Flattered, but no thanks.

I have marriage proposed to me quite often by North Africans.

Mothers offer their sons.

Sisters offer their brothers.

Islamist men offer themselves... (click HERE if you don't remember that one).

While I do get flirted with quite often by French men, I've never had one propose marriage before. Until yesterday.

CSI and I went to the church that the camelridingcowgirl had recommended from when she lived here. I think the youngest person in there was about 50 years old. (Was that how it was for you, CRC?) CSI and I certainly seemed out of place.

A man immediately approached us the minute the service was over; I thought to welcome us as newcomers. As soon as I opened my mouth, however, he understood that we were foreigners.

"Oh! Where are you from?" he asked.

"The United States."

"Even better!" (That was the first clue that something bizarre was going on...) He got very excited and began to talk to me about New York and the one trip he'd made there. He'd also gotten to go to South Carolina and on he talked for several minutes about how much he just loves the United States.

"Are you Protestant? Evangelical? Reformed?" (It was a Reformed church that we went to...I don't think that's the normal line of interrogation among French evangelicals.)

When I responded that yes, we were evangelicals, he put his cards on the table.

"Well, I have two sons--twins! They're 21 years old, and well, if you came over for dinner, you could meet them and it would be wonderful language practice for everyone. English for them, French for you. And well, ahem, you might have a nice time..."

It all became clear. Two young (well, one young, and one not-so-young-but-is-lucky-enough-to-look-younger-than-she-is) ladies walk into an evangelical church in a country where there just aren't that many single evangelicals running around...how could a well-intentioned father not invite two complete strangers over for dinner to meet his of-marrying-age sons? Especially when, "even better," they're Americans! I suppose it wasn't a marriage proposal, just your average run-of-the-mill parental arranged hook-up.

Some day, some day, I might be able to get the right kind of offer...

Pleasant fall days

Yesterday and today were big market days in town. All the stores are trying to get rid of the fall stuff to bring out the winter stuff, and so all the streets were filled with market stands and hordes of people. I don't really have any stories to tell and anything meliflous to write...I just wanted to express how much I have thoroughly enjoyed the last two weeks. Being back in the country I love. In the fall. With street markets. And lots of CHEESE. It's been perfectly delightful.

Protests stepping up

I already wrote about the latest strike/protests that are going on currently in France. This week, however, the protests have turned violent and some rioting has begun in some places: Paris (specifically Nanterre, a suburb of Paris), Lyon, and in two towns near here, Dijon and Mulhouse. When I returned to Besancon yesterday (I'd been out in the countryside for almost a week), I asked the concierge at the hotel if Besancon will have riots. (Some towns are just known for being more rowdy than others.) She said, "No, here in Besancon, we are nice people. They will protest, but they won't riot."

So things are pretty calm round these parts for right now.

But elsewhere...

In Marseille, the garbage collectors have been on strike for over a week, and the city is filling with rotting trash, which is bringing out the rats. I've seen the size of Marseille rats, and well, I'm glad I'm not down there right now. (And for those of you who remember my dumpster diving days in Marseille...I would NOT be doing that now!)

Throughout the country, the oil refineries are being blocked, and so many gas stations are empty. In Marseille, all transport is on strike...so with no transport and no gas, people are having to walk--through streets overflowing with rotting garbage. Only about half the TGV trains are running in the country. Here in Besancon, the train station has been pretty much shut down altogether. CDG, the main airport in Paris, is blockaded by protestors, and the planes can't get fuel anyway.

High school students are joining in the protests, so almost 400 high schools have been closed because the students are taking to the streets.

And yesterday, the Union workers (who are leading the strike/protest) cut off the supply to 16 of the country's 58 energy grids, so that the government had to import energy. (How do you import energy?!) The Unions announced today that they will continue to step up the protests...while the government continues to stand firm that it WILL pass the bill to up the retirement age by 2 years.

I'm not one to normally put all my political views out there, but I have to say... seriously, France? You already have one of the lowest retirement ages in the WORLD (60). Your government needs to pass this bill to keep your country from going bankrupt. Two more years of work in order to save your country is not worth a revolution.

I'm curious to see how all this will play out. The Senate is supposed to pass the bill today or tomorrow. Once it's passed...will the protestors shrug their shoulders and give up the fight, since it's done? Or will things get crazy?

I don't know, but for now, I'm thankful that here in Besancon, the trash is still being collected, the busses are running, the gas stations have petrol, and my electricity is on. I'm hoping it all stays that way. And I'm praying for peace in France.

The 10 Magic Words

Surely you've heard the stereotype that French people are rude. I've spent the last four years of my life telling Americans that the stereotype isn't true: Americans just don't know how to play by French rules, and thus...the French respond in what seems like rudeness to Americans who haven't played by the rules.

When I first arrived in France almost four years ago, I read a book on French culture that talked about the 10 MAGIC WORDS. This book explained that if you memorize the 10 magic words in French, and use them, you'll be golden. The French will be as sweet to you as any of those delectable treats you see in their baker's windows.

And what are the 10 magic words? "Excuse me for bothering you, but I have a problem." My personal experience has been that I don't even need to say I have a problem, but just, "Excuse me for bothering you, but..." and then fill in the blank with whatever I need from the person.

CSI and I signed up for language school online last week, and then received emails stating that we needed to come pay for school before the course starts next week. I was talking with a friend about our plans to go in and pay for school the next day, and she began to tell me about the school's director.

"Make sure you're super nice to her. She can make or break your experience at the school, and students who've gotten on her bad side are miserable. She adores my husband, so she's nice to me...but make sure you win her over straight away."

Those of you who know me know that I'm not always the best at "winning people over straight away." It can take me months, even years, to win people over. So needless to say, I was a little nervous about this first meeting.

I put on my power outfit. (The French always respond to a fashionably dressed woman, right?)

CSI and I prayed for mercy and favor both last night and this morning before we went in.

Then, I knocked on the office door, pushed it open, took a deep breath, entered and said...

"Excuse me for bothering you, but I'm looking for the Madame director?"

Thank God for the 10 magic words (and a good power outfit). She was very nice to us, and chatted it up with me about my name, and how cold it is here in Besancon (I woke up to below freezing temps this morning!), and told me all that we would need to get started in the school, asking me to translate it all for CSI. We left the office feeling like it was a total success and we'd charmed The Lady With a Reputation for Meanness.

It all makes me feel like I wish I'd known those 10 magic words from childhood on...

CSI and the Cows

CSI loves cows. When we drove from Paris to Besancon last week, we went through the Bourgogne region (Burgandy), where there are the famous (to the French, anyway) Charolais cows. She squealed with delight and explained that cows are her favorite animal. Oh boy is she going to love France! So while we were at Chez Wise this past week, we went for a walk through the cow pastures, so she could meet some Franche-Comte cows.

You can't really hear her talking to the cows in this video, because all the cowbells are ringing so loudly. There was alot of fog, so we couldn't see all the cows, but we sure could hear them! Anyway, the video is of CSI trying to make friends with some local cows, and trying to get close enough to pet them.

Chez Wise

The hotel was booked solid for Monday and Tuesday this week, so CSI and I had to make other plans for where we could stay for those two days. The Wise family invited us to come out to their home on the farm, and extended the invitation for the weekend as well. We thought it would be a good language immersion, especially for CSI. So Mrs. Wise picked us up on Friday, and Mr. Wise brought us back on Wednesday.

For almost five days, we were living in the dreamiest old French farmhouse out in the countryside that you ever could imagine. The house itself is about 300 years old. Mr. Wise was born in it! I can't even imagine growing up in such a place.

They have an oldschool fireplace/oven, where you keep a fire going inside of it, and can cook food on top, and on the side next to the fire. Mrs. Wise also has a normal modern oven, as well as a brand new dish washing machine...which is a good thing because they have 9 people who live in the house...add guests to that and oh lala! The machine gets run three times a day!

Meal times were so wonderful. Mrs. Wise makes three loaves of fresh bread every day. All the vegetables are straight from their garden. The eggs and chicken meat was all fresh. The honey, jam, and fresh cream was also home made from their farm. Add to that the cheese course almost every night, and I was in eating heaven.

My favorite kind of cheese, Comté, wasn't served on this particular day. But my second favorite kind, Morbier, is in the middle. It is a medium soft cheese with a line of blue cheese through the middle of it. In the cup (at 1 oclock) is a cream goat cheese that I thought was good but all the Wise family kept saying it wasn't that good of a goat cheese. Next (at 3 oclock and again at 11 oclock) is Camembert, which is the most famous kind of French cheese. The big triangle (at 4-6 oclock) is Tome, which comes from the Savoyarde region of France, and is used for lots of melted cheese dishes (like fondue). The small brown one (at 8 oclock) is an aged goat cheese that the Wise family was crazy about. It was too strong for me!

Finally, the dark brown, really gross looking one (at 10 oclock) is a super aged Tome. It smelled so bad when we took it out of the fridge that even the Wise daughters were laughing and waving the bad air away from their noses! I stared at it for two days and finally worked up the courage to try it. (The theory is, "The stinkier the cheese, the better it tastes.") It was swallowable, but I'll stick with a newer Tome from now on.

Another great part of staying at the Wises is all the music, fun, and games. They have six kids, ages 7-17. All of them play instruments: the piano, the violin, the flute, the guitar, and the harp. Yes, the harp. The 15 year old plays the harp so beautifully...you really do think you've entered heaven. There's also a fuseball table, Settlers of Catan in French, and lots of places for hiding for hide and seek.

Language laughs are always to be had as well. Mrs. Wise speaks English, and wants all the children (who are homeschooled) to learn it, so during the day, CSI and I would help each of the six kids with their English language lessons, and then the rest of the day was French practice for us. What fun it was to teach (and practice with them) how to say the "th" sound in English. I taught them the word "thingamajig" and they just howled in laughter. The oldest daughter loves to say it now. And I taught the 15 year old how to make the "h" sound in English, and she ran around the house saying, "I am Happy to play the Harp!" (Instead of "I am appiee to play ze arp.")

But the very best part of being at the Wises house is that they are Christians, which is so rare in France. They truly love the Lord, and His presence is always felt in their home. Friday and Tuesday nights are spent in a family time of prayer, worship (with all the instruments!) and Bible study. They sing a thank you prayer before every meal. The walls are adorned with Bible verses. It truly is such a wonderful place.

I look forward to returning there again soon.

The Teeth Sucking Woman

When I found out I'd be coming to Besancon to return to French language school, I thought I'd be living in a hotel. There's a hotel that partners with the school to house students, and I've stayed in that hotel before, and some friends of mine who'd been students there had lived in the hotel. But then, two months ago, the Chef told me that some local friends had found a great apartment for me to stay in instead. So for the last two months, I thought I'd be staying in an apartment while in Besancon.

When I arrived, I ended up checking into the hotel, because the apartment wasn't ready yet. And since the hotel was already completely booked next week for two days...I'll be checking out of the hotel next week, staying with a friend, and then checking back into the hotel afterwards.

Well, my friend who helps me with stuff like finding apartments, getting my visa, and other stuff like that called this morning and explained that the apartment isn't going to work out. CSI and I will be living in the hotel after all.

Lessons in being flexible when living overseas.

He called back several hours later and said, "There may be another change of plans. Mrs. Wise (the local friend who had hooked us up with the first apartment that ended up falling through) feels terrible about yall living in a hotel, so she found another apartment for you today...and her husband is driving over to the hotel right now to pick you guys up to go look at it." Alrighty then. This is an extended lesson in being flexible.

Mr. Wise shows up and takes us to this place. Besancon is built kind of in a round valley surrounded by hills, and so he just keeps going up and up and up. It's far enough up and away from the city that it really felt like we were out in the country. I teased him and said, "This place is so country I could be at your place!" (He lives on a farm.) He laughed and said it was true.

We found the front door to the house, and I could see through the glass front door that there was someone inside through a door that was cracked open on the inside. I told Mr. Wise there was someone in there, but every time he knocked the person didn't even move. He knocked louder, but no response. He finally opened the door and just walked right in! Turns out the woman who I'd seen sitting there was a little on the deaf side, so she never heard him knocking. And man alive! did Mr. Wise ever give her a fright!

The Madame had to be in her 70's or 80's. I mean, Mr. Wise is 65 and she was definitely way older than him! As I said, she was a little on the deaf side, so this was the first time I'd ever heard two French people speaking to one another with raised voices but not arguing. It was clear, however, that she was not expecting us. She had food on the stove, the house was not tidied up to show to prospective renters, and well, she wasn't dressed for guests.

Mr. Wise explains that his wife had called earlier about an apartment for two young ladies. The Madame looks at me and says, "I didn't speak with you about two young ladies. One lady is coming tomorrow at 7."

"No ma'am, you didn't speak with me. You spoke with his wife."

"But you are supposed to come tomorrow."

Mr. Wise explained that she had spoken with his wife just an hour ago about us coming now, not tomorrow. He showed her the paper he had with all her info, and said, "Is this your name? (Yes.) Is this your address? (Yes.) Is this your address? (Yes.) Then you spoke with my wife. About these two young ladies."

Again she looks at me and says, "I didn't speak with you about you coming today."

Mr. Wise, "No. YOU. SPOKE. WITH. MY. WIFE."

So add to deaf that she's at least forgetful if not a little senile. Oh boy. Could make for an interesting renting experience...and plenty of blog fodder...

The Madame shrugs her shoulders and says, "Well, you're here now. I suppose I can show you the place now instead of tomorrow. It's not this building (thank goodness, thinks CSI and I), but another building with it's own separate entrance. It's my husbands office."

Mr. Wise interjects, "Does your husband still use the office?"

"No...he died 55 years ago in an accident." She explains to us how to get to the other house while she goes to get dressed. I translate to CSI what just happened, while Mr. Wise mumbles about how old she must be that he died 55 years ago?!

As she begins to show us the apartment, it becomes clear that it is too small for both CSI and me together (there was only one twin bed), but even worse than being too far away, rented by a half-deaf slightly senile woman, and being too small without enough beds... It's a communal living apartment, so one of the bedrooms is rented to a male professor at the university, and the top floor (which had a separate bathroom but no kitchen) was rented to five men who only stay there on the weekends...and don't clean up after themselves. So we'd be living with one man during the week and six men on the weekends...while the two of us shared a twin bed.

So while it was an adorably cute location with much, um, character, it just wasn't practical for us. So...we'll be continuing to live in the hotel that partners with our language school.

I saved the best part for last about the Madame. You know when you have something stuck in your teeth, and you have to sort of suck/lick them to get them clean, and it makes an odd sound? She did that every 3-4 seconds for the good half-hour that we were with her. And since I just don't feel like I can adequately describe that sound for you with words...I made an audio visual example for you.

Welcome Home Parade

I'm still finishing yesterday's post about the teeth-sucking woman, but there was a parade in my honor here in France today, so I thought I needed to write about that before the glow wears off.

(Yes, there is a post coming about a teeth-sucking woman, but no, there wasn't really a parade.)

As you may remember from this post and this post and this post and this post and this post and this post that the French like to protest and they like to go on strike. I always kind of equate it all to Americans and our love of all our freedoms. Free speech. Right to assemble. Etc. For the French, it's the right to have a protest and to go on strike. And they exercise that right alot. (Enough that I wrote six posts about them in three years, and I'm sure I didn't even blog about every single one, just the ones that affected ME.)

Well, guess what (I ask in my happy sing song voice)? It's strike season!

So they've had a few already before I arrived, and today was another one, and apparently a big one at that.

I was in the downtown area when I heard them assembling before they would march around the city. As I was finally headed home, I passed by them and oh my. THOUSANDS. Carrying flags, chanting, setting off firecrackers, honking horns, playing music, laughing. It's sort of like a fun parade to them... Anyway, the gist is...basically, when Americans want change in our government, we vote for someone we want who we think would do things differently, or we write our congressman and express what our opinions are so he can take the common man's voice to the capital. In France, they all hit the streets together so that the capital can literally hear them. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.

You can see a few photos that I took by clicking HERE. I also took this short video.

So I joked all day that the French gave me a welcome home parade. It makes me feel better than thinking that they protested my return. HA. No, seriously, they were (are) protesting the raising of the age of retirement from 60 to 62 (among other things). You can watch a BBC video about it by clicking HERE.

'Blowing your top' redefined

I'm sure all of you have at least heard of horror stories about going through security at airports...and probably most of you have experienced it.

...Take your shoes, belt, hooded sweatshirt off, please...

...I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'll have to confiscate that expensive brand new tube of lipgloss...

...Could you step over here, please, so I can pat you down in the most uncomfortable places? How old are you? Six? Yeah, I still have to run the security scan gun over you...

ETC.

So when I landed in Munich, CSI and I had to go through security again. That's normal. I put all my stuff through, but didn't have to take my shoes off. That's not normal, but whatever.

After all my stuff goes through, one of the security guys comes over, takes my pillow from me, and rubs this white plastic thingy all over it and then walks away. A second security man takes my pillow away from me and puts it in the secure, guarded area on the table where they normally dig through your suitcase.

"We have to check your pillow for explosives, ma'am."

I laughed. I thought he was kidding. He wasn't. CSI comes over to me to see why I'm delayed, and I say, "He just said he's checking my pillow for explosives. I thought he was kidding, but the first man who rubbed some thingy all over the pillow just took the thingy to that room over there."

A few minutes later, the first man returns, gives the okay, and they hand my pillow back to me. The second man, keeping up the humor of the whole situation says, "Here you go, ma'am. We wouldn't want you to lose your head."

Hardy har har.

Flashback: First time flying alone

Tomorrow I return to France. GLORY!

This time, however, I will be flying with someone...which is sort of new to me. I almost always fly alone, especially internationally. As CSI (as she will be henceforth named) called me yesterday and today with questions, it brought to mind my first time flying overseas by myself, to Portugal, back 1999. I was retelling my experience to my parents tonight and thought...I oughta blog that. So here you go.

As I said, I'd never flown alone internationally before. This was back in 1999, before 9/11 changed the way we fly forever, and so people could greet arriving travelers right up at the gate. At least, in America, they could, and that was all I knew. So, after an extremely long flight, I stepped off the plane in Lisbon and walked towards the gate excited to meet the people who were going to help set me up.

There was no one at the gate though.

So I waited and waited and waited. After everyone, including the pilots and crew had disembarked and left the gate area, where I was now clearly alone, I realized that my to-be friends were not going to be there at the gate. I walked slowly towards passport control. I remember thinking, "Surely they wouldn't have me go through passport control all by myself?"

There was no one waiting for me near passport control, though.

So I waited and waited and waited. After everyone had gone through passport control, and the guards sort of waved at me annoyingly, I realized that my to-be friends were not going to be there at passport control. Hoping the guards wouldn't ask me any questions I didn't know how to answer, I went through passport control...and then walked slowly towards baggage claim. I remember thinking, "Well, surely they wouldn't have me pick all four 70lbs bags all by myself?"

(Yes, back then, bags were allowed to weight 70lbs each. Dare to dream...)

I walked all around baggage claim looking for someone with a sign with my name on it. I listened as carefully as I could for someone to call my name. Nothing.

I finally shrugged my shoulders and thought to myself, "Well, I suppose I'll have to do this all by myself." I got a cart, and struggled to load each of the four 70lbs bags up onto it. I pulled out the paper I'd written with my to-be friends' address on it, and figured I'd take a taxi there. With no language whatsoever and no Portuguese money.

(Yes, back then, Portugal had its own money and not euros. Am I dating myself in this post?)

I was one of the last people to leave the baggage claim area, since I'd taken so long at each step since leaving the plane. When I finally pushed my heavy cart out the doors past customs, there was a huge crowd of Americans waiting to greet me...with a sign with my name on it and I think they had flowers. I know there was cake.

They told me that they were starting to worry when I took so long to come out...but no one had explained to me that they weren't allowed to come inside to the gate to get me. Since I didn't know that, I went with what I knew. And thus began the journey that I'm still on of learning that what I know from the US usually doesn't work the same way once I cross the big pond.

I'm looking forward to flying with CSI and living with her during her first few months in France. Hopefully I can help her avoid a few of those awkward, uncomfortable, confusing moments that I went through when I went over at her age. And maybe she'll help me fall in love with France all over again as I see it through her fresh new eyes.

Oh, to be young and not even remember when people could meet you at the gate, when you could fly with 70lbs bags, when every country in Europe had their own currency...

The Radical Experiment

(Warning: Long post ahead...)

I am not sure exactly when my thought process about leaving behind my personal culture in order to embrace Biblical culture began; I suppose that it goes back to the end of graduate school when, as I was looking to move overseas and not be able to take much with me, I began to get rid of most of my earthly possessions. I hoped to own very little so as to be owned by nothing tangible. I sold nearly all my books. I gave away most of my clothes. I left school with just a footlocker or two of possessions. I still have days where I miss some of those items, and yet, I have not lacked without them since then.

There were other baby steps along the way: the decision to get rid of all credit cards, the ceasing to watch certain forms of entertainment, the increasing of giving money away, letting my gray hair show. Each of those steps always had something of the same reasoning behind them: not seeing how my personal culture had taught to me live matched up from what I understood from scripture.

As I said in a recent post, I began studying the book of Ephesians in-depth this year. One of the first things the Lord pointed out to me through it was a call to walk differently than I had walked when I was in darkness, to walk different than the non-Christian world around me.

While in North Africa, I met someone who used to be Muslim and had become a Christian long before I ever came on the scene. As I observed this national friend, I began to see them make many decisions that didn’t seem to match up with what I understood from scripture from how we should live. One day, I mentioned it to a friend, who responded by telling me that what my national friend was doing was 100% in line with local culture and I could not expect them to stop doing those actions.

Even if they aren’t Biblical?

I went to the Lord about this very question. He responded by reminding me of the anthem of post-modernism, “Judge not, and you will not be judged.” But Jesus didn’t only say, “don’t judge” when He taught this now most-quoted-verse in the Bible. He went on, “condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive and you will be forgiven; give and it will be given to you. Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you…Can a blind man lead a blind man? Will they not both fall into a pit? A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.” (Luke 6:37-42)

The Lord’s answer to me about the culture my national friend ought to leave behind was to remove the log from my own eye. I needed to look at my own American cultural practices that I was still embracing even though they were not necessarily biblical, and see what the Lord would have me remove. David Platt said in his book, Radical, “In the American dream, where self reigns as king (or queen), we have a dangerous tendency to misunderstand, minimize, and even manipulate the gospel in order to accommodate our assumptions and desires. As a result, we desperately need to explore how much of our understanding of the gospel is American and how much is biblical. And in the process we need to examine whether we have misconstrued a proper response to the gospel and maybe even missed the primary reward of the gospel, which is God himself.” (pg. 28).

All of these things put together—the national friend (who has given up more than I can ever fathom in order to live a radical life for Christ, even though she's still learning how to do so more and more), the scriptural exhortations from Ephesians and elsewhere, the challenges to be radical by Francis Chan and David Platt—lit a fire under me. I began to really evaluate my life like never before. I desire to live a radical life of faith AND grace, and so I have been careful to not embrace legalism as I allowed the Lord to prune American cultural habits from my life. I also cannot judge any believer who is living differently than He has led me to begin to live. He has asked me to give up certain things…but I must follow the teachings of Paul in Romans 14 on this matter, especially verse 22, “The faith that you have, keep between yourself and God. Blessed is the one who has no reason to pass judgment of himself for what he approves.”

So, today, on my birthday, as I embark on my 35th year of life...I also am embarking on accepting David Platt's challenge to the Radical Experiment. He has challenged his church (and whoever else will accept) to do the following five things for an entire year.

1. Pray for the entire world using the book Operation World. (Don't worry...I won't break my new year's resolution to buy one...there's a free copy online!)

2. Read through the whole Bible. (I already do this, but have my Ephesians study on top of this too...)

3. Sacrifice my money to a specific purpose.

4. Serve outside of my context for 2% (approximately one week) of the year.

5. Commit my life to a multiplying community (a local, growing church).

As I've been evaluating American culture in my life, the Lord has shown me some other areas that need some pruning, and so I have five other areas I will be focusing on as well this year. For right now, I won't be posting those to the blog. (Not everything needs to go on the internet, you know...!) But I will be writing here from time to time about stuff I'm learning, doing, experiencing because of the Radical Experiment.

Here's to a Radical year with God!!!