This is France in a Nutshell: "Ai! 'elp me! I'm een a nutshell!"

In mid-December 2006, after the conclusion of Michaelmas term but before I returned home to the U.S. from my semester abroad in Oxford, I went for an evening stroll in Port Meadow. Bundled up against the crisp night air, I walked through the dark field, gazing up at the starts, and I knew deep down inside, beyond a doubt, that this was the best life was ever going to be.

My two months in France were better.

Tonight I leafed through the journal I kept while I was traveling. Inhibited by an erratic schedule and my own pure laziness, I didn't write about my experiences as regularly as I would have liked; but, occasionally, I did take the time to jot down at least a few thoughts on the beautiful, marvelous, challenging, humorous, life-changing experiences I was going through.

Since I was unable to be faithful to this blog during most of my time in France, I'd like to share a few key passages from my journal, just to fill you in a bit on my activities and impressions from the months of April and May:

26 mars 2011
...Deciding to stay in Paris for three weeks was a really good decision. It's basically the world capital of art, literature, and philosophy, and attempting to take it all in while staying in a hotel or hostel for a week or less would be exhausting and incomplete...

12 avril 2011
...Time's winding down so quickly. On the metro I read A Moveable Feast and when I get off the metro I find myself thinking the way Hemingway writes, only less clean and far less gripping. The other day, as I was walking along, I started imagining that Hemingway was walking beside me and we were talking and he was telling me I only need to write one true sentence, but he was talking more about life in general than about writing when he said this...

17 abril
Time to start thinking in Spanish...
...I'm very satisfied with my time in Paris. It was more expensive than I ever would have anticipated. But Paris is worth it. Paris will always be worth it. Even though it's expensive. Even though it's touristy. It's still Paris...

4 mai 2011
...Since returning to France after the stint in Spain, it seems I love each place I visit even more than the place before. Arles was amazing, but I liked Avignon even better. And Vaison la Romaine pretty much sealed the deal today on an inkling I've been having this week that I ought to come back here in a few years with my kids. I almost want to have kids so that I can bring them here...

9 mai 2011
...I really like milking the goats. That's something I look forward to. That and eating. Eating! It is an event! As it should be! I love eating in France...

17 mai 2011
...At Taizé, I'm able to slow down a bit and do some thinking. But it seems I have too much to think about. There's my education. My relationships. What I have experienced on this trip and how does/will it contribute to my decision-making process for my future. Should I extend the length of my trip? No. I think not. But maybe...

20 mai 2011
...As I was walking down to the Source just now, I had the thought that prayer and art are an awful lot alike. Both require so much work, but the rewards, when they come, are sublime. Because truly nothing in this life compares to the goodness of that moment when I feel the closeness of the Spirit, I will continue to search and to wait. How do we grow? We force ourselves to look past the unpleasantness of the current situation, to focus on the loveliness of the thing we are working for. And yet, when we get it, it is a gift. The closeness of the Spirit, the awareness of God's love, when it comes, is so much greater than anything we could ever get to by our own efforts. Great authors and painters have made similar observations about their work: you spend time with your work every day and often it is frustrating and essentially fruitless. But when the masterpiece at last reveals itself, it is something beyond you. It is a gift. It is grace...

May 24
Aboard the plane, awaiting take-off. Two months in France sounded like it might be too long; but, now that it's over, I know I could have stayed longer...

And that, in a nutshell, is what two months in France looks like.

How to Be a French Farmer

One morning on the farm, Isabelle and I were moving the paddock where the goats graze. This involved gathering up the electric fences and carrying them to another end of the property, where the goats had not been to pasture for several weeks, giving the earth a chance to replenish itself and for the variety of grasses and flowers and leafy plants to spring up, healthier than ever. The goats were very happy on the days when we moved their paddock. They would literally jump for joy. It was really fun to watch.

We were just about finished with the task of moving the fence when I got stung by a bee on my finger. I don't think I'd ever been stung by a bee before (only a wasp, once) and it really hurt. Isabelle felt responsible because she suspected it could have been one of her own honeybees. "And now she's dead," she added, rather matter-of-factly. I apologized for having unintentionally murdered her (possible) bee.

The next morning, the finger that the bee had stung was really swollen. To the point that the skin was tight and itchy and I couldn't make a fist all the way. Isabelle noticed. "That's not normal," she said. She had a sad, concerned look on her face: which was the look she usually had on her face, but now even more so.

I didn't think my finger could get any more swollen but, the next day, it was. Isabelle gave me some green clay to put on it that she said would bring the swelling down. I rubbed the clay thickly all over my finger and then sealed it up with plastic wrap. It started to feel really hot. With my finger wrapped up this way, my whole left hand was out of commission, and I found myself incapable of carrying out some of my chores (including my favorite: milking the goats). I felt rather guilty about this, but my concern for the way the swelling was now progressing into my hand slightly outweighed my guilt.

I wanted to go to a doctor, to tell you the truth. But I didn't want to be the one to have to say it. I wanted them to be the ones to make the suggestion that I consult a professional. So I sat at the breakfast table saying things like, "I don't know what to do!" and "This definitely isn't normal."

Isabelle's mother, Dany, told me I was behaving like a baby. "Oui, c'est normal," she said.

I think of myself as rather tough, and I'm used to people taking me and my maladies seriously. Dany's comments left me somewhat taken aback. Fine, I would not insist on seeing a doctor. But now, if I lost the arm, it would be on her conscience.

The next morning, the swelling in my finger had gone down significantly. The day after that it was restored to its usual size. Oui, c'est normal. I guess I still have a ways to go before I can become a farmer.