My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Five

Saturday, 10 December 1988
Lyon to La Côte St. André

LYON-- Slept last night at the Hotel Alexander†, within schlepping distance-- just barely-- from the Perrache station. Turns out I may have reamed myself if the object was to avoid carrying things-- the interurban bus station is at Part-Dieu. The local one is at Perrache.

However, considering that the bus for La Côte doesn’t leave till 5:00 pm, and that the sights worth seeing here are closer to la Gare Perrache (such as Vieux Lyon), maybe it’s ok.

Terribly tired and stressed and not having such an easy time determining the bus schedules. I really think I’m going to have to rethink my itinerary. Allow a full day in Toulouse, perhaps, just to sit on my rear and recruit my strength. I’m getting to the point where I can’t cope in English, let alone in French. Tempted to cry or get bitchy in public which is not Christian.

At the moment I’m sitting in a salon de thé in la Vieille Ville . . . Nursing a pot of tea after dejeuner. Charcuterie, I learn, is cold cuts and not a lot of them, either. But the salad was good, as was the cheese dressing for it, and the bit of gateau chocolat generous. And the orange amère is quite flavorful.

They have little glass pitchers pour le vin which are quite attractive. Williams-Sonoma should pick them up.

The young lady doing the serving was taking her sweet time about bringing the rest of my order after the initial entrée. This was all right in its way: I thus had no compunction about sitting there getting the tiredness out.

And I had the opportunity to listen to a sextet of Britons who walked in about the time I was tucking into the cake. It was good to hear a British voice again. Couldn’t identify all the accents but one woman sounded northern Irish and one of the men like a Liverpudlian. They knew even less French than I do and were discussing what the really useful phrases for the English-French phrasebooks would be. When one of the men wryly suggested, "‘I am an idiot!’" ("Je suis un idiot!"), I couldn’t help but smile. They must’ve noticed my reaction, for one said, sotto voce, "I think the lady’s English."

Well, not quite, but that’ll do.

(Funny about that. No one’s nailed me as an American yet. Or else, that’s considered a bit of an insult around here and it’s politer to ask first if one is British, even if you think otherwise.)

After awhile, the dilatory service stopped being an advantage. It was 3:05 and I had a train to catch at 4:08. Pried the bill out of the girl, though I had to go to the kitchen door to get it, and paid it. Service charge tacked on top of the food here. Not sure if that included gratuity; if it didn’t, tant pis. (I am rotten.) Au revoir, merci, I’m gone.

The old city looks like a great place to come on a sunny day with more energy and a lighter (in terms of weight, not money) purse. Myriad cobbled streets with the drains down the middle. I mainly stuck to the Rue St. Jean, which extends from the Cathedral.

I’m growing quite used to walking in the middle of streets like that, along with everyone else. Always liked that sort of thing. Not on the boulevards, of course. Not that wild and crazy.

(What’s the term for when you state the obvious and it sounds inane? I think I just did it.)

Most French cars have yellow headlights. A lot easier to see. Although there may be a white or yellow option, because in the country they’re mostly white.

They drive on the right side of the road (with allowances for the feelings of my British friends, who prefer to keep left). But there is a street just before the rue Victor Hugo here where they were doing it the British way. Most odd.

Anyway, I’d passed a couple of old bookshops in my ramblings before lunch. They’d been closed then (lunchtime is lunchtime here. Period.) but were open now. Ducked into one; asked if they had any books by or about Berlioz. No, they did not. A bit further on, tried the other one. The proprietor indicated a lower shelf. And there were two little volumes of the Mémoires, en française, à bien sûr, with very nice leather spines and inscribed 1882 by their original owner. Second or third edition, 1878, but still tantalizingly close to the original publication date. It’s a good thing this wasn’t one of those places where one bargains, because I pounced on those things like a starving man on food. The price would’ve gone straight up.

As it was, the marked price was pretty high: 500F, or around £45. I realize that’s not so bad, when you compare it with those Oxford U Press volumes I priced at £30.

Oh, well, they didn’t take Visa and if I’d spent my cash I’d never make it out of La Côte. "Trop cher," je dis, et je pars.

It’s wonderful how I have the chutzpah to say in French things I never would in English. I’d never tell a British or American shopkeeper I couldn’t afford something. Anything else but.

I took off-- it was 3:25 by now-- but just as I was rounding the corner towards the Pont Bonapart I saw that the Credit Agricole was still open. Oh God! Hector, the things I’ll do for you!

And I went in and changed another £60 of traveller’s cheques. They took an ungodly amount of time about it, though there was no line. And I'd already eaten up several minutes finding a private nook in the bank where I could discreetly extricate my waist wallet from under my clothes and lay hands on the cheques.

Finally the transaction was done. I took the money and ran, back to the Diogenes Librairie. Cash on the barrelhead (or the chair seat), take the books in a plastic bag, and pray we get that 4:08 train.

Plan was to find a taxi, but the only one I saw was occupied. Ran like the dickens. Fortunately felt better having eaten. Bypassed Place Bellecour, down the first stretch of rue Victor Hugo, past the statue to M. Ampere (electrifying), down more of Victor Hugo to the hotel entrance opposite the charming McDonald’s. Collected my bags from the hotel closet and began limping for the station. Across Place Carnot, up the stairs (ascenseur broken, of course), through the shopping mall, across the pedestrian bridge, through the station entry mall, and in.

OK, there’s my train on the board. Track 5. So I got down there and the conductor tells me the train to Lyon-Part Dieu is on Track #1! He very graciously shouldered my heaviest bag and got me over there in time to catch the 4:08 to get the bus at the other station.


ON THE TRAIN TO LYON-PART DIEU-- Something else odd I’ve noticed here in France. About half the time, I’ve observed, nobody ever comes to take tickets on the trains. And though you do have to validate your ticket each time (not passes, though) in a machine before you enter the platform area, it’s not like there’s a turnstile. I suppose the penalties for travelling without a ticket are great? Or could you just say, Oh, I was running late, and buy one from the conductor?


LA CÔTE ST. ANDRÉ, 11:50 PM-- Everything turned out ok with the busses. A tourist information lady showed me where to wait. And though the posted schedules were no help, the bus driver was able to give me a schedule of the route to Grenoble. Turns out it originates in Vienne, which was why my referring to the "Lyon-Grenoble bus" was so confusing to everyone in Lyon.

Travelling to La Côte, the bus takes a little two lane highway that all of a sudden shoots into these little villages. The road narrows to a lane and a half and that great big bus has to negotiate the tightest turns against the houses. It’s a miracle they have any walls left.

I took the time on the road to verify that I don’t need a seat reservation for the TGV between Narbonne and Montpelier Monday. And that I shall either have to punt my side-trip to Aurillac or rent a car from Toulouse. The train schedule won’t let me get there and back to Toulouse again in a single day.

It was raining on the way down here. It’s raining everywhere in this country. Je pense que il pleuvra toujours.

Well, it’s December. And at least it wasn’t actively dripping when I was set down by la Place Berlioz here. It is not exactly in the center of town. So I shouldered my load and took off. The things I do for Hector, again!

Lost one of my lightweight leather gloves in all that running about in Lyon. Missed it as I was assembling my things to get off the bus.

Found the rue de la Republique within a couple of blocks. And there on my right, up the street a ways, was the solid but unprepossessing facade of the Birthplace. Funny, but I don’t think I expected it to be smack in the middle of town like that. But then I guess I don’t expect small towns to be all rowhouses like this, either.

Checked the opening hours but didn’t stay around to pay my devotions. Bags too heavy. Crossed the street to a stationer’s (still open, at 7:15, thank God) and asked the way to the two hotels I knew of.

Hotel Europe, recommended by Brian Chenley‡ in his letter, was closed for the season. So I trudged on up the hill to the Hotel France, aupres de l’eglise. It, as Michelin states, is a restaurant with rooms. A very nice girl and an elderly lady are running the place; I’m afraid my French abandoned me at the crucial moment. N’importe! They discerned what I was after and showed me upstairs immediately, never mind, I could register later.

I’m spending the money (Visa, since I have to make up for the books I’ve bought) on a room with a bathtub. I am just too grubby otherwise. I think I perspired all the way through my coat. How else did the inner face of my backpack get wet?

Nice little room with a table that, covered with the spare blanket, made an adequate ironing board for my dark gray dress. Thank goodness that B&D travel iron does work and didn’t blow any fuses.

Only problem with this place (ignoring the insufficiency of hangers and no hooks in the bathroom, which is par for the course all over cette pays and besides, these people do provide towels) is the presence of a high-pitched, irregularly intermittent sound, like a sign swinging in the breeze or maybe a swinging door opening and shutting . . . Whatever it is I shall have to endeavor to ignore it and try not to get a headache from tension.

Over to the eglise first thing after getting established. Mass at 10:30 in the morning. And there’s a Berlioz birthday celebration concert there at 5:00. Wonderful, think I, we shall hear some of Hector’s music in his hometown. Then I saw the poster. All Debussy and Fauré! OK, so it is the Fauré Requiem, which I love, but still.

Maybe they don’t have the forces around here to do a decent job of most Berlioz. They could tackle L’Enfance du Christ and Les Nuits d’Été, I should think, but maybe they’ve been done recently.

Feels a little odd being here. Wonder what the townspeople think of people coming in just to honor their most unusual native son. Do they regard us as oddities? But then they found him rather odd, too, didn’t they?
_______________________
†Having done some Web research, I find I gave my Lyon hotel an inadvertent sex change! It's really the Hotel Alexandra, and it's still there at 49 rue Victor Hugo and is still quite reasonable.
‡The then-secretary of the London Berlioz Society

It Would Be Good For Me . . .

A couple posts ago I listed my Impossible Dreams for 2009. Such lovely habits! Such ideal accomplishments! How good it would be to incorporate them all into my life-- if only I were a wholly different sort of person born in a whole different universe.

But now, if I am to make one serious resolution for 2009, I see it would be good for me to resolve to stand against cowardice and fear and instead think and act in courage and fortitude.

Never mind all the specific things I do or refrain from doing out of fear. I'm sure if you examine your own heart you'll discover many of them for yourself, in yourself. But God helping, I resolve to stand against . . .

. . . the fear of disappointment.

. . . the fear of not being liked by other people.

. . . the fear of bothering other people.

. . . the fear of having to take the time and trouble to do something properly.

. . . the fear of not performing up to other people's expectations.

. . . the even greater fear of not performing up to my own expectations.

. . . the fear of making a choice in a given situation because it automatically eliminates my freedom to choose.

. . . the fear of loss of freedom.

. . . the fear of loss of autonomy.

. . . and all those other crabby, craven cowardices that seize me in the gut and whine, "I doan wanna. I'm not gonna. It scares me. Leave me alone!"

So what can I put up against this? How can I take heart and strength in the new year?

By means of perfect love.

John the Apostle in his first letter writes, "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love."

Whose perfect love is this? Mine? Don't be ridiculous. I can't love perfectly, any more than I can be perfectly brave, courageous, and bold.

No, John is referring to the perfect love of God. He says, "We love, because he first loved us." That perfect love is shown in Jesus Christ the Son of God as he willingly died to turn away the condemnation that I and every human being deserved for our rebellion against God. So since God loved me so much as to do that for me, and since there is now no condemnation for someone like me who belongs to Christ Jesus, what do I have on earth to be afraid of? Really, ultimately, God himself is the only one we really need to fear, and in Christ, he's taken that fear of punishment totally away!

This doesn't mean that when fear marks my first reaction to being asked to do something, I'll automatically tackle it or pick it up and run with it to prove how courageous and God-trusting I am. Maybe the best response in a given situation might be for me to decide that whatever it is isn't worth doing! But let me make that decision clearly and honorably out of logic and love, not as a by-product of my endocrine system! To conduct myself like that would be very good for me . . . and, most likely, very good for others as well.

Car-nal Knowledge

First thing this morning, I was heading southbound down the two-lane highway, literally on my way to do the Lord's work. The day was dark, cold, and wet and the road was twisty and hilly through field and forest, moor and mountain-- oops! not time for the second hymn yet, is it? Google Maps had told me it was going to take over an hour to do the twenty-nine miles to the first church where I was to preach, but I was trying to cut that down a bit-- while keeping an eye on road conditions, of course, and watching out for Deer With Attitude.

Two miles or so from my destination, I'd emerged from the hills into the flats. I was making good time, the day was beginning to open up, and all was well.

Until I rounded a lefthand bend. And the front end of my PT Cruiser took a sudden fancy to keep heading left. On the straightaway.

Hey! Did I just cross the center line? Oops, 'fraid so! All right, stay cool-- crank the wheel-crank the wheel-crank the wheel-I can do this, I can pull it out, keep cranking-crank-crank-crank! Oh, damn, which way am I supposed to crank the wheel? I'm turning it right-right-right, but it doesn't seem to be doing a heck of a lot of good, is that why I'm still sliding across the--empty, thank God!--northbound lane, closer and closer to the-- dammit, don't want to hit-- keep turning the wheel, keep turning the wheel, keep the car away from the-- bamm! guardrail.

I did not intend to be introduced to any guardrails this morning. I especially did not intend to experience intimate knowledge of any.

So much for my plans. Thank you, Mr. Black Ice's Matchmaking Service.

It was my left fender and the left corner of my bumper that left a token of paint and broken parts on the unfeeling, uncaring galvanized railing. That's some consolation. Head-on would have been a lot nastier.

So there I was. Stopped, at least. On the shoulder and not down into the field, which was a blessing. Shut off the engine and tried opening my door. No go. Call the cops? Triple-A?

No. I had a service to lead and preach in twenty-five minutes. And no contact number at the church to let anyone know if I'd be late.

So I wouldn't be late, if I and my car could help it. Would it restart?

Yes.

Would it disengage itself from the guardrail's steely embrace?

Yes.

So eager-- anxious-- was I to prove this that I did not get out and take any pictures of the Carnal Act itself. Souvenir shots waited till I'd carefully driven back across the road and parked the car on the southbound shoulder. I gingerly climbed over the stickshift and handbrake, and getting out by way of the passenger door, went around to document the damage.

How damnable the damage is, I'll have to find out. I really, really, really would prefer not to turn this in to my insurance . . . I was just five months away from getting out from under the three-year penalty from a previous accident, and I do not want my rates to go up, no I do not . . .

But I know what I'll be doing tomorrow . . .

Me? I feel fine, mostly. A little pain in my lower back. But how much of that is the bump on the highway, and how much of it was standing in the pulpit with my fallen arches in dress shoes for two services, with no worship leaders to assist so I could sit down occasionally? Not to mention wandering around the mall checking out the sales until 4:00 PM afterwards! In those same shoes!

After the second service at the second church, I drove again, more carefully and more slowly, along that fateful stretch of road, casting an eye over to the side to see if I could tell where I'd hit, maybe by token of a bright red piece of plastic bumper at the guardrail's feet.

I saw nothing. Nary a trace. Teach me to have any more casual encounters with guardrails! They're all Come 'ere, Sweetie, but once they've got you they leave you bruised and battered and won't even cherish the little gifts you leave behind!

Resolutionem ad Absurdum

2009 is u-cumen in, loude sing sparrow et crowe!

It's New Year's Day, so it must be time for New Year's resolutions!

And I have lots. Lots and lots, all backed up with fiery resolve for a clean, glorious, efficient, practical, productive, and did I leave out earth-friendly? new year.

>In 2009, I resolve to ALWAYS get to bed with the lights off by 11:00 PM, even if I don't get home till midnight! And ALWAYS to get up on the dot of 6:00 AM, no matter how many cats are on the bed!

>I resolve to wash the kitchen floor EVERY NIGHT before I go to bed, so its gleaming whiteness will make it unnecessary for me to turn on the light when I come down in the dark of the morning!

>I resolve to get ALL the renovation work done on my first floor, including any new flooring, so I can astonish my friends and neighbors when I invite them all over for the stupendous Christmas party I resolve to throw next December!

>I resolve that anyone who ever drops by unexpectedly will NEVER, EVER find my floors and stairs blowing with kitteh and goggie furballs!

>I resolve to answer all my business and volunteer work e-mails RIGHT AWAY, even if I don't know how to answer them, because I also resolve to become so confident and brilliant that I will ALWAYS know the right answer to everything, without needing to think about it!

>I resolve to finish up EVERY LAST ONE of my in-progress sewing projects, even the ones I started in the early 1980s!

>I resolve to grow my garden this year ENTIRELY FROM SEED, meaning I also resolve to teach my cats not to eat the seedlings from under the grow light!

>I resolve NEVER, EVER to leave a light on in a room where I am not; in fact, I will get my cats to teach me how to see in the dark!

>I resolve to turn all my compost piles once EVERY TWO WEEKS! At least.

>I resolve to buy NO MORE books until I've first verified my bookcase space!

>I resolve to buy NO MORE frozen food, until I've checked whether I already have three of whatever it is in my freezer already!

>I resolve to train my dog NEVER, EVER to bark unless it's really, truly important! And teach him to ask me first so I can decide if it really is.

>I resolve to put off reading new magazines and rereading old novels until I've finished EVERY LAST ONE of the (dry, dull, boring) church growth tomes I promised 16 months ago to read and review for my presbytery committee work!

>I resolve to focus on ONLY ONE thing at a time! My widdle sis thinks our whole family is riddled with ADD. I'll show her!

>I resolve ALWAYS to deal with and file all my paperwork right away! No piles in my study in 2009!

>I resolve to keep my accounts up to date EVERY DAY, and NEVER lose track of a single penny.

>I resolve to get a wonderful, fulfilling, high-paying full-time job in the NEXT TWO WEEKS and pay off ALL my credit cards by my birthday in June!

>I resolve that ALL my blog posts this year will be riveting and compelling masterpieces of modern literature (or is that 'post-modern'??)!

>And finally, in 2009, I will NEVER, EVER, EVER backdate a blog post!!


[And if you believe any of this, you need to resolve not to believe everything you read on the Intertoobz!]

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Four

Friday, 9 December, 1988
Chartres to Bourges to Lyon

ON THE TRAIN, BETWEEN BOURGES AND LYON-- Most of the day on the train today. The kid is very tired. This business of waiting till late to eat breakfast is not such a hot idea, is it? One begins to make a fool of oneself when one can’t manage locker keys. Or to become desperate and settle for mineral water and synthetic flan. This you call French cooking?

That gourmet repast happened in the Tours station, one of two train changes before Bourges.

Between Chartres and LeMans the sun rose and it looked like the sky might actually turn out clear.  No such luck. It’d clouded up completely by Tours and by the time I got to Bourges it was mizzling pretty steadily.  Well, nothing to be done about it. Though I guess I could’ve taken the lens cap with me.

Bourges Cathedral was lighter and more impressive than Chartres, even with the same weather. But Bourges has more clear or grisaille glass (thanks to the Huguenots?) than Chartres and they seem to have gotten farther with their window restoration work. Many of those in the chevet had already been cleaned and looked stunning.

The most wonderful thing here today was totally serendipitous: when I arrived the organist was practicing and he kept it up pretty steadily the entire two hours or so I spent there. It was marvellous to hear Bach rolling through that soaring three-level space. The organ is at the west end and was new or restored in 1985. There’s a smaller one-- also real-- in the choir (I blush to relate the Chartres’ choir ‘organ’ seems to be an EKI ["Electronic Keyboard Instrument"]). The organists used all the stops; it was lovely, the range of dynamic effects.

The inner aisle is unbelievable in its soaring proportions. And I love the way the ribs in the vaults of the ambulatory sway and curve across the webbing after they spring from the pier colonnettes. It’s so lively. Those piers look like slender trees, like giant sequoias, perhaps, that just grew and grew and branched out above.

I was surprised to see how much of the west end sculpture still remained. Most of the trumeau figures and pretty much all the tympana and archivolts. In its drapery the Beau Dieu [the statue of Christ at the main entrance] reminded me a lot of pictures I’ve seen of the one at Amiens, but the face wasn’t as sensitive. I wonder if it’s original or a 19th Century replacement.

I regret to say I was so intent on getting outside to see the edifice as a whole that I didn’t think to turn around and survey the southern portal when I emerged from it. It wasn’t till I was on the train and looking through the booklet I’d bought that I learned it has some very fine early Gothic sculpture, à la the Royal Portals at Chartres.

It was almost by accident that I found the cathedral at all. They have signs up to a point, but then when you’re looking for the next one you glance from la rue Moyenne to the left up this little belgian-pavered street, la rue de Guichet, and mon Dieu, there she is.

The south flank is nowhere so coquettish. It can be viewed in full, across the municipal garden, which must look lovely when everything is in bloom. As it was, the rows of gingko trees with their cropped heads had a certain baroque beauty. They rather reminded me of the rows of piers inside.

Something to check at home: have the apsidal chapels always had full buttresses below the corbels, or is that a recent pis aller?

Left the cathedral grounds a bit after 4:00. Got some cheese pastries and a can of soda at a patisserie, to eat on the train. But when I was passing by a salon de thé on the street to the station I thought of how chilled and wet and hungry I was now and besides it was over an hour to the train. So I turned in and had tea and a croque-monsieur.

Funny, but in the States that’s a pressed and grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Here I received a kind of hotdog with cheese on a long hard roll. Or hadn’t I made my order clear? No matter. It was hot and it was good and I’m grateful. Felt much better thereafter.

Bourges was all decked up for Christmas, too. I think it’s nice to think of all those decorations up all over the world. It’s something in common. If only all the world had the Savior in common, too!

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Three

Thursday, 8 December, 1988
Chartres

I know it sounds like blasphemy†, but the cathedral was rather a disappointment.

It was a very gray, heavily overcast day today, and the church was so dark you could see almost nothing. The vaults were lost in the gloom and the windows badly needed cleaning. I kept praying the sky would clear up but that wasn’t in the divine plan.

I could see the importance of light in bringing about the proper effect here. Mont-St.-Michel was a religious experience. Here I had to play art historian and approach the cathedral intellectually. Not the best way.

Shot the south and north portals using the flash. Wouldn’t dream of using it inside. I did photograph some of the windows inside. We’ll see how they come out.

There was a plan with all the windows keyed on it posted at the west end. I found the one of the life of St. Nigel‡ and headed for that apse chapel. Not a particularly popular saint: it was quite dark, partly because the window was opaque with grime. N’importe. There were people-- or a person-- who deserved to be prayed for there and so it came to pass.

Chartres is definitely an urban cathedral. It’s in use daily by the townspeople who employ its nave and transepts as thoroughfares and as places to greet and gather. They treat it, it appears, familiarly if respectfully (most of the time). But oy, it needs cleaning! That familiarity is verging on neglect.

I’m afraid I didn’t throw all that much into the restoration coffer myself. The francs go awfully fast.

I greatly enjoyed going up the stairs and along the buttresses to climb the north tower. You can see all over Chartres from there and in the tower see the great bells and the late Gothic stonework details.

I think the cathedral looked best today early in the evening. And when I came by at 6:30 to bid it farewell before heading back to the Auberge de Jeunesse the bells began to ring. That was grand.

Bought Malcolm Miller’s official guide in the cathedral bookstore, along with various cartes postales. Blew 350F (£35 +/-; $70 +/-) on a book on the stained glass at a bookstore across the street. The things I’ll do to write decent essays!

There was a little problem at lunch, my first meal of the day, when I was so tired and hungry I couldn’t decide what I wanted at the restaurant. Problem really was, the only thing I could afford was an omelet-- again. This one was cooked through. The real problem came when I found I’ve been confusing five-centime pieces with five-franc ones. I went to pay and found I was 5F short. Fortunately, they didn’t call the gendarmerie to run me in. No, I was allowed to go across to the Credit Lyonnaise, cash some traveller’s cheques, and bring back the balance.

(Something interesting I noticed in the restaurant: People had their dogs in there with them, no problem, and the sign posted on the subject only asked that patrons not allow them up on the chairs!)

As far as emotional satisfaction goes, I think I liked the town better than the cathedral. The streets of Chartres are a great deal of fun. I wouldn’t mind spending several days there just exploring. They teem with interesting shops, most of them too expensive for me (will the French really pay around $60 or $70 for a little nine-color watercolor paint set?), and a myriad of boulangeries, patisseries, and confiseries. It was very lively and colorful, especially after dark with the windows lit up with a golden glow and the Christmas decorations festooning from facade to facade overhead. There were all sorts of people out and it was pleasant just to wander around with them.

It’d be even more pleasant to do it with less to carry. That camera bag is good for the long haul but during the days, walking around, it’s a pain. The new document case bag is better as of today, though. Not that the clasp is fixed, but I was directed to a place where they put some new holes in the strap. It hangs about five inches shorter now and is much more comfortable. No longer banging against my thigh.

I have discovered that useful as that satchel is (and how much in vogue here), it’s heavy even unloaded. Not a lot to be done about it.

At about 5:45, I had a cup of chocolate at a shop across from the north flank of the cathedral. Wrote postcards. Funny, I don’t realize how damn tired I am until I sit down. Then I absolutely vibrate. Being hungry and exhausted does nothing for my French, either. I don’t speak such hot English in such states, but the people around here don’t know that.

Otherwise, my French is adequate. Or at least good enough to make people think I speak it and so go right over my head.

Second night at the Auberge de Jeunesse. It’s a nice place, in a modern way. Reminds me of something a young, bright architectural firm would do. It is rather annoying, though, for the management to be so pointed about the low-budget basis of the place. I mean, at least they could put waste bins in the rooms. Even people travelling on the cheap generate trash.

I didn’t really expect them to provide towels, and they didn’t. I would love to travel light, she said, but it’s hard when you have to carry your own linens with you.

I almost think that if I get tireder and not stronger, I may blow the money to send a few things back, sacrificing one kind of comfort for another; that is, sacrifice comfort in place to comfort in motion. Like, I’m beginning to think I could do without my jeans. They’re not really right for the kinds of places I’m visiting. And the hairdryer won’t work in the outlets here, even with the adaptor.
___________________
†I'd studied the cathedral of Notre-Dame-de-Chartres at KU under the great Prof. Lou Michel, and had conceived the sentiment, "See Chartres and die!"
‡Yes, I know there is no "St. Nigel"; at least, I doubt any such is commemorated in any French cathedral. Never mind, you get the point!

Carol Music

Here's my friend Frieda* playing my music for the year's Christmas carol. It should give you an idea of how it goes.

(With typical apologies for the sound quality on my camera and for the piano needing tuned.)

Hodie Christus Natus Est! Alleluia!

Presenting this year's carol. May it in some small way be worthy of its subject.

The angel came to Mary
And said, "Hail, full of grace!
For you shall bear the Savior
Of Adam’s fallen race!"
In wonder Mary listened
To this amazing word,
Then said to him, "Here now behold
The handmaid of the Lord.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
That I shall bear the Son of God,
The Lord, Immanuel!"

To Judah’s hills came Mary,
To Lizabeth the old,
The blessed news to say to her,
The angel had foretold.
All great with child, her cousin
Gave greeting in her joy,
And in her womb her quickened son
Announced the holy Boy.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
That in me grows the Mighty One,
The Lord, Immanuel!"

To Beth’lem Mary travelled
With Joseph, gentle spouse,
But nowhere could they lay their heads
In any lodging house.
At last, within a stable
With floor of beaten earth,
While ox and ass stood dumbly by,
Our Savior came to birth.
"O could I but proclaim it,
O, that I might tell:
Thus humbly comes the King of kings,
The Lord, Immanuel!"


The shepherds came to Mary
To see with their own eyes
The blessed Child with praise announced
By angels in the skies.
Then, joyful through the village,
The news they did impart,
But filled with wonder, Mary kept
It treasured in her heart.
"Too wondrous to proclaim it,
O, miracle to tell:
A manger holds the Prince of Peace,
The Lord, Immanuel!"


To Salem’s town came Jesus,
He came to Calvary’s hill,
He hung upon a felon’s cross,
Our ransom to fulfil.
The angels hid their faces,
Creation held its breath,
When Mary’s Child, the Lord of life,
Drank deep of bitter death.

Unworthy we to speak it,
O, with sadness tell:
Our sin has slain the Lamb of God,
The Lord, Immanuel!

The Marys to the garden,
Bereft and all forlorn,
Came sadly to their Master’s tomb
And there to weep and mourn.
The earth shook with rejoicing,
The stone was rolled away!
The angel spoke, "Christ has come forth
In victory today!"
O could we but proclaim it,
O, that we might tell:
That risen is the Son of Man,
The Lord, Immanuel!


With trembling awe they heard it,
The word the angel gave,
And glad and speechless ran away
From Jesus’ empty grave.
Then Jesus stood before them,
As at His feet they fell--
"I live forever for your sake!
Now quickly, go and tell!"
O Christian, go proclaim it,
Let all the faithful tell:
Redeemed us has the Son of God,
Our Lord, Immanuel!


The music for it is written, the first draft at least. Soon as I can, I'll figure out how to post an audio clip. Meanwhile, a merry and blessed Christmas to you all!

Only One Thing Is Needed

[This is a thought that came to me in the night. I've sent it out to people on my email list, and I'm posting it here, too, so my readers can see it if they like.]

As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"

"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." -- Luke 10:38-42 (NIV)

Dear Family and Friends,

This passage from Luke isn't one that normally comes to mind for Christmas Eve, but it's wonderfully appropriate for the state many of us are in at this stage of the season. We're like Martha, rushing around doing this, that, and the other thing, all to make Christmas happen for ourselves and those we love. Oh, gosh, the presents must be bought! The cards need to be sent! The tree must be up and decorated! Are the lights up yet on the house? Did we attend that all-important concert or play? What about that party we always give? Christmas dinner? Is everything in order for Christmas dinner? It's all up to us! We have to make Christmas! Without our effort Christmas won't happen!!

And woe unto us if it's not all done by the 25th! Because then we won't have Christmas this year. Because everyone knows, after December 25th, Christmas is over.

So hurry, friends! Rush, rush, rush! Christmas is tomorrow and it won't come if we don't make it! It's all up to me and you!

Horse-hockey.

Christmas doesn't come because of our efforts. Christmas comes because of the unilateral work of God in His Son Jesus Christ. He's made and done everything we need and given it all to us in one human-and-divine package. And all we have to do is accept it--- accept Him-- by faith. God made His eternal Son to be born in human flesh as the child of Mary of Nazareth. Jesus lived the perfect life and kept the Law as we never could. He gave up His life on the cross to turn away the wrath of God that we deserved for our sins. He rose again from the dead to give us new life. By His Holy Spirit He makes us His brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of His heavenly Father, and credits His own righteousness to us. He promises to come again in glory to bring us into eternal, blissful, face-to-face fellowship with Himself-- and given what He's done for us already, that's a promise we can rely on.

Like us, Martha of Bethany thought it was all up to her. She had to make things perfect for Jesus Christ, the Lord. She had to do everything herself so their fellowship and communion could happen. She was angry and frustrated because young sister Mary wasn't sharing the load.

But Jesus answers her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed."

One thing? One thing, like, just serve the Master a bowl of beans? One thing, like, "Martha, just make Me a one-dish casserole and I'll be happy with that?"

No. The One Needed Thing Jesus speaks of is simply-- Himself. Do you wish to sit down in fellowship with Jesus this Christmastide? Then give up trying to make it happen yourself. Be like Mary. Choose what is better, to sit at His feet and receive His word. Receive Him, the living Word. He is the one thing that is needed. He is the better choice that will never be taken away. Jesus does it all. Not just at Christmas, but through all the year as we seek to walk with God and know His saving presence. All we have to do is open our hands, open our ears, open our mouths, and receive.

You may say this is a cheap excuse for people like me, whose baking isn't done and who haven't sent out any cards and whose trees are yet innocent of ornaments. And I don't deny it's good, especially at Christmas, to do things that give delight to others and ourselves. It's good to show our love for family, friends, and neighbors by gift-giving and visits, by hospitality and cards and carols.

But these customs don't make Christmas in themselves: they are-- or should be-- our joyful response to and thanksgiving for the Christmas that Jesus Christ by His own work has made for us.

So as you finish up your tasks of preparation, bid worry and upset be gone! Even if you can't finish them, be confident and at peace. Christ is born, and you didn't-- you couldn't-- do a single thing to make it happen. Christ died to set you free from sin and you didn't-- you couldn't-- do one good deed to deserve it. Christ rose from the grave and defeated Death, and you didn't-- you couldn't-- lift one finger to win that victory. God made it happen in His foreknowledge and power, and He did it all out of His love for you, to the glory of His Name.

This Christmas, be like Mary of Bethany. Choose the One Thing that is better. Choose Jesus Christ, and He and all His benefits will never be taken from you.


Merry Christmas to all!
St. Blogwen

So I'm an Idiot

I never learn.

I went back and kept hammering away at the soprano and alto lines of my new carol, mostly to get the rhythms and the note lengths right.

Now it's done, and I rather like it! And I've printed out a copy to go down to the piano and figure out and write in the tenor and bass.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

What I'm Up To

Is something I've no business being up to.

I've never taken a music composition class. I had a few music theory tutorials as a supplement to my violin lessons twenty years ago, but nothing graded, nothing formal. Nothing where I had to submit work to be critiqued and corrected.

But here I am, with my Second Annual Christmas carol poem finally completed, trying to write the music for it. In four-part harmony. Or polyphony, since I'm going for a medieval feel.

Last year's carol I set it to a Welsh folk tune. This year, oh yeah, I gotta do it myself.

The soprano and alto lines are easy. I can plunk them out on my piano. The bass and tenor, not so much.

Doesn't help that it's freezing cold in my music room. Doesn't help that I never had the advantage of piano lessons, either.

And it doesn't help that in a better-case scenario this would have been done and sent out with my Christmas cards three weeks ago.

Well, I had other things to take care of. And the lyrics hadn't come through yet, anyway.

About forty minutes ago I gave up composing on the piano for the night and came upstairs to copy the soprano and alto lines, at least, into the freebie music composition program on my computer. But I can't remember how to make it let me do passing tones. Which not only makes the playback sound funny, it makes it hard to keep track of where I am in my manuscript.

Which might be a clue that it's time to give over for the night and take up the cause again in the morning?

Begging Your Indulgence

I fully intend to go back into my latest France post and add some footnotes and links. And maybe, maybe! some scanned pictures of the trip itself.

But not now. It's three days before Christmas and I got stuff to doooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!