Zone A de Staycation

Week one of winter break delivered some spring to the Loire. The magnolia trees (or magnolia-like trees) near our apartment popped--apparently reacting to a few recent warm afternoons. And while we haven't headed east to the Alps or Pyrenees with our comrades from winter-break Zone A (yes, France is divided into winter break Zones A, B, & C with separately dictated two-week school breaks so that ski resorts and trains don't get too crowded), we have continued our incremental discovery of Angers.

Ella, Ivy, and Jack have all been able to use their vacances to build their local social networks. Jack spent an afternoon at Alex's house and a nearby field playing pickup soccer. Ella and Ivy explored le Mc Donalds and department stores with Elisa and Véda.  I have a new appreciation for how digital cameras save money. Apparently the satisfaction of buying clothes is easily replaced by posting 87 pictures on Facebook of yourself trying on clothes.

Bonjour, kemo sahbee.

Vacances has also given Ella, Ivy, and Jack time to do some of their Bellingham school work, this week working through the new internet-based course on Washington State history (a state requirement for 7th graders). Having just read sections on U.S. policies towards Native Americans, it was a bit of a coincidence to walk by a fresh store window display up the street of cowboy-&-Indian imagery like I haven't seen in the United States in a long time. While it would be easy to think this is simply a legacy of U.S. films, I know too well the indelible impact of 1970s Euro-rock videos. I posted this on Facebook well over a year ago but, any excuse to bring it up again shall be used: Apache (it's over four minutes long but 30 seconds oughta do ya -- unless of course you're completely mesmerized).

Warmer weather means haircut. Migration at some point requires finding a barber shop -- barber's pole, big leather hydraulic chairs, a rack of electric clippers, and big jars of black combs submerged in Barbicide. Well, maybe because bloodletting fell out of favor (blood letting or blood sausage--you can't have both), I haven't seen anything resembling a barbershop. Not to worry. Coiffeurs are many and, as part of what I tell myself is evidence of 21st century European sophistication, they serve hommes and femmes in equal measure in exchange for globally standardized unequal prices. With few noticeable differences to base prejudices on, I headed to the closest coiffeur right across the street from our apartment--Pascal Meipnan, Coiffer Visagiste. I'm going to agree with myself here and say that "visagiste" sounds better than "beautician." This is because [cue the Miss America on-stage Q&A segment] I believe true beauty comes from the inside. But then, when it comes to visagosity, the French got it goin' on. But back to the haircut.  Pascal's shop looked okay from the outside. Walking past on our way back from the Saturday market I even saw another guy getting a cut proving that the hommes-price on the window wasn't just an attempt to expand their femme business (it really is hard to tell). Once back in our apartment, I pulled out a phrase book, turned to the "hairdressing" section, and trained for my mission. The first phrase listed was, "I would like a blow wave." I didn't even look at the French for that. But I read through the translations for "I would like a haircut," and "I want it short," and got to the point where I figured I'd actually memorized the words for haircut and short.  Inside the front door I approached the woman at the register and executed plan A: "Parlez-vous un peu d'anglais?"
"Ohhhh (head shaking negatively)."
"Uhhhh. Coupe?"
She looks at a computer screen while speaking French and then looks back to me for a response.
"                "
"...vingt minutes?"
"Ah, oui. Vingt minutes. Okay. Oui." I started towards what looked to be the waiting area but she stopped me.
"Vingt minutes."
"Okay, oui." This time I walked towards the door but was still getting a pleasant, we'll-see-you-soon vibe.
So, I returned 20 minutes later. Pascal had left but another of his coiffer staff (maybe even a visagiste) was back from lunch. Now, this is going to sound crazy, but it was Keira Knightley. I know. I know. The coiffeur/scheduliste who had made my "appointment" went over and whispered to her -- apparently to let her know that when she was done laying in highlight foils, she needed to give a haircut to the guy who goes, "coupe." We worked through a "consultation" that resembled rock-paper-scissors. My big achievement was to point at the side of my head and say, "plus court" (more short). Keira was right with me. So since we were all fluent like that, she pinched some hair on top of my head and said, "...vuuhwuahdurezieauhur...?" I was stuck but it was not the time to be stuck. Remembering Reese Witherspoon's speech in Legally Blond II ("...if you don't speak up, you're going to get a bad haircut..."), I feigned comprehension (always hard for me) and said, "Oui, merci." Keira looked surprised, like, "Wow, most people don't take me up on that." Had I just ordered up color? A scull wax? As much as a crazy Euro-doo would liven up this blog, there were no surprises. The shampoo was a rejuvenating citrusy lather. The coupe was snippily expert. And the phonetic blur that I'd agreed to was a once-over with the thinning sheers--always a prudent transition to spring. So I'm thinking, while we're in Angers, it's probably better if I keep my hair really short.

CT working the diabolos.

As it turns out, lots of stars were in Angers last weekend. The performing arts center, Le Quai, across the river was hosting Festival Cirque[s] Angers--a convergence of small circusy acts (hence the "[s]") performing over three days. We tried and failed to buy standby tickets on Saturday night so, while we were over there, we bought tickets for the only Sunday show that wasn't sold out--Compagnie Tr'espace. It was really interesting. Three was Compagnie: two dancer/juggler/acrobatish vegetarians (going out on a long skinny limb here) and a bass player/utility-performer omnivore (just a hunch). I had never heard of the diabolo but I am very familiar with it now. If you know not of the diabolo, it's a string strung between sticks that a spool is spun on--a distended yo-yo if yo will. To keep the spool spinning the performers do a lot of asynchronous arm cranking. If you weren't holding a diabolo you might make these motions to stop highway traffic. So, you can appreciate how challenging it is to integrate these mechanical responsibilities into an hour of choreography and storyline. The story seemed to be about opposing forces in life (punctuated by quirky yet emotive bass riffs): the push and pull, the holding on when everything's spinning around you, and finally, surrender to the fact that joy and meaning come from the endless (or at least 60-minute) struggle for balance rather than from balance itself. That's the spin I'm puttin' on it anyway.

Prior to the Sunday circus, we explored Angers on the west side of the river checking out a couple of parks and trails. We came across a marker from the Voie de la Liberté (Liberty Road) the route of the Allied Forces in 1944 as they advanced south from Normandy. And, while on the final leg of our route towards Cirque, looking for a boulangerie open on dimanche, we came across a very cool traffic circle. Yes, this is another digression into transportation, but traffic-circles get a really bad rap back home in Washington and so I think there's a lot to learn from this example (cue embedded video!). It's got cars. It's got long, articulated buses. And it's got ART! I'll probably have to start an album of traffic-circle art but in the meantime, way to go, France.

And lastly, for the kids whose families haven't whisked them away to the Pyrenees for the last ten days, the Ville d'Angers sports complex organized an indoor soccer tournament that the non-skiers of Jack's team participated in. After a warmup game played cold, Jack and Alex got their groove on to become a goal machine for the next three rounds. In between games, the teams got to hang out in some kind of all purpose activity room. I walked down there at one point to check in with Jack and what's everybody playing with? Diabolo! Not that there's anything wrong with that.