GUEST BLOG: Splattered with mud, bottle firmly in hand...

While I am the primary writer and keeper of this blog as well as the blog I kept in Japan, there were times in Japan when John had a say, too. It seemed to happen when he experienced something the rest of us didn't (taking Katie to the emergency room for her head wound, for example), or when something was so momentous and huge, we both had a lot to say (the election of Barack Obama, for example).

So, although I had my own account of some of yesterday's fun, I thought it would also be good to hear the story from John's point of view. Enjoy!

***

While it is generally good to write about these experiences while they are still fresh, the timing certainly shapes the description. If I wrote my account just after the race, I might have raved about the event under the influence of a runner's high (and bolstered by the treats given out at the end of the race as well as the prospect of picking up my bottle of wine). The rain and mud on the race course may have been more prominent features in the guest blog if I had written last night, as I became increasingly sore.

Instead, I am writing the next morning. There is no runner's high nor crippling soreness. Just a bit sore--enough to remind me that I did not train properly and that I am 15 years older than when I ran this distance in a much quicker 42 minutes.

I thought a bit about speed at various times in the course even though I was more motivated to run this race by vin than vitesse. The lure of the vin lived up to its billing--both the beauty of the vineyards and the fun of receiving the bottle of wine at the end. However during the race I couldn't help but think about the vitesse, and the lack of speed.

This race is much bigger than any I have been part of. They cap registration at 2,500, and the #2330 that I wore suggests that they had full numbers. The course is beautiful but also fairly narrow as it winds through the vineyards. We came rather late to the race despite the advice of our friend Thomas that for a good time you must start near the front as you will otherwise be stuck in the crowd bumping into other runners. I started far from the front, and he was right.

Runners were excited and jumping around as men with microphones stoked this enthusiasm and then counted down for the official start. The gun fired and if I hadn't heard it I would not have known the race started. There were so many people in front of me that we just kept jumping up and down as there was no way to move forward for what seemed like a long time. So much for speed at the beginning.

As the race went on the pack spread out and there were opportunities to pass people while avoiding the big puddles and the deepest mud. This allowed me to feel reasonably fast while passing people. The race was messy but fun in the early stages like here where I saw Lisa and Jack near the 3k mark and when passing through the impressive Château du Clos-de-Vougeot at the point where we turned back toward Nuits-Saint-Georges.

Not long after passing this chateau there was a second table with cups of water along the near side and what appeared to be pate, more substantial snacks, and perhaps some wine on the far side. Next time I will have to stop, linger on the other side of the table, and indulge in the original reasons for doing this run. However, this time I was still thinking about speed and grabbed a cup of water from a volunteer--there were an amazing number of volunteers in this remarkably well organized event--while on the move.  

At the time, not slowing to eat or drink seemed the thing to do. I was pleased that I was not tempted to walk at any point in this run, but when a joker passed me near the 8k mark it became clear that my "running" was often mere jogging. Yes, this participant was in the costume of a joker, like on a playing card. I had left most costumed participants behind earlier in the race, but perhaps I should not have been surprised by this alarming development. After all, two very tall drag queens in miniskirts had passed me 1 km earlier. 

This led to more philosophical musings about speed. I had passed many more runners than had passed me (this is not difficult to do when you start behind so many other runners), but I think serious runners would have been less tempted by the pate and wine and more concerned about being passed by anyone in costume. I became somewhat resigned to the thought, which turned out to be accurate, that my time would likely be one minute slower per year of age since the race I had run full-out 15 years ago.

Of course this does not have to be true. We have a friend in Canada who is older than me and she runs marathons and ultra-marathons every year with what seems to be faster times with age. But I did not think of her. Instead, I thought--with growing empathy--about the old Ford Mondeo station wagon that we are driving around the village here in France. 

The car we are borrowing has 250,000 km on the odometer and there are many signs that it is not as spry now as a decade ago. But, as they say here, il roule (it goes, it rolls), with a shrug suggesting that it is how it is and that is sufficient. That became my mantra when passed at 8 km by the joker. Il roule, et ca suffit.

Seeing the 9k sign was energizing and I shifted my inner Ford Mondeo into a higher gear and passed a dozen or two runners to finish in good form. Just as turning up a car radio can "fix" problems by preventing the driver from hearing thumps, whines, and sputters, I cranked up Lisa's iphone and ran that last km in the 4.5 minutes it took to play James' Born of Frustration.

After clipping off the electronic device on my shoe, which allowed them to record my modest time, I was pointed to an exit where I was given a bag of treats including this race shirt and a coupon to pick up a free wine glass at the tasting as part of the many festivities for the 49th vente des vins in Nuits- Saint-Georges.

Creaking body and all, it was great fun. The girls did not seem disappointed that I had not won the race and Jack and Lisa were able to see the full scope of the race and have very French race experiences of their own (she did get the wine and pate I had foolishly passed on). That link takes you back to Lisa's account of the day and the picture of the bottle of wine that initially motivated the run through mud-splattered spectacular scenery--vines, chateaus, jokers, drag queens, and all.

A day of castles, wine, chocolate...oh, and a 10K for John, too

The French, while certainly not perfect, do a lot of things VERY well.

I like the way they enjoy their food, and while I have been known to grumble occasionally to myself that stores and shops close every day between 12 and 2 p.m. (such PRIME shopping time for me!), deep down I am glad to know all of those employees get to go home and have a nice long lunch with their families, too.

I like the way almost all French people that I've encountered seem to actually LIKE children. They don't go overboard with accommodating them in certain ways (not a ton of booster seats or child menus in restaurants... but children are welcome to sit and enjoy whatever food they will eat off the regular menu)... but all that I've met (young and old), seem genuinely delighted with them, like to talk to them, and understand that they need to run and shout and play hard.

And, at the risk of losing my feminist credentials, I have to say I like the way French men treat women. There is none of the leering or staring or gawking... but there is a certain kind of appreciation of women that is just, well, nice. Doors are opened. Mothers are treated kindly. Feelings of respect and admiration of women are obvious (even to me, an outsider). It's pretty great!

I must now add another item to that fantastic list -- the French know how to do races just right. I asked John to write a "guest blog" to tell the point of view of the actual runner, but from my point of view, it was perfect. There were 2,500 runners, and more than enough volunteers to make things run smoothly. The race did in fact go through beautiful country, wrapping through a castle and along vineyards and up and down rolling hills. While he didn't do the official "gouter", John did see glasses of wine (and what he thought was pate) at some of the water stops. Back in town, he was able to pick up his beautiful, specially labelled bottle of a white burgundy.

And... the kids and I had a good time, too. Well, the girls took a much needed nap and spent the race looking like this:

Jack was wide awake and waited for the race to start looking like this:

After dropping John at the race start, I drove to the middle of a vineyard where the road was cut off. As soon as I explained that I had deux petites sleeping in the car but wanted to watch my husband and take some pictures, one of the kind volunteers let me drive forward, park by the blockade, and invited me and Jack to watch the race with him (see what I mean about French men?).

Some of the runners looked like this:

Others looked like this:

 John looked like this:

Allez, John, allez!

After cheering him on, the kind volunteer and I chatted some more. I mentioned how John had been eager to receive the bottle of wine after finishing. He said "oh, you like wine?" Bien sur, I said. So he pulled out an unlabeled green bottle of some wine he happened to have in the back of his van.

Then he pulled out some pate and crusty bread (see what I mean about appreciating food? I got the sense he'd never leave home without a supply of great wine and delicious snacks). He made sure Jack didn't hurt himself when he played on the old rock wall, and I enjoyed the wine and gout as we cheered the runners on (I shouted "Bravo!" while he shouted "Courage!").

And despite what could only be described as the world's least rigorous training effort, John finished in the top half or so of the 10K runners (I was impressed he finished at all, running in the rain and mud). A quick trip home to shower and have a gouter for the others who didn't enjoy the wine and pate... and we returned to Nuits-St-Georges for John to pick up his wine and for the kids and I to hit the end of the chocolate festival.

The kids were invited up to the stage to make little Easter confections. See what I mean about liking kids?

Yes, it's not a perfect country (no country is, right?). But the things they do right, the French seem to do so very, very right.

And -- to the American-Canadian-temporary-French man in this house --I just have to say bravo!

Allez, John, allez!

So, last Friday, we forgot to return the girls' library books to school (twice). In the afternoon, John decided to take a short run down to the school with the books and then run a bit more.

We both have been trying to take advantage of the great running opportunities on beautiful dirt roads through vineyards here. I have temporarily been slowed after I twisted my ankle while looking too much at the hills in the distance and not enough at the trail in front of me on one of these vineyard roads last week. My ankle was sore and is fine now but not quite back up to running yet.

Anyway. When John dropped the books, the teacher (noting his very un-Frenchlike running pants and running shoes) asked if he was in training for the Nuits-St-Georges race coming up. John said "um, maybe?" We remembered we had read great things about this race from Franck and Laura and decided to check it out.

Well, I can't think of a way anyone could make a run better. The course (a 10K and a half-marathon -- John will do the 10K) will take runners through beauitful rolling vineyards that are home to some of the most prestigious wines in the region on Saturday afternoon. At the 9th kilometer, we have heard, instead of a cup of water, runners get to sample some local wine! And (my favorite part), at the end, the finishers receive, along with the usual t-shirt, a bottle of Burgundy!

Clearly one of us had to try this. And given my wobby ankle, that someone will be John.

Being France, there was much paperwork involved. Along with  the usual information of name, address, and birthday, runners needed to provide a copy of their medical certificate attesting to no counter-indications for competitive running. Being North American, John did not possess such an official document (or any of the other alternatives that would have come from being a member of various French sporting organizations).

So off to the doctor we went... where John underwent a thorough check of knees, ankles, cardiovascular system and more. All is well, the doctor (and the certificate) said. John is fit to run. (And as an aside -- doctors in France still make housecalls! Mostly for older patients, the doctor told us, but still! How cool is that? Also -- I had sent an email to this doctor Friday evening to make an appointment (avoiding the phone whenever possible, of course) thinking he'd get it Monday morning. But he replied FRIDAY NIGHT. I will refrain from making too many comments about socialized medicine (and concerns that it must be a terrible, terrible thing indeed) and simply say that, as in Canada, we are quite pleased with our medical experiences so far, and have heard only good things about it from others in this area.)

Anyway. Back to the run. John has no plans to be a top finisher in this race of more than 2,000 (despite the belief of Katie and Livie that he will win it all and get a trophy from which he will be able to drink his wine). Instead, he simply plans to do the run (and at times, merely jog), enjoy the scenery (and wine) along the way, and have a great story to tell about it when he's done.  

Allez, John, allez!

Anniversary story, the conclusion

The morning that John left Dijon remains vivid in my memory. I sobbed and sobbed as the train pulled away, waving my kleenix and wishing it were a lace handkerchief instead. I knew it would be another four months before I would see him, as he had found out he received a grant to go to Japan, and was to leave just before I came home. At 20 years of age and newly engaged, that felt like forever.

I did the only thing I could think of doing in such a sorry state. I went to a telephone booth and called my parents. It was 8 a.m. in France, midnight in Colorado, and I clearly woke my dad up.

"It's Lisa, Dad," I sobbed, not even trying to contain the tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"He left!" I gasped.

"Who?" my dad said.

"John!" I replied, horrified that he had forgotten (and not thinking much about the fact that I had just wakened him from a deep sleep.)

"Oh, that's right," he said, recovering quickly. "How was your visit?"

"It was great, Dad," I cried. "We went to Paris the first weekend. Then we spent the week in Dijon with my host family, and we went to the south of France the second weekend. And," I added, sputtering, "he took me to Italy for dinner!"

"Really?" my dad said. "You know, I took your mother to Wisconsin once."

(That is one of my all-time favorite Dad quotes ever. Ever. Apparently this great trip took place when he and my mom were living in Minnesota many years ago.)

"That's great, Dad," I said, still sobbing. "And... while we were in Italy... he asked me to marry him!"

Silence. The next thing I heard were covers moving, and my dad saying to my mom: "Anne, Anne, it's Lisa. John took her to Italy, and now they're getting married!"

My mom got on the phone, thinking that the marriage was about to occur at that moment (yes, I owe them big time for this middle of the night call), and it took a second phone call 12 hours later to assure her that I had not, in fact, gotten married in Italy without letting them know.

Once we straightened that out, they were so happy for us. John's parents were too, as were Denys and Christine. The actual wedding wouldn't take place for almost two more years... but we celebrate March 20 as the day the commitment really began.

The other interesting story is this: after John returned to campus (deeply in debt at this point), he ran into his favorite professor. The professor said he was so happy to see John -- for he had just learned John would be awarded a special scholarship for his excellence in Asian studies -- one that hadn't even existed until this point. The award was more than twice the cost of the trip and would offset other living expenses and tuition -- and allow John to pay for every penny spent flying to France to see me.

John has always been a believer that when things are right, all the pieces fall in place. He has a lot more faith in the universe than I do (I am more likely to think if things are going well, something terrible must be lurking around the corner).

This France trip has much of the charmed feeling of the earlier one. The pieces have all fallen into place. We are all so happy. So I am trying keep the worry at bay, and instead just figure that this is the right place for our family to be right now.

And on that note -- I'd like to say happy anniversary, John. I hope the next 17 years are even half as good as the last 17 have been. Thanks for all of the adventures, large and small. I love you.

Anniversary story, part III

The morning of March 20, 1993 was full of sunshine. We decided to buy a train ticket to the first town in Italy, a city called Ventimiglia, because John wanted to take me to dinner in Italy (what better reason do you need?). And we set off.

The train we took hugged the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. We were able to hop on and off the train at will, and explored little beach towns we had never heard of (Cap d'Ail, Antibes) and big beach towns we had (Nice, Monaco). It was a charmed day (if you can call a day such a thing). We didn't pay any attention to the schedule and would get off the train when it looked pretty. We'd head to the beach, walk or read or talk for an hour or two, meander back up to the train station, and a train would pull up. We'd get on, and only later realize it had been (and would be) the only train for hours.

We hiked around the hills of Nice, had a snack in Monaco, and soaked up the sun and blue skies. On the last stretch of the train ride, I changed into the little black dress my mom helped me buy before I left for France. It was perfect.

We arrived in Italy and realized three things: we had no Italian lira, we knew almost no Italian, and we had no idea which of the scores of amazing looking restaurants we should head to for dinner. The first problem we took care of at a bank machine. The second and third problems we decided we would take care of by asking someone. I knew enough Italian to ask if someone could speak French or English.

So we headed off toward the beach, looking for the perfect person to ask. We passed many, and then John saw a young man sitting on a bench. "Let's ask him," he said. So I asked him in Italian if he spoke French or English. He said he spoke French. I asked him in French if he knew a good Italian restaurant.

"As a matter of fact," he said, pulling out a business card, "I own a good Italian restaurant."

His name was Tony Guido (really). His restaurant was called Pasta e Basta. And if we liked pasta, he said (we nodded that we did), his was the best in all of Italy.

He said he was heading there right now and would show us the way. On the way there, he asked if we were brother and sister, cousins, friends, boyfriend and girlfriend (John thinks he was wanting to know if it was worth hitting on me. I think he was just making conversation). When he got to asking if we were engaged (after a week of waiting for John to ask me back, and feeling sure it'd be a repeat of junior high dances where I would ask a boy to dance, and he would never, ever ask me back), I just shrugged my shoulders. Heck if I know, I wanted to tell him.

And then we arrived. Tony Guido pointed out his restaurant, said to come back at 7:30, and promised to reserve us the best table in the house. He left us next to the beach, looking out over the Mediterranean, at sunset.

And it was there and then that John asked me back.

He held my hands and looked in my eyes. "Lisa," he said, "will you marry me? Will you stay by my side for the rest of my life?"

I said yes.

And then we kissed. We kissed on that boardwalk of the beach, with the Italians just walking around us, like it was no big deal that these two people were kissing and ignoring everything else in the world around them, like it happens all the time in Italy (and maybe it does).

We kissed for a long time. No one seemed to mind. When we finally stopped kissing, we held hands and walked up and down the boardwalk, watching old men play bocce ball and young children ride bikes and the sun set over the sea. We were right on time for our reservation, and Tony Guido had, in fact, reserved the best table in the house for us.

We had an amazing meal. At one point, a little dark-haired Italian girl came by selling roses. John bought one (again, the student who lived on $5 a month shelled out more than that for one rose). We finished our meal leisurely, but did have to walk quickly to catch that last train back to France.

As I said, it was a charmed day, that sunny Saturday in March seventeen years ago.

Unfortunately, John would have to leave France, which he did three days later. And that would lead to two of the best stories of all: one that was funny (telling my parents) and one that showed the interesting way things work in this universe.

Anniversary story, part II

"Wouldn't MIND being married to ME?" I may or may not have shouted along the sunny banks of the Seine that Sunday afternoon. "Oh, let me write that on a Hallmark card. I wouldn't want to twist your arm or anything!"

We started laughing at this point. As John explained later, his statement was actually a huge revelation. Neither of us had planned to marry young. We were going to travel the world and have interesting careers (I had planned to win the Pulitzer Prize at the very least). While marriage and family may have vaguely been in the cards at some point, we weren't in a hurry to get there.

So (as he would later explain), realizing that a lifetime commitment (much sooner than ever dreamed of) didn't sound so bad... well, it was quite a big deal.

Still -- at the time, I was not impressed. So, I said, quite sarcastically and with no serious intent at all: "John H., will you marry me?"

And he looked at me with all seriousness and said "Yes. Yes I will."

Well. I didn't know WHAT to do with that. I had been joking. He was quite serious. And then... he didn't ask me back.

We returned to Dijon that night, and had a wonderful week with my host family and friends. Christine and Denys did in fact like John right away. The fact that he spoke fairly good French probably helped. Near the end of John's visit, Denys took me aside and said John was a rare catch, and that I must (il faut) marry him. I didn't have the heart to explain to him at that point that I had, in fact, asked him already, and was just waiting for him to ask me back, and that once I had any news on that front I'd be sure to tell them. Instead, I just agreed that it would be a great idea to marry John.

I attended my classes all week and we toured the city in between lectures and lessons, leaving John with plenty of opportunities to propose. But as we walked past the palace of the dukes, as we sipped coffee in my favorite coffee shop, as we took leisurely strolls through city parks... he didn't ask me back.

One night, we took a train to Beaune for dinner, and shared what seemed to be a very expensive half bottle of wine (which has survived the dozens of moves we made since then and can still be seen in our house in Canada). Although he had many great opportunities to ask me that night (as we sat on a bench in front of the Hotel Dieu, as we wandered down the cobble stone streets, as we shared that tasty small bottle of wine)... he didn't ask me back.

He could have asked me the first night in the south of France too. But he didn't -- although that was probably for the best. We had taken an overnight train and I had slept poorly and woke with a terrible headache. We were able to check into a hotel early and I slept most of the day away. John found a pharmacy and returned with France's version of Tylenol and some food. And that's about all I remember of March 19, 1993.

John said he was waiting for the right moment to propose. He said he would know it when it happened. And the next day, he would be right.

Anniversary story, part I

I met John the first day at university, the day before my 18th birthday. We both were living in a house for students in the honors program at our university (please keep any snarky comments about all those geeks and nerds living together to yourself, thank you very much) and I was going around, as I was wont to do, introducing myself to everyone.

I knocked on John's door. "I'm Lisa K. from Colorado," I said, beaming at him with my bright smile and very big hair. He shook my hand, and said "I'm John H. from Montana."

Years later, when we were telling someone the story of our engagement (which I want to write about today), we both remembered feeling quite a spark, or a thrill in the belly, or something truly extraordinary at that moment when we first shook hands. But we started as great friends. It would take two years before that friendship grew into romance, and that romance blossomed, of all times, during the half year I spent in France.

John is the one who drove me from our university to the airport to leave for my semester abroad. It was a rainy night (big surprise for the Pacific northwest in January) and it felt like I was leaving forever. We had both agreed, with all the seriousness and wisdom of our 20 and 21 years, that six months was a LONG time to be apart. It really would be best, we decided, if we dated other people while I was away.

But we both cried when I said goodbye as it was time for me to board (in the days when loved ones could actually walk you to your gate), and within weeks, we had both written letters that crossed in the air saying that while we appreciated the freedom of being able to see other people... neither of us particularly wanted to.

And those letters. We have real love letters, pages and pages written to each other three or four times a week, letters you can reread, letters with a few tears, and coffee stains, and smudged ink. The semester after I returned, all of the students at our university received email addresses -- and I think how lucky we are I made the trip before that happened -- because these letters wouldn't have existed, and they are such a wonderful chronicle of a wonderful time.

In one of those letters, John wrote that he wanted to come and visit me during his spring break. Those who knew John during his university years understand just how ridiculous this would have sounded at the time, coming from someone who survived a whole month on $5 (his meal plan having already been paid for...but his laundry perhaps not overly washed). But John said he was sure things would work out somehow, and he put the plane ticket on his emergency credit card (which I had never seen him use before) and planned to come to France from March 12-23, 1993.

My French host family was not so sure what to make of this. "But Lisa, he has long hair," they said. "I know," I said. "And Lisa, he has a BEARD," they said. "I know," I replied. "But Lisa... he has an EARRING. Are you sure he is a NICE boy?" they asked. "Yes," I said, "you will love him." After hearing that my parents knew he was coming and approved, they agreed he could stay at their apartment (although I was to sleep far away in another bedroom with their daughter).

I took the train to Paris to meet him. The city was in the midst of one of its strikes, so I had to walk, and walk, and walk to our meeting place at the Hotel Jean-Bart, where the study abroad students had stayed before heading to Dijon. He, too, was walking, and walking, and walking (bringing a care package of many clothes and gifts from my parents) from another train station. And none of that mattered, of course, as soon as we saw each other.

Being young and in love and in Paris is about as good as it gets. We spent the weekend wandering through the city, ducking into museums and coffee shops, eating "street" food like crepes and croque monsieurs, drinking coffee and wine and talking and laughing. One afternoon, walking along the Seine, we started talking about how our parents met. John's parents were high school sweethearts who started dating when they were 14 and 16. My parents met while in university and my dad may have proposed the first night he met my mom (or so I've heard in stories over the years).

And as we were walking along the river, talking about love, marriage, family and more, John said one of the most UNROMANTIC phrases ever uttered in the history of romance.

"You know," he said, "I wouldn't mind being married to you."

Eagerly awaiting the arrival...

Kate and Liv have been busy all morning preparing for the arrival of much beloved guests -- Grandpa Jay and Grandma Judy.

Their part of the preparation includes making LOTS of artwork, valentines, notes, and more artwork and a promise that they will help me find the prettiest flowers at the market. They have also promised to help with my part of the preparation (cleaning and laundry), but we'll see how that works out. They have to finish their artwork first, apparently.

John and Jack went to Paris yesterday (what a crazy thing to write... it just has a different ring than saying "John and Jack went to Medicine Hat yesterday") to pick them up. John used the day in Paris to get quite a bit of work done (and he's been on a streak of great progress on new research projects... which is good news. He's trying to not get too frustrated that his lingering projects seem to be, um, lingering... but that's another story). Jack apparently was a trooper (oooh, The Museum of Immigration! Just what every 7-year-old loves...) and would apparently get his wish to see the Eiffel Tower last night or this morning.

We've had some great adventures with both sets of our parents during our travels and times of living in differents parts of the country and world. In 1996-97, when we were living in Cambridge, England, we met Jay and Judy in Rome for the Christmas break and traveled to Cinque Terre, Florence, Siena, and then on to Switzerland, France and back to England. One of the best memories of that trip (in addition to seeing historic sites, incredible artwork, and a beautiful countryside) was the frantic grocery store trip on Christmas Eve where we bought delicious bread, tomatoes, garlic, cheese, sausage, fruit, basil and wine, and had a feast in our hotel room that night before going to Midnight Mass at the Duomo in Florence. We didn't have all of the kitchen tools needed to prepare such a feast, of course, so we used Jay's knife and a very LONG boot-horn Judy had received with her newly purchased Italian leather boots to serve up the tomatoes when preparing the bruschetta. I *think* we may have taken a picture (but I don't have it on my computer)... and maybe it's the picture I remember, or the real thing -- but I know there were smiles all around (and a bit of self-satisfaction) as we dug into our Christmas dinner that night.

We haven't made firm plans yet of what adventures await during their time here now, and we know they plan to take a few trips on their own, but whatever happens, it is sure to be fun (although most food prep should be able to take place in a kitchen this time around). And on that note, I should probably sign off as the girls are bouncing up and down, begging me to start mopping (maybe they WILL actually help!). On verra!

This is not a boondoggle. Really.

When John and I first talked about possible travel plans for his study leave, I knew the logical choices would be to head to Japan again, or perhaps a university library in Chicago, LA, or New York. But he's the one who brought up going to France. France? I reminded him that he teaches BUDDHISM and Japanese religions. How, exactly, was he going to sell the university on a plan to pack us all up and go to France.

You see, at the University of Lethbridge, study leave isn't a given, and you *do* have to "sell it". Professors can apply for a study leave (or sabbatical) after six years of teaching and once they receive tenure (which John did in March 2009). But the professor has to have a well-designed research plan -- a clearly outlined course of work that will take place during the year off of teaching (rumors are that this requirement, or enforcement of it, was put in place after a prof in the 70s remodeled a house during a study leave).

So John put his application together and demonstrated that this plan to go to France fit with his overall professional development since grad school. He did it by emphasizing his growing expertise in Buddhism in the West (outside of Asia). His PhD dissertation was on the introduction of Buddhism in the U.S. in 1893; he has recently co-edited a book on Buddhism in Canada which will be published this year; and he did work on Buddhism in England during the year we spent in Cambridge. So clearly (CLEARLY), the natural progression was to look at Buddhism in France.

And there are some interesting things to study. For one thing, Buddhism is poised to overtake Protestantism in France in the coming decade (who knew?). Additionally, John thinks there could be some interesting comparisons in the way Buddhism is practiced in England vs. France and the types of Buddhism most popular in each place (reflecting the practice of Protestantism and Catholicism in each country). And Thich Nhat Hahn, who is kind of a rock star among Buddhist monks (I think I can say that -- John probably would have a better way to describe the Vietnamese Buddhist poet, scholar, and peace activist) teaches in Plum Village, France, a Buddhist monastery for monks and nuns and a meditation center for lay people.

After receiving the leave, he applied for a small grant to support some of the research costs (including the travel he will need to do once we are there) as well as a U of L study leave relocation fund. We were thrilled when he received both -- and in the comments on the grant, the outside reviewer (a scholar or expert in the field from outside of the U of L) said that John's proposal is a fascinating project that is long overdue, and in fact, the reviewer's only concern was that "Dr. Harding" might be too ambitious in his plans.

See. Not a boondoogle (def: scheme that wastes time and money). Really!

But deep down I also think of this trip is a bit of a love letter from John to me (and the kids). I have wanted to go back to France for an extended stay since I left Dijon in 1993 and now we are. Who knows where we'll be in seven years (the next time he'd be able to take a full-year's leave) and what work I'll be doing by then and how easy it'd be to convince kids who are 14, 11 and 11 that we should leave home. And it's such a good fit for the kids now, too. Jack's French immersion school is thrilled he's going (he is, too), and Kate and Liv will get a headstart on their French and be more than ready for kindergarten in the fall. The kids still like to be with us, and we are eager to do a bit of exploring together. We feel incredibly fortunate that the pieces have all fallen in place like this.

So there you have it. The Buddhist professor is heading to France.

Hello world!

This is the first post in the second chapter of our family's amazing travel adventures. You can read about our first big trip here: www.sapporostories.blogspot.com. In the fall of 2008, the five of us left a small southern Canadian town to spend four months living in northern Japan, in beautiful Sapporo, a city of two million. There, John taught classes at Hokkai Gakuen University, the kids went to Japanese yochien (preschool / kindergarten), and I tried to keep up with my regular editing work and get back in the habit of writing.

This time, we're heading in the other direction -- to France and England where we will spend the first half of 2010. From January to May, we will be living in a beautiful wine-making village of 400 where John will be writing up several research projects during part of his year-long study leave/sabbatical, the kids will be attending a French école (preschool and primary school), and I plan to keep up with my regular editing work and get back in the habit of writing.


This trip will take me back to a place I love -- the Bourgogne (Burgundy) region of France. I spent the first half of 1993 living with a French family there in Dijon, in what was probably the most formative (and fabulous) big trip of my life. By some amazing stroke of fate (and with the wonders of the internet), we have found a beautiful house to rent in a village about 20 miles away from my old stomping grounds.


Thinking about that trip brought me back to an old favorite friend, Walt Whitman, who inspired me throughout that adventure. When I left, I scrawled one of his poems in the front of the first of five journals I kept while I was there... from his "Song of the Open Road" in Leaves of Grass.  I feel compelled to "scrawl" the same verses into this 21st journal now.


AFOOT and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

****

Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe - I have tried it - my own feet have tried it well - be not detain'd!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?