I've commandeered a little corner of a café across the street from my hotel, one of the few in the city open on a Sunday. It's amazing how quiet the city can be from one day to another; Sundays seem to create ghost towns and it's the perfect day to explore for the sake of photography. I slept in, crawled out of bed, grabbed my camera, and set off across town in search of a square filled with houses from the Middle Ages and a nearby abbey built in the 11th century (before the First Crusade, for those chronologically challenged). I spent yesterday shopping, and am quite pleased with my acquisitions. I got a lovely new linen jacket (I know, I have an addiction, I'm working on it . . . sort of), and several long-sleeved shirts to go with all my sweaters and jackets. I figured I should probably buy somethings to wear under them seeing as I have so many, and really, they pretty much hog my wardrobe.
But I digress. Due to my plans to maximize time in the shopping district while all the stores were open, my second most important stop got left for the last day here. The most important being the chateau, which I saw first thing. The second is the Place de la Laiterie across the river, next to the aforementioned abbey and lined with medieval houses. Naturally, it's been calling my name since I got here. I resisted the call until today, when I ventured over there in the dappled sunlight (the weather has been quite accommodating, forecasting rain but only doing so during the night; the days have been partly sunny and if not warm, not cool either). The streets were mostly abandoned, and in the quiet solitude (ok, less than quiet with my headphones and iPod, but the world around me was silent), I walked where I pleased to get the right angle for my shots. The difference between me and a photographer, or me and someone who wants to take artist photographs, is that I don't care to find the best possible composition or lighting or angle. My goal is to capture the old stuff. Yes, that again. I feel like my imagination isn't strong enough to hold all I've seen, and all I've yet to see, so I must take pictures in order to preserve the feeling of standing there by these ancient roads and buildings. I want to capture in my photos not an emotion for other people to understand, but a memory and a reference for me to hold on to for its historic rather than aesthetic purpose. I managed to fill up every memory card I have (three 1 GB and one 2 GB), so I was forced to find my way back across the river. As I've said, there isn't much to do on a Sunday, so after grabbing a quiche and dessert from a boulangerie/patisserie, I decided to seat myself in a café and enjoy a hot tea for the rest of the afternoon. What I'll do for dinner is anyone's guess. I might just grab McDonald's early and head in so I can be up and about early tomorrow. My train leaves at 12:44 pm, so I have some run-around time in the morning. I'm planning on going to FNAC (there's one here and you have no idea how glad I was to find it; I miss that store. Paris had them all over; La Rochelle doesn't have a single one).
How to explain a FNAC? It's like the electronics section of a Target mixed with the movie and music sections of, well, of a MediaPlay (which don't exist anymore, I don't think) and the book section of a Borders. Throw in a mini-Apple store, and you have a pretty good approximation of a FNAC. There's a CD in French I've been coveting for a year or so, but isn't accessible in the States (you can order it from amazon.fr but not if you're not in Europe, darn it). So now I'm in Europe, and I found a FNAC, and I couldn't resist seeking out the CD. Look up the song if you're curious, you can find it on YouTube: Rêve d'enfant by Shy'm. Anyway, I found it, and got in line to buy it, only for the line to stretch all the way around the store and moving slower than the proverbial tortoise. Slow and steady is all well and good for a race (in fact, it's my preferred method of racing) but it doesn't do much for me, stagnating in line inside a typical French store that has no concept of air conditioning. I set it down and took of in search of cooler pastures (the H&M was significantly less crowded). Despite tomorrow being a national holiday (Toussaints, of course, the very reason for our week and a half off of work—nominally at least), FNAC will be open at 10 in the morning, and I intend to be one of the first in the door. Being American and all, getting up, dressed, and ready before 9:30 am shouldn't be too big a deal (key word being the shouldn't). Then I can head to the train station for my return trip to La Rochelle. I think I'll be glad to be back, at least to have my own apartment and proper internet again. And my complete wardrobe. I'm not a fan of living out of a backpack for more than a day. I can already assure you the trip will wear me out, though. I've managed to get Christmas shopping out of the way for my brothers and their respective spouses (well, spouse and future-spouse, technically, but not for much longer!). I wasn't planning on Christmas shopping until later, but I saw and couldn't resist. The only problem is getting them back to La Rochelle, seeing as I have a backpack already stuffed with clothes (and blankie, the poor tattered thing), and a purse, already stuffed with a camera, iPad, iPod, iPhone, French cellphone, and my wallet, all of which get heavy. Not to mention my brand new bag of clothes, which aren't heavy (I was a model of restraint, only getting that which I either absolutely needed or couldn't live without) but take up space. And thanks to our magnanimous Creator, I only have two hands, and two shoulders, and after a week of traveling, they're all getting quite tired of carrying anything.
But I shall manage. Men are notoriously susceptible to volunteering to carry heavy things for sweet young girls (or women, I suppose, technically speaking but I have the hardest time referring to myself, much less thinking of my self as a woman).
I like Angers. It reminds me of Paris, only slightly smaller and having maintained more of its tangible history. Paris being Paris, it's been the center of conflict no matter the era, and many of its monuments have been destroyed. I think only a handful (three or four) medieval structures remain intact, and those are late medieval. Angers, too, was arguably as important as Paris during the Middle Ages (if not more so, depending on to whom and when we are referring). Seeing as my interest in things seems to extend only as far as its history, it would make sense that I like both cities equally well. I'm not sure what that says about me, other than obsessed. It makes me wonder what a person reading this blog would learn about me as a person. Could a psychologist or a profiler put together who I am from how I write and what I write about? Possibly. And yes, I do wonder these things as I write. I'm self-involved, and self-aware enough to both recognize and admit it. We all have our faults; mine are less harmful than some.
Even as I like Angers as well as Paris, I have to acknowledge the undefinable something which makes Paris—well, Paris. There's a magic to the city. Beyond its history, beyond its culture, its atmosphere, its food—that city is something special. Parisians, on the other hand . . . .
Let's leave it at that, shall we?
No, I kid the Parisians. They get a bad wrap, as do all the French. Americans and the Brits in particular have these notions of the French as rude, smelly, snotty, proud, elitist, etc. Looking rationally, it isn't a fair assessment. I find the same sorts of attitudes and people in New York or Charlotte or Atlanta as I do anywhere here, in the same percentages. I tend to think humans are humans, regardless of which arbitrary border line they're born within. But I do know that when I get uncomfortable, when I'm tense or nervous, afraid or anxious, I tend to think the worst of people around me. I attribute my disquiet to them; they must be rude or unwelcoming or looking at me funny. Inevitably, when I step into a new place (therefore, out of my comfort zone—I don't like change despite appearances to the contrary), my first impression is always one of being disliked, shunned, or insulted by those around me. They're all perfectly at ease, while here I am about to have a panic attack and curl in a ball over between the cathedral and that cafe. There's a nice little nook the homeless likely inhabit at night and wouldn't life be easier if I could just watch it all from there? If that's how I feel, then I think maybe that's how other people who come to France get their ideas of rude and aloof Frenchmen. They're out of their comfort zone, susceptible to the slightest snub and looking for insults where there aren't any. To point out other people's faults has the unfortunate affect of making us feel better about our own—and usually our own faults are rooted in our insecurities. See where I'm going with this? It's a vicious circle. But being aware of a problem doesn't make it any easier to avoid.
I can certainly get on a soapbox, can't I? Without even realizing it. Well, we all know I didn't fall far from the Choiniere family tree. These are my thoughts, though, and somehow they always wind up in my recounting the day, no matter my intentions.
Today there isn't much to recount. It's Halloween, and I wish more than I can say to have a dress from the 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th, or 18th century and go walking about the chateau again. Or just wear it, period. I might be determined to elope, should the time ever come for me to marry, but I fully intend to find a way to justify a lovely historic dress. That's the only costume I really care to wear anymore. I loved dressing up as a child, but I find that adult costumes for women all tend to focus less on the costume part and more on the exposure part. The French don't really celebrate Halloween, although they know about it. Orange and black arrangements are in the windows of chocolate shops, and the TV channels are showing spooky movies and Scooby Doo. I'm debating downloading Hocus Pocus to my iPad to watch tonight. That's always been my favorite Halloween movie, but it used to terrify me. I couldn't ever bear to watch it by myself. I'm interested in seeing if that's still the case, although I find it hard to fathom given how very not scary the movie really is. Just something about those witches, though, that always got to me.
Various bars are holding "Halloween Parties" which is really just another excuse to drink late into the night. I don't need an excuse, but it's not my thing. At least not on a Sunday when I have to be up and functioning the next morning. Perhaps I'll celebrate properly sometime later this week, back in La Rochelle where I don't have to worry about not knowing where I am or not really knowing anyone. I don't have work again until Thursday, and then I don't work Fridays. And next week, I have to go to Poitiers again for my doctors appointment required for my residency application on Tuesday, so obviously I won't be working then, and Thursday is November 11, Armistice Day—a big national holiday. Again I don't work Fridays, so I have a four-day weekend. A two-day work week, surrounded on one side by a three day weekend and on the other by a four day weekend. And preceding the three day weekend is a day of work after a week and a half of vacation, which in turn followed a week of national striking.
Seriously, folks. I might start to get bored at this rate. Let's not forget, it's only seven weeks until the vacances de Noël. I can't believe it's already November. Which brings me to the next topic: November.
Most people know I want to be a writer. I'd like to finally freaking finish a novel. National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo, for those who are unfamiliar, is November. There's a large internet community dedicated to writing 50,000 words in November. It's one of those useless, overblown internet things that always goes around, done by people who take themselves far too seriously or not seriously enough. Regardless, it's always a nice excuse to make myself sit down and write everyday. I'm a goal person; I like having one. Gets me through the day. I'm hoping having a goal will get me through the novel-writing process as well. So I shall, for probably the third year, attempt NaNoWriMo again. In spirit, if not actually in the internet community. I've been working on a few ideas for a novel—a romance novel, probably, and definitely historical. I've been reading scads of them in the past two months, mostly for entertainment, and I find that I can't like any of the characters. Those few I find tolerable are always paired with someone I think doesn't deserve them, and all the contrived plot-lines, misunderstandings, and whining drives me crazy. For example, one book I just finished involved a hero who had a sucky childhood and insisted forever after that he didn't deserve love or know how to give/receive it, that he wasn't worthy, etc. That sort of drives me nuts. Ok, not sort of. It plain drives me off the bend. I like a tortured hero as much as the next girl, but come on. We all make mistakes, we all have issues, we all have things in our pasts we'd rather not, and you know what? You're only worth what you think you're worth. If you insist you don't deserve anything, don't whine about not having anything and if you insist you'll always be alone, don't whine when you turn away someone you love who is perfectly willing—nye, desperate—to love you. It doesn't make sense. It makes me want to bash heads and shred paper. Therefore, I've decided that if I can't find a decent historical romance to read, then I'll write one myself. I'm sure every book I've read has been the product of an author thinking the exact same thing; I don't care. Romance novels have a, shall we say, poor reputation among men and are a guilty pleasure (emphasis on guilty) for women; I don't care. I like writing, and I like reading. And what I want to write is something I'd like reading. A historical romance is, quite literally for me at least, a dream come true.
Or a modern romance with a historical influence.
Can we say stuck in a rut?
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