live long and prosper

This summer isn't the first time I've learned that, in William Faulkner's words, "The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past." I wonder sometimes what to make of this quote. Should we be sad that the past has a ceaseless grip on the present, or should it give us cause to rejoice? In the case of this photograph, I am glad that the past never leaves us.




Meet my Grandma and Grandpa Wilson. They both passed away before I was even a teenager, but I have certain unforgettable memories of them. One that really stays with me is an occasion when Grandpa and I were alone in his living room. He was kind of a quiet type in his later years, and we just sat in silence for a long time. After a while, Grandpa held up his arm and positioned his hand in the "Live Long and Prosper" symbol from Star Trek. That was the day I learned how to do that trick.

What does that moment really mean? I'm not sure. What I do know is that I smile to think of it. My only regret regarding my grandparents is that I wish I had had more time. I wish I had gotten to know them better while I had the chance.

... and that's where the present comes in. If we make our days worth living and create a constant flow of happy moments for ourselves, our past won't be lamentable. It will be a source of joy and comfort. That's not to say nothing bad will ever happen. These two lovely people are no longer on this world. But I can stand as a living legacy of their impact. And maybe that's all that matters. For today.

happy living

August 22, 1996
Today I played on the computer with Sarah. Then we played with water balloons. Next I watched TV. Guess What! On America's Funniest Home Vidio's a baby recited the Presidents's Names. I read my scriptures.

I wrote that entry in my journal thirteen years ago. There is nothing particularly spectacular about it. In fact, as I read through four of my old journals yesterday, I realized that none of the entries by themselves could capture the magic that I found in all of them collectively. In my first journal (1996), most of the entries consist of two or three sentences about what I did that day. I usually mention reading, exercising, going to church, reading scriptures, and playdates I had with my friends. In my eyes, all of it was "FUN!"

Each day was like a new little treasure. Everything was important. When Alisha was having a birthday party, it was important. When I swam underwater at the beach with my family, it was important. When Josh and I watched a movie together, it was important. When we sang songs in Sunday School, it was important. When Sarah and I invented a new game, it was important. When Stacy and I were "solving a mystery," it was important. I wrote about what I ate, who came over on a Sunday afternoon, what I named the bunnies we found in our front yard, getting haircuts with my siblings, having Family Home Evening on Monday nights, which books I checked out from the library... everything. Any time I met someone new, their name went in the journal. It was like everything and everyone was worthy of my attention.

Now? It's not that I'm not happy about my current journal, but it certainly lacks the excitement for life contained in the pages of my floral-print and Winnie-the-Pooh covered diaries. So is it just a question of age? Maybe. I've also wondered if it's a generational thing. Back then, very few families had internet access. I never had a cell phone until I was nineteen years old. While I played with computers (Atari, anyone?) and watched TV (Full House, anyone?), most of my entries are about reading books or playing outside. We were constantly creating our own fun instead of waiting for it to be served to us on an LCD screen.

I never meant for this to be a diatribe about technology. Really, I didn't. It's just that there is something about the modern day that makes everyone a lot more... apathetic. We are waiting for adventure to come to us. On our Facebook statuses, we tell the world we're doing "nothing" or having a "boring day," when really, we probably had lunch with a friend or finished a good book or played a fun game that day. So what makes something worthy of our excitement anymore? Are we waiting for something "big" like getting married or traveling to Europe? Or can we find it in the small things of daily life?

In fact, let's get rid of that term. "Daily life." It somehow connotes that quotidien normality is mundane and boring. Why not love the routine? Or why not create a life where nothing is routine? A life in which our day's events are "FUN" and worth writing about?

Wednesday, July 16, 1997
As I now write in this book I wish the best to all the adventures I have in the years to come. Happy Reading!

... and for now: Happy Living!

wheel

A wise friend once said to me that people have an extraordinary ability to adapt their new realities. She made this comment while I was in France and I had to agree. There, my "new reality" sometimes felt like it was all I had ever known. Endless baguettes, goat cheese, and "Ca va?" eventually came to represent a kind of familiarity. Even a normality.

In spite of this fact, I tend to feel uneasy about change. I grasp at the sands of the present only to find them slipping through my fingers faster and faster. Every time I think I've adjusted to a new reality, an even newer one presents itself and I wonder if I can keep up with the pace. It's like I have to run to keep up with my own life. (For the record, I've never been very good at running. I was one of those kids who received a "Participation" ribbon at field days in elementary school.) And just as I settle into a routine, just as I'm beginning to adjust to my new reality... it's broken or disturbed by change.

That's not to say that there isn't an element of change that I love. I remember as I was waiting to board the plane to France, I kept thinking of how much I love airports. There is just something special about them. No matter what, it seems like something efficacious is happening: you're either embarking on a new adventure or kicking the traveler's dust off your shoes and returning home.

"Airports see it all the time, where someone's last goodbye blends in with someone's sigh because someone's coming home."

... and that's the way this wheel keeps working. We roll along in tandem with the ever-changing present and the result is an ever-changing self. We're constantly being refined by our experience. And if we let it, all these changes can create an extraordinary individual in us that we never knew could exist.

Yet I still wish my family didn't have to leave tomorrow. I was just getting used to having them here. I wish my dad could have come on this trip. I wish this weren't my senior year at BYU because I don't want to say goodbye to that reality, either.

And maybe it's my uneasiness about change that has led me to accruing outlandish fees because I just can't bring myself to turn in my RedBox rentals or my library books.

Sockumentary

THESE SOCKS

Traveled 5,006 miles (that's 8,056 km) by plane.

Arrived at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris on April 28, 2009.
Stayed with the La Brosse family in the eighth arrondissement for six weeks.
Attended classes at the Institute building on the Rue Saint Merri, just across the street from the Centre Pompidou.
Walked in and out of the Metro countless times.
Meandered their way through at least 20 churches and cathedrals.
Relaxed in approximately 10 parks and gardens.
Visited more than 25 museums and nearly a dozen castles.
Stood gazing at the endless blue on half a dozen beaches.
Explored a cave.
Attended a ballet at the Opera Garnier.
Watched a performance of Ionesco’s hilarious La Cantatrice Chauve at the Theatre de la Huchette.
Enjoyed one piano performance, a string quartet, and an incredible medieval vocal group.
Dragged their way through the Louvre on four different occasions.
Rode on a boat along the Seine.
Wandered among ancient Roman ruins.
Held faithful through the three hour Ascension Day Parade in Brugge.
Watched an outstanding performance of Les Miserables at the Queen’s Theatre in London.
Stayed overnight at more than 30 different hotels and hostels.
Saw a Jason Mraz concert at Le Zenith in Paris.
Stood still for over 2,000 images and videos on my Nixon CoolPix.
... and probably thousands of other photos on 26 other cameras.
Visited: France, The Netherlands, Belgium, England, Scotland, and Italy (that’s six countries).
And did it all in style.

So when I arrived in Paris that first day and realized that I had not packed any socks and was only equipped with the pair on my feet, I decided it would be a good thing to let these faithful grays have an adventure of a lifetime. And they did.

Sure, it’s gross. My friends told me so time and time again. In every store, they would not-so-discreetly motion towards tempting packages of fresh socks. But I held faithful. I figured no one can say they spent 65 days in Europe with only one pair of socks. Besides me.

(Just don’t tell anyone that 80% of those days were spent wearing sandals.)

the love of small things

There are some days that just scream summer.

Luckily for me, today is one of those days. The combination of doing pilates, swimming, hot tubbing, and Dairy Queening with one of my best friends has been unbeatable. Later, we will commence scrapbooking and stocking on candy for a midnight showing of Harry Potter. Aside from exercising my bragging rights for having an altogether too-perfect day, there is a point to all of this. Last night I went to our weekly home evening activity with a bunch of kids from my neighborhood. Sister Madsen gave us a brief lesson about how the stages of our lives should be more than just "getting through it." Even though as college students, we're in what is meant to be a transitory phase of exploration and change, that is no excuse to purposely keep ourselves aloof and unrooted from what we're doing. That really hit home for me. How many times have I reassured myself that life will be better "when this test is over" or "once I finish the semester"? How often do I deny myself the opportunity to create a home wherever I am just because it seems temporary?

I started thinking about the quality of my life—as in, my life right now—as the activity continued. We ate popsicles on the lawn and played water balloon volleyball. I took off my shoes because I felt like being barefoot and licking on a dripping lime flavored chunk of ice would signal to the universe that I'm ready to call this place home. Why? Because I said so.

Just yesterday, I finished re-reading a favorite book of mine. It's called The Strangeness of Beauty and you all should read it. (Why? Because I said so.) At one point, the old samurai mother makes an observation that just jumped off the page at me. "Generally, people don't want glory. They want small gentle pleasures like baseball. Have you ever observed a baseball game? ... There you are, sitting on a hard surface, in a position of discomfort, participating in a slow-moving ritual. Little happens. Your mind wanders. Gradually, you notice the small moments that make life rich. The sun's heat, the ball's arc." She goes on with her wisdom: "It's this love of small things, by most people everywhere, that just might keep us from war. The most powerful things are small: the taste on our tongues of our favorite childhood foods, the rub of skin against skin."

It seems to me like summer is the perfect time to become "truly engaged in life's essence." So go outside. Take off your shoes and feel the blades of grass between your toes. Lick a popsicle, or your favorite childhood treat. Pack a picnic, grab a blanket, and meander over to the nearest park. Go put on your bathing suit and start your perfect summer day. Or, maybe better yet, head to your public library and pick up a copy of The Strangeness of Beauty. You won't regret it. I spent a good half hour in the library last week, just smelling the books and rifling through them to find some good reads for these long and lazy days that I love so much.

What are you waiting for?

there's no place like home

“Ah, the Americans. Here are a people who seize
opportunities, poke cows, and invent a large cartoon mouse who can talk.”

For the past week, the United States has warmly welcomed me back to...

free public restrooms
free water at restaurants
free refills
free laundry at my apartment
(we call it the “Land of the Free” for a reason, folks)
cold milk
readily available drinking fountains
English
the lovely U.S. dollar
... to say nothing of dollar menus
barbecues
cheap phone calls
air conditioning
hot showers with good water pressure
toilet handles
a huge wardrobe I’d forgotten about
my warm bed

... among other things.

That’s not to say there is nothing I miss about being in Europe. Looking through my pictures, I am reminded of what an incredible experience I had for those two months. But there is something about coming home. When we were riding the long train from Milan to Paris during one of my last days of adventuring, I listened to an album called The Road Home by the BYU Choirs. The songs echoed messages of travelers, literal and metaphorical, who speak of homecoming. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so achingly alone, just knowing that for centuries, millions of us have wrestled with the same questions about leaving and returning. About home.

Home is...
A mom who comes to the rescue by driving 20 miles to your bank to deposit money into your account when you’ve found that Europe is more expensive than you’d imagined.

Feeling your stomach jump into your heart as the airplane lands and the flight attendant says, “Welcome to Salt Lake City. For those of you who call this home... welcome home.”

A boyfriend who picks you up at the airport with roses in hand.

A sister and brother-in-law who delay their plans to have dinner out with you on your first night back.

Unlocking the door to your apartment and smelling that familiar, sweet smell of hardwood floors and the black leather couches you’ve grown to love so much.

Having a dear friend who is willing to help you unpack and settle in for an entire day.

... and that’s just the Provo version of home. I’m even more excited at the thought of returning to my family in Michigan later this month for a homecoming with a capitol H. I echo the words of an ancient Japanese proverb that warmly wishes: “May all of your journeys lead you home.” Because, let’s admit it. There’s just no better feeling.

I don't know you except for the way a traveler knows a traveler

It's funny how traveling really gets you to thinking about home. When I first came to Europe, I kept thinking of how wonderful it would be to see the world. I thought about everything in terms of monuments and museums. I was focused on what I could learn about the world by traveling Europe.

All of that is still relevant, I suppose. But maybe not as relevant as the fact that I have learned more about myself by traveling Europe than anything else. I am the same person whether I am in Michigan or Utah or France or Holland or Belgium or England or Scotland. I am the same person sitting here at an internet café in Italy. Yet I feel completely different. I often wonder about why this is, but I think I know the answer now. I am me everywhere. But never in my life have I been left so completely alone with myself. So much of who I am is defined by the people around me... my family, my friends, my teachers, those people in passing who come to mean so much. I operate according to what is familiar. Here, all of that is gone. I am forced to create a new familiarity with nothing but my own eyes and my own heart and a place that is completely foreign.

What I really wonder is why we romanticize the unfamiliar. I know I always did. I figured Europe would be cooler than the States because... well... it's Europe. Yet as I have spent hours driving through the countryside, I realize that the scenery isn't all that different from the places I call home. Yesterday I took a day tour through the Highlands in Scotland. We passed by many beautiful things and the driver would ask us "Can you feel the DSL (Deep Scottish Love)? Can you feel it? I know I can, and I see this every day."

The Scots... talk about a people with pride for their country. They love who they are and where they are and what they do. Shouldn't we all have that for ourselves?

Perhaps the most important lesson is one I learned from Albert. He was our driver in southern France. When I asked him why he would spent 40 weeks out of his whole year with a bus full of obnoxious college kids wanting to see European landscapes, he responded, "J'aime tout le monde. Il faut aimer tout le monde." I love everyone. It is necessary to love everyone. And let me tell you, this is a man who practiced what he preached. This is a man who stayed up late into the night to take a girl to the hospital. He waited there with her for hours and helped her get a prescription. For the record, that girl was me. And when I thanked him for everything he had done, his response was "C'est normal." I tried to tell him that it was anything but normal to be so kind to someone who is more or less a stranger. His response? "Il faut aimer tout le monde."

If only there were more people like that. If only I were like that.

Which brings me back to the overarching principle. Places are nice. They are interesting. They can be sources of great pride and comfort. But people? People are everything.

Tales of Tulips

I took a weekend trip to the Netherlands and now I am quite certain I would like to live there someday. I've been meaning to write about it for several days now, but life in Paris is so busy. Without time to say much else, I thought I would compile a list of a few things I learned while in Holland.

20 Things I Learned in The Netherlands
1) It's actually not "Holland." We Americans use that term, but people in the know say The Netherlands. The French say Pays-Bas.
2) I want to learn Dutch.
3) All the Dutch I know is that spoor = platform
4) The Dutch never check on buses or trains that you actually have a ticket, or what they call a strippenkart (I guess I know two Dutch words, actually).
5) A little kindness can go a long way. Everyone there speaks English. They love American tourists and they always want to help. Sweetest. People. On. Earth.
6) American music is everywhere. At the youth hostel where we stayed, there was a wedding reception. I heard "Love is in the Air (Everywhere I Look Around)" playing over the loudspeakers. The next morning, two old Dutch ladies were trying to sing "Footloose."
7) Burger King is also everywhere.
8) ... and Fanta, which has multiple flavors in Europe including "cassis" which is a black currant flavor.
9) Looking at beautiful flowers can be efficacious. If there is one thing you can see in Europe, go to the gardens at Keukenhof. It is the most photographed place in the world and now I know why.
10) Looking at beautiful paintings can be efficacious. I went to the Van Gogh museum and saw an exhibit called "Colors of the Night." It was magnificent. I was especially excited to see "Starry Night," which has always been one of my favorite paintings.
11) Asking for help never hurts.
12) You can never have enough pictures, but sometimes it's important to enjoy the moment outside the camera lens.
13) Good friends make all the difference.
14) Trips are always more fun if you can create a musical along the way.
15) The Dutch are obsessed with bicycles.
16) Underwear can be a good place to hide money. Just make sure you know you put it there.
17) The Dutch eat chocolate sprinkles with their breakfast. This is a good idea. A very good idea.
18) Watch where you walk in Amsterdam. You could be hit by the Tram at any minute.
19) The North Sea is cold. And beautiful.
20) "All right... it's okay." This is what Dutch people would say in place of "You're welcome." I sort of felt like it should be my mantra for life.

All right... it's okay.

part of the motion

This is only my fifth day in Paris, but I think I already have a "favorite spot": le Jardin du Luxembourg. It's a beautiful park in Montparnasse where I took my first "promenade" for my Paris Walks class on Thursday. The book gave us a little checklist of things to find on our stroll through the park:

• Beehives
• Old men playing petanque (This is a game that reminds me of horseshoes, except it's played with balls.)
• Park security men keeping people off the grass
• A mini Statue of Liberty (Unfortunately, the statue had been moved to another display, so I missed it.)
  
• Children riding donkeys (It's true! Not sure why that happens, but it does...)
• People practicing martial arts
  
• A couple kissing on a bench (Here, I thought he just meant "a kiss," but actually the Parisians are completely okay with making out in pulic.)
  
• People jogging (The professor said this was a rare sight in Paris, but there were a lot of joggers; another American we ran into told us that jogging has come into fashion since the French President Sarkozy jogs.)
• Chess players (Bobby Fisher, anyone?)

As for the chess players, they were intense. I think it would be interesting to join them one day, but I don't think I have enough talent or strategy to be taken seriously. Not to mention, those timers they use always make me nervous. Near the chess pavilion, we saw a woman in a short, shiny blue dress and high heels, modeling in the park for a bunch of photographers. I wonder if she was a celebrity, or France's Next Top Model. I definitely want to return to the Jardin du Luxembourg for another afternoon of reading, relaxation, and people-watching. That's actually one of my favorite things to do here in Paris. It's extremely interesting to me just to watch how different people dress, act, speak, and what they are doing. In some ways, it's extremely different from the "American way" of doing things and in other instances, it's quite similar. For example, the fashion here can be quite different. Black is extremely "in" and everyone looks like they've been shopping at Salvation Army. Most of the clothes look old, worn-in, and trendy. Even the old men are fashionable. They wear dark-wash jeans, black shirts, cool jackets, and soccer-style sneakers. They definitely put our old men to shame. In general, French fashion just doesn't seem as forced as American fashion. One of the biggest differences is that, in spite of all the walking you do in Pars, none of the locals wear white sneakers or running shoes. Doing that will brand you as an American faster than anything else.

As for how they are the same, one big thing around here is iPods and American music. When we first rode into Paris in the BluVan, the driver told us that the French love American music. He was listening to jazz the whole trip. At the hotel, we heard a lot of songs that are (or have been) popular in the United States. In spite of the fact that the French have appropriated a lot of American pop culture into their own, our professor asked us to "cut our American strings," referring to things like The Office, McDonalds (which they call "Mac-Do" here), Oreos, English, and stupid tourist habits. After some convincing, he said we could use Facebook sparingly. I can see why he brought it up though; it'd be so easy to be here and miss what is actually Parisian about it while we're so absorbed in our technology and our American ways. Still, it's hard to go anywhere without seeing Oreos, Fanta, Subway, or Beyonce Knowles (who is currently on most of the huge posters in the Metro).

One huge manifestation of American-culture-meets-French-culture was La Foire de Trome. It's a fair that they had yesterday for le premier mai (the first day of May, which is a holiday here). Our group decided to go and, let me tell you, I felt like I was back in Coldwater, Michigan in no time. Other than the fact that everyone spoke French and they served crepes at the food stands, there was almost no difference between that French fair and the ones we have for 4-H. It was kind of uncanny, actually. We didn't do much at the fair besides order some crepes and Nutella. The place was seeming with people who were "louche" (creepy or sketchy), to say nothing of all the pickpockets and smokers. Even elementary school kids smoke around here. I kept thinking "I would never bring my child here," but there were a lot of children. In general, it seems like the Parisian kids are like little adults. They just walk around by themselves, ride the Metro, smoke, talk on cell phones, and generally function like a teenager or a young adult. It's a little strange, to say the least. I think most of them feel like more of an adult than I do.

On the way to the fair, my friend Maren and I witnessed a most interesting scene. We were waiting to cross the street. The pedestrian light was red, but many Parisians pay no attention to things like that. A little old lady began crossing the street at the same time that a car was making a right turn and nearly hit her. The old lady didn't seem angry... maybe just a little crazy. She hit the back of the car with her purse and was about to go on her merry way. UNTIL. The car screeched to a halt and a young woman in a leopard print jump suit came out for the confrontation. Leopard Suit Woman pushed Crazy Old Lady and the two began hashing it out in French. I didn't understand most of what was going on, probably because they were speaking fast and using a lot of swear words that I haven't learned. Even when the pedestrian light turned red, Maren and I were afraid to traverse the street and into the cross-fire. We waited for about three minutes until Leopard Lady looked like she was getting ready to hop back into her car. The old lady motioned to us and said something; I think she was expecting us to vouch for her right to cross the street, or say that she had done nothing wrong. The Leopard Driver said something like "On connait la verite" (We all know the truth). As Maren and I were making our way back onto the sidewalk, we heard a man approach and ask another woman, "Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" The woman answered, "Il y avait une lutte entre la fille et la grand-mere!" (There was a battle between a girl and a grandmother.)

Maren and I laughed all day about "la lutte entre la fille et la grand-mere." All day.

Bonjour from Paris

Are you ready for this?

No, really ready?

I'm in France. And the best part? It's not even a dream. That's what I kept wondering as I sat at the Salt Lake City airport, passport in hand, waiting at the gate departing to Charles de Gaulle on Monday afternoon. I looked around at my fellow passengers and wondered what their reasons for going to Paris could be. I wondered if they wondered about my reason for going to Paris. No reason seemed quite as cool as "I'm studying French language, culture, and civilization in the heart of Paris." Maybe they thought I was one of those twenty somethings headed off to Europe to "find myself."Even though that's not explicitly why I'm here, I can't help but wonder if it will happen.

The flight was long. Extremely long. Two sub-par meals, three episodes of crying baby, three or four restless hours of sleep, one finger burn from the reading lamp, two hours of iPod, three movies, and five thousand miles later... we finally arrived at the Charles de Gaulle airport. There were four of us from the BYU program who had arrived on the same flight, so we made our way through customs and tried to figure out how we were going to call our private shuttle to get to the hotel. Everyone was speaking in French (except for the American tourists, who stuck out like sore thumbs) and I realized just how limited my capabilities are. What we read in our preparation class is absolutely true: The French don't like to give more information than is necessary. If we asked someone "Do you know the number for the BluVan shuttle?", they would simply say "No" and move on with their lives. No "Oh, but I could find you a phone book" or "Maybe you should try asking that lady over there..." None of that. Nothing. It's not rude, it's just the French way.

We finally got a hold of the shuttle. We were told that the driver would probably be Pakistani and able to speak English. The driver was actually French and, we soon learned, unable to communicate very well in English. It ended up being to our advantage to try our skills on someone who was so kind and patient. He told us that, even if you don't speak French well, just making the effort is good enough to open a lot of doors. The French are actually very patient and hospitable when foreigners try to show respect.

Our first day in Paris was spent doing somewhat cliche things like visiting the Eiffel Tower. Mostly, we were trying to stay awake and get over our jet-lag. Professor Hurlbut took us out to dinner (aka our program fees covered a dinner) at a nice little place. Wish I could say what or where it was, but I was so disoriented and just ready to dig into some delicious French cuisine. I ended up ordering French soup, a steak, and some chocolate mousse. Much to my surprise, the steak came with French fries (who knew?) and the meat was pretty much raw. "Just don't think about it," my professor kept saying. "Just don't think about it."

My first night was spent at the Etap Hotel, which was very small. Our room looked like it had jumped right out of the 80's with teal and magenta colored geometric shapes all over everything. I bought a phone card at a little Tabac (they are little French stores that pretty much function like the stores at American gas stations). I was having some difficulty getting the card to work on the pay phone at the hotel, so I asked one of the concierges for some help. Even though I asked my question in French, he answered in English. That's happened to me several times throughout the trip. I've learned that it's not an insult to your ability to speak French, but most American tourists only know about two or three phrases (if that) in French, so the people around here have grown accustomed to switching over to English pretty fast.

Our first morning here, we had a petit dejeuner a la francais at the hotel: bread, chocolate, fruit, jam, hot drinks, and cereal. We went to our first day of class, which was pretty informal and mostly a quick crash course in how to survive around here. Mostly, I was excited to meet my host family. My rooommate, Amy, and I took a taxi to the La Brosse's apartment. Immediately, I could tell that the family is warm and accommodating. The only ones living here are Madame et Monsieur, although they have three children who are grown up and living away from home. They are also hosting another American student named Cami. She's only fifteen and she's from Maryland. Madame de La Brosse told us "On ne parle que le francais ici," meaning that we would only speak French in the apartment. Amy and I are allowed to speak English in our shared bedroom, but we made a pact to stick to French as much as possible. The La Brosse's are very patient with us, and they think our French is magnificent (or at least they act like it). I can tell I will learn a lot from them.

I get the feeling that this city will change me. There is something so magical about exchanging "bonjour"s with the locals and listening to a random guy playing guitar in the Metro and walking down a narrow alley surrounded by apartments and shops and realizing that this city is both extremely historic and extremely vibrant and living. It's a city of motion. And in spite of my aching limbs and my broken French, I want to be part of the motion.