La tristesse

Sadness~ I have not encountered this emotion very much in my daily life in Rennes so far.  Invigorated by being involved again with student activities, sports, classes, and French speaking (as a necessity rather than a hobby), I am still living on a rush of love for this place and its people.  Of course, there are moments of frustration- when people mock my accent, when I just want the professor to be ON TIME for once, when I want to help in a stressful familial situation, but can't speak quickly enough or well enough to suggest my input, when I see the homeless of Rennes, when I want to stay at a concert but cannot stand the smoke... Frustration is natural when one is surrounded by a different culture, and I have learned to combat it with laughter and with grounding myself in what I know (thus the reason for my quickly growing adoration for my weekly Bible study), but sadness, for me, even in a language that expresses "malheur" (discontentment) almost as well as it expresses love, is hard to come by.  I never imagined that one of my little weekend trips would bring everything momentarily crashing down.

          We were all excited about the adventure of the weekend to come- the first excursion with our (american) program, another night in a hostel with people our own age, a glimpse of another part of France.  Yes, we could not wait to go to Normandy.  And we did find lightness and laughter in momentary language "malentendus" (misunderstandings), love stories, and the movie, "8 Femmes," which we borrowed from the hostel's mini library.  However, from the sombre war museum to the multitudinous graves at Omaha Beach to the craters left by bombs at "Point Hoc," a German outpost that the Allies took on "J-Jour" (D-Day), we also rediscovered the weight of history, experiencing anger, confusion, pride/patriotism, and ultimate sadness at the presence of evil that is capable of killing more people than one can count because of their race, mental condition, beliefs, or willingness to fight for people and/or principles they love.  Wandering the cemetery, home to the bodies of so many soldiers who were my age or younger, I could not help but think of the excerpt of the Baudelaire poem, Hymne à la Beauté (Hymn of Beauty), that I had memorized for the next day:

"De Satan ou de Dieu qu'importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu'importe, si tu rends- fée aux yeux de velours
Rythme, Parfum, Lueur, ô mon unique reine!-
L'univers moins hideux, et les instants moins lourds?"

"From Satan or from God, what does it matter?  Angel or Siren,
What does it matter, if you render- fairy with velvet eyes-
Rhythm, Perfume, Light, oh my unique queen!-
The universe less hideous, and moments less heavy?"

     These historical sites have become places of their own brand of beauty, above all the cemetery, with its well tended grass, imposing pristine monuments, and endless rows of white crosses (and stars of david for the Jewish soldiers).  The beauty of the idea for which these soldiers fought, mirrored in the place where they lie is the only thing that keeps us all from going insane.  But I found myself wary of the beauty, with her lilting songs, fighting her spell that nearly blinds us to the horrors of war with the light of glory.  Coming out of the weekend, not only were we all more grounded in the moment, but very well may be more grounded for life.  Talking about D-Day is one thing, but seeing its scars on the land and its lives is something else entirely.  à bientôt (sooner this time, I promise...next topic: legends)!