When my fellow students and I returned from La Rochelle last Sunday we went dancing à la Guinguette, where I encountered the other student housing with my host family. Students frequent the place, but less so on Sundays, so seeing her surprised me. That’s how certain daydreams of France I’ve entertained for years materialized this week. By surprise.
I had proposed kayaking to the other Notre Dame students at L’Institut, one of whom left this week, so organizing a trip became a priority to me. The ticketing system for buses in France is intuitive, as are the maps, but finding buses that circulate after school hours to and from less frequented places such as canoe/kayak rental facilities proved tedious. I wound up having to postpone the trip to Friday, but I succeeded in finding buses and internalized the necessity of checking bus schedules.
Considering the focus required to profit from daily intensive courses, the planning shouldn’t have seemed like much, but I enjoy my French courses. My classmates must have noticed, as they nominated me to represent the class in a survey-style meeting with faculty at the end of next week. Although I’ve been inconsistent with listening to French news every morning, I finished the volumes of Fullmetal Alchemist available to me at my host family’s home, and have begun reading Harry Potter et La Chambre des Secrets.
My host mother noted that the vocabulary in Harry Potter is rather specific to its setting and she’s correct, but magical vocabulary applies to a charmed week.
Busy with planning both a kayak trip and a day-trip to Paris with a friend, I almost forgot that I had reserved a spot on an Institute-guided visit to Chenonceau this Wednesday. I didn’t know anyone on the trip and felt tired, so I boarded the bus only marginally excited to see one of the Loire Valley’s most beautiful châteaux.
On said bus, however, I met an adventurous American student with whom I could reminisce about American road trips and talk about plans to remain traveling, where to, how, why. And off the bus, I met two students who just arrived in Tours this week, one Italian and the other Nigerian by birth, both attending Bard College. After a tour of Chenonceau enlivened by the opera-like history of the Marques family, the latter and I wandered the gardens, the hedge maze, the display of carts and carriages throughout history, talking about poetry and photography. What better way to conclude the afternoon than with a wine-tasting at Vouvray.
That outing never felt pretentious. On château grounds, where royalty lived and visitors have strolled for decades, enjoying gardens feels so natural. An afternoon discussing art is just as valuable as an afternoon working when I can imagine art’s significance across centuries. I knew that the French value art and conversation, but before arriving I braced myself for reality. I couldn’t imagine the semi-daily coverage of plays on national news any more than I could imagine the quiet dinner during which my host family reminded me that conversation is “expected.” J’ai le tournis. C’est aussi éblouissant qu’un pétard, some of which I learned how to say from Harry Potter.
After school on Friday, conspicuously donned in athletic clothes (uncommon attire in central France, where pants are worn in 80-plus weather), the group of three students who met at Place Jean-Jaurais as planned managed to arrive at the CKCT (Canoë Kayak Club de Tours) by Le Cher, the river on the other side of town from La Loire, to find the club closed during business hours. We asked members of the other clubs based out of the same facility for information, found nothing useful, then returned to central Tours for ice cream. One of the other students left for Belgium this weekend, so she said goodbye to our friend right then.
For my goodbye, our friend invited me to a birthday party at her host mother’s house. After a long day and a disappointed endeavor, entering this home was magical.
The entryway was outdoors, leading directly to the wooden patio illumined by lights strung between the garden wall, the trees, and the kitchen roof where a moonlit silhouette could be seen walking. The garden beyond resembled a grotto in candlelight, and the guests passed between there, the patio, and a room inside washed in bright red, dancing to a jazz trio with champagne in hand. When I couldn’t focus in class last semester, this is why. Dreamy France. Realized.
I didn’t drink. Or dance, which is unusual for me. Normally I can’t keep still on dance floors. J’étais sous un charme. Un sortilège held me to the couch facing the jazz players and the garden in awe, and my French left me. I only spoke with my friend, it being her last night in Tours and me being suddenly inept. I did have a slice of cake, rich and creamy and somehow chewy. Hopefully the next time I encounter something like that, my joy will do something other than paralyze me.
