I came the year when regular rides were no longer happening. When I think about it now, I suddenly don't feel guilty. All I had to do was admit that I love riding a bike, but I'm no mechanic. And had I invested in a decent machine instead of mooching off others', it would have been an even better experience. If I had enough money for plane tickets and bus rides, I surely had enough for a used bike. Conclusion: don't be a cheapskate and don't sacrifice your own convenience.

The day of the Carnaval Vélorution is a good example of experience overload that I engaged in on a continous basis, particularly as the weather began to improve. That evening, L'Univers cinema was screening the Calais documentary. I think I had already been to a NoBorder meeting or two, but seeing the film and listening to the discussion, really solidified my desire to go there and see the reality on the ground. Calais deserves its own post. The point is, I saw almost everybody I knew, met a bunch of new people and biked all over Lille in one day. And I just kept going and going after that...

So with buzzing thoughts of migrant activism, long bike rides and intensifying the "food not bombs" Lille project, I headed off to Morocco. Without hardly haven read a damn thing on that country's part in the Arab Spring. All I knew is we would stay with my Moroccan friend's family in Marrakech.
But that's another post.

On my return, Marine and I hit the ground running with the weekly dumpstering, cooking and serving. So one sunny Saturday, we realized the next day was the "big" Dunkerque Carnaval so hop! we were there! After a bit of disorganized coordination, we were on the party train to the Northern beach town and pretty quickly got ourselves good and liquered up. That Sunday was quite a blur that included wandering around and catching a late train back. Considering I had to work the next day, maybe not the best decision. But hey, it's Carnaval!

It was still too cold for comfort in the beginning of March, but the next weekend was warmer so it was back to Dunkerque for Malo des Bains, Carnaval on the beach! Also a crazy party train with a different crowd of people, mostly environmental activists and cyclists instead of hippie artists.

Carnaval is great fun, a great atmosphere and the best part might be the SONGS - I can't believe I just found this complete site with all of them. I never did much of Mardi Gras and beyond that, nowhere I've lived in the States has the same zest for colorful costumes and massive human street parades. People are stupid and wasted here as you might expect.

But it's not the same as Mardi Gras or St. Patty's Day. I think Carnaval is a really special celebration of life, theater and the camarederie that comes from being totally ridiculous with close friends and complete strangers.