The Season

The fatiguing southpaw stares in for the sign - not much left in his tank, but maybe just enough to get those two last precious outs in the 9th. The runner on 2nd eagerly takes an extra step off the bag as the all-important tying run in the national championship-deciding game. The entire crowd is on its feet, feeling the weight of the moment, the majority shouting in unison, "Com-pi-egne! Com-pi-egne!" I eye the lead of the runner on second, "no pick-off, just get him at the plate, ALLEZ!" I mutter under my breath. The lefty visually checks both runners, kicks his leg toward the plate, and snaps off another tired curveball to the anxious left-handed hitter...there's an eery silence as the crowd holds its collective breath...followed by the crack of rawhide leather against wood...

I can remember sitting in front of the little television in our basement, my history homework long before set aside and a baseball glove in hand, fully engrossed in the images on the screen. Game 7, bottom of the 9th, a 1-run game. Those are rare, sweet moments in life. Times when sport rises above mere balls and strikes to engage the depth of human emotion. I, after a 17 year baseball career, found myself on the other side of that television screen, glove once again in hand, but this time with the fortune of being an actor in the theatrics.

I could tell that it was a special day from the time I stepped on the outfield grass earlier that morning. I mean really, how many national championship games do you get to play for in life - even if not your native country? You hear athletes talk about "trying to turn on the switch", in order to get the adrenaline and focus going for game time. For me the day-long battle of keeping emotions in check began during warm ups and would continue throughout. It helped to follow the routine: eye black freshly applied, bill of hat flattened and slightly to the right, pants bottoms well-aligned over shoes, two batting gloves in right pocket...check, check, check, and check...team introductions and national anthem...game time! Stepping to the plate for the first time that day to the same "Let's go Jame!" cheers I remember hearing at age 12 from my little league days, and seeing my parents and sister in the stands (4000 miles from home) was truly something special - no matter the outcome of the series.



The first game began in typical fashion: Andre Sternberg domination. Our team was carried all year on the left arm of this laid-back Berkley, CA product. Never before has a pitcher in the French system ever thrown more than 100 strikeouts during the course of the season. In 2009, opposing teams wore a path to the batters box and back as Andre mowed down 178! It's rare gift, from a managerial perspective, to be able to enter into a 3 game series knowing you only have to figure out how win one game - the second one. In short, he had his toughest test of the year but in the end Compiegne had a 4-2 win and Andre another 13Ks through 9 innings. Now let the drama begin...




Much transpired in the short pause betweens games. Our number 2 starting pitcher (a French national team selection) was informed over the phone that due to drawn-out complications, he was ineligible to play, and this only 10 minutes before he started to loosen up. Andre was penciled-in to play center field before he "took one in the face" as the French say and required stitches. With our weakened lineup and the strongest offensive force we had encountered all year, Robert Brunard, the French Jamie Moyer equivalent was given the nod. "Bob", a 40-something year-old middle school gym teacher on the verge of hanging them up for his career, has two pitches: a sliding curveball and fastball that makes the aforementioned curveball look fast. The one thing this lifelong athlete did have on his side, the rare ability to "rise to the occasion" - and this was such an occasion.



After a few innings it quickly became evident that this was going to be a pitcher's duel. On paper it shouldn't have been, but that's what's great about sports. Bois-Guillaume's lanky right-hander wasn't blazing fastball past our hitters, he was just "missing bats" with a large assortment of bizarre pitches. Hitting from the 3 spot all year, I will humbly admit that I was struggling on this particular day. I got hit by a few pitches (my calling card) and also walked a few times, but otherwise, this crafty righty had my number. And on the other side there was Bob, using his two mediocre pitches to perfection - hitting corner after corner with pinpoint location. Whereas my bat was struggling, I, however, was in the middle of having the finest defensive game of my career. Bob was setting up the hitters perfectly and finishing them off with a backdoor curveball on the black. All they could do was roll over the outside pitch and voila, another groundball headed my way!


With 2 away in the 6th inning, the magnitude of the situation once again hit me. I had just made a charging, off-balanced throw to nip the runner at first, followed by another 6-3 putout deep in the hole on the 3rd base side that would have made Bruce Johnson, my college coach beam with pride. And as I gathered myself at my position after making my 5th play of the game, the crowd on its feet, I had to fight back back the emotions: national championship just 10 outs away, seeing my parents 4000 miles from home leading the cheering from the stands, knowing I was playing the defense of my life in perhaps the most important game of my life...I paused, took my glove off, looked around and took in the moment - I'll never forget that. It's one thing to enjoy the moment a long while after it has taken place; its quite another to soak it in while it's happening. 4 pitches later, the Bois-Guillaume hitter fanned at another perfectly located Bob curveball, and we charged back to the dugout riding on the wave of momentum. 9 outs away!



2 innings later I found myself pacing the dugout unable to sit still. The score was 2-1 and only three outs away. The heart of Bois-Guillaume's lineup was due up, and Bob was visibly tiring. As I jogged out to shortstop, I cracked a smile and couldn't help but laugh. Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody blasted on the loudspeaker - my favorite karaoke song. With what little voice I had left after encouraging the boys all game, I barked along with Freddie Mercury and the band, which in a strange sort of way actually calmed me down just enough - I was ready. Bob once again managed to change speeds and got the first out of the 9th on a gentle pop-out. Just two more to go...before the trouble started. The Woodchucks (yep, you read that correctly) gnawed out a solid base hit to start the late-inning rally. The following hitter brought the fans to nail-biting with a second sharply hit ball up the middle just past the outstretched glove of the second baseman. One out, two on, middle of the lineup at the plate, crowd on its feet chanting. I eyed the runner,"no pick-off, just get him at the plate, ALLEZ!" I mutter under my breath. Bob winds and snaps off one more tired curveball. Crack! The ball slowly hops to the second baseman. I charge toward second screaming, "Jeu double! Jeu double" Jean Taguchi fields it cleanly - 20 feet from the bag, turns and underhands it in my direction. "Too slow! Too slow!" my mind starts to panic. The ball feels like it's moving through jello on route to my glove. I do my best to speed the play up by keeping my right foot on the bag and lunging toward the throw with my left. To my surprise the runner from first is just watching the play ! In one swift move I catch and release the ball towards first. Coca, the Cuban first baseman, lunges and snags the ball a hair before the hitter arrives at the bag. Everyone turns to the umpire with baited breath for the call ... He's out! Double play to end the game! I leap in the air and sprint toward Bob who is on his knees, tears in his eyes, both fists in the air. Everyone jumps on the pile and I find myself on the bottom of a screaming mass of testosterone and joy, just like I had always dreamed of since a kid. We were national champions!



The moments after the game were filled with laughter, tears... and loads of joy. I even got to sign my first - and probably only - autographs when a bashful group of little kids ran up to me with baseballs and ink pens, just as I had done throughout my childhood. It was truly the highlight of my 17 year career, and all that with my favorite fans to witness it - my family!

National Champions!! More to come!

Yes, you read the title correctly. The Compiegne Marlins are National Champions!

To catch up on the proceedings quickly:

The semi-final was hosted by us against our rivals - the Paris University Club - from just down the road. Well in the forth inning something was said about Louis' mother (yes the 52 year old coach) after getting hit with a pitch... a couple bench clearing brawls later we still hadn't finished the 4th and PUC refused to take the field, citing feeling "unsafe about the situation." Result: Forfeit game 1. The games 2 and 3 the following day: PUC again never showed attempting to win the series in the courts...

Two days before the finals were to played in La Rochelle (west coast of France) we found out that Compiegne had officially won the semi-finals!

The Finals were a simply amazing experience as my parents and lil sis traveled from an ocean away to watch such a monumental moment in my 17-year baseball career. That truely meant a great deal to me and at moments it was tough keeping emotions together on the field. 18 innings later I turned a 4-6-3 double play to seal our victory and our dream season! Dogpiles, medals, trophies, smiles, tears...it was all there.

More details to come!

Still fight'n for it!

A litte American emotion after a clutch triple

Its long overdue for a baseball update!

So here we go... The regular season ended with the Compiègne Marlins in first place in their division. We were the surprise of the entire league pushing past the storied PUC (Paris University Club) team that was relegated from the Elite league (the highest level) down to National 1 this season.

My good buddy Rob was out during the month of July to see the last two regular season games before playoffs. He saw quite possibly some of the most interesting "baseball" I've been a part of. We hosted the Huskies of Rouen and the fans were given a display of offensive prowess, strange and moody umpiring, and even a bench clearing brawl. Yeah, it's true. The first time I had ever seen a baseball brawl in person was as I was sprinting across the diamond in route to separate our left fielder from their first baseman. Somewhere during that run, I remember thinking to myself "what am I doing here?!?" But I managed to help keep the fighting to a minimum and put distance between those who needed to just chill for a bit. And when the fighting died down, in true French fashion, they had to discuss the issue for about 5-10 minutes, stopping the game.

Rob could probably tell you more crazy things that happened that day. I'm starting to get to the point where I expect that stuff. Oh and I went 7 for 8 at the plate that day and was featured again in the local paper not long after. I think the photographer just had a man-crush on me - 2 of the 3 pics are of me. See the scanned version below.


Now its playoff time! Playoffs are run like this. The top 4 teams from each division (South, Central, and North divisions) qualify for playoff pool play. These teams are placed in two pools of 6 teams. And each team plays every other team in the pool twice. Thus after 10 games, the top two teams in each pool move on to the semi-finals for a best of three game series. Those winners play the final three game series in La Rochelle on the west coast of France. Well, currently we are cruising to the tune of 8-0 in pool play! We have already clinched home field advantage in the semi-finals. We are just waiting to see how things shake out in the other playoff pool and we need to finish strong against Pessac next weekend.

So there it is! My bat has been a bit slow to come around after the month off in August - yes the whole country shuts down in August, even baseball. But I hit the ball well last weekend against the Ermont Expos, our fierce rivals. While we barely avoided another brawl against the Expos, the field was the worst I had seen since the sandlots in the Dominican Republic. Even so, I manged to flash a little glove to the tune of 2 double plays and a nice stab and off-balanced throw up the middle. This weekend I'm taking it easy with my roommate out of town and finally getting a chance to fellowship at church! Then its back to working hard on the fundamentals for Pessac (second place in our pool) this weekend and the big semi-finals next weekend. Then hoping all goes well my parents and lil sis will be flying out just in time to catch the three-game series in La Rochelle. It would be nice to add the title "French National Champion" to my baseball resumé!

And on another side note...I just started playing for the Compiègne Lions Hockey team...life doesn't slow down with me!

I apologize for the lack of updates since June. There's probably been a reason or two for that ;). You can personally email me at j.skyrm@gmail.com if you want to hear more news about life here.

Don't mess with bulls!

Pamplona, Spain is known world-wide primarily for one thing – bulls. About two years ago I half-jokingly made a comment to Rob that we should go to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. However, when you get two close friends together, with some spare time, a little bit of cash on hand, and a taste for adventure – that off-handed comment hits fertile soil and the next thing you know you’re driving across France to northern Spain. Yep, I came across a week of vacation time and a GPS, and Rob took a 32-hour layover in Detroit to get the cheapest airline fare to stay at my place for the month of July. Add in a pinch of our senses for adventure and you have a combustible situation on your hands.

A loaded car...

Well, like most of our (Rob and I) endeavors, minimal planning was put into the trip. The idea the night or so before we left was that we’d simply get to Pamplona, spend a few days there, not get killed by bulls, and then go chill at the Atlantic coast of Spain and try to surf. Looking back, we had no clue what we were getting into. My initial thought was that the running of the bulls was an event that took place in a little Spanish town and drew only a small number of American and foreign thrill-seekers and a few drunk locals trying to show how “macho” they were. False and False and False. Upon arrival into the Basque region of Spain, we found that this was a “feria” - a weeklong party of epic proportions – and the third largest party in the World.

An accordion? Me?!

We arrived Saturday night to find over a million people dressed in white ensembles and red scarves. Well, they initially started as white. Sangria, the local “red” beverage of choice, flows a bit like water during the event. And after walking over many red stained, inebriated party-goers, we realized that our Grove City College, dry campus backgrounds had not quite prepared us for the scene to follow. The amazingly beautiful city of Pamplona had turned into a mass of unceasing noise, warm-sweaty bodies pushing you from all sides, the stench of alcohol and urine everywhere, and trash covering all ground not occupied by intoxicated human bodies. Rob and I quickly purchased the required red scarves and set out to explore the city, wide-eyed, trying to take in the scene. My high school Spanish slowly came out of hibernation as we began to meet all types of people from around the world. The bands played, the party flowed, and we wondered how we got there and where the bulls came into play.


We caught an early night that first night, 2 am. That may seem pretty substantial to those forgetting what college was like, but all things being relative, we left when the party just got going. We learned that the partying is capped off at 8:00 the next morning when they “unleash the hounds” - 620 kg (1350 lbs) of hounds - wielding two razor-sharp horns each. This was day 7 of the event, and already an American tourist had died earlier that week (the 14th in the history of the Feria St. Fermin) by goring. We decided to check out the 800 meter course and get some insight into survival before deciding if it was something we were really going to undertake. In true feria festival fashion, we awoke from our sleeping bags conveniently placed on the asphalt sidewalk to go witness “the running”. It was already packed by the time we reached it, and with the high walls protecting the many inebriated viewers, we didn’t see much action after the famous warning firecrackers were shot off. But by the horrified looks of the women on the balconies above and the rushing paramedics, it was an exciting run. Being off-schedule for the day (a.k.a. being alert, awake, and sober in the morning) Rob and I used this as a chance to explore the city and watch the busy workers cleaning of the mounds of party waste. We took the chance to talk with a few “survivors” who knew the 800 meter course and the “safest” places to run. Everyone we talked to seemed to agree that the course was very safe, only the dumb and drunk ones who try to run along the dangerous beasts and hit them with newspapers get in trouble. Duly-noted (as if it were a temptation!). But the thought of running still made me nervous. We took the rest of the day easy, sunbathing until the bullfight that evening – something Rob and I were both quite curious to see – which commences the party for the following evening.

With our tickets to the fight later that evening

How do you describe a bullfight? I watched as the matadors tightroped the wire of death and 6 bulls reach their vicious, bloody end. And even now I struggle with choosing the right words and adjectives to summarize the experience. I found it to be completely eye-opening being a mid-western country boy from the States. I ran the gamete of emotions during the fight: queasiness, bewilderment, excitement, confusion, enthrallment – in short: my world got a little bigger after that 3 hour period.

Continuing the trend of eye-opening experiences, Rob and I returned to our car in the early morning hours to find that one of the windows was smashed in and our personal effects sorted through. Most of our camping items that were removed were stashed under the car and three of our personal bags were lifted. In the frustration and anger of the moment, I managed to cut me head on the broken glass of the window. With blood streaming and police on their way, I did my best to rectify the cut so that the police wouldn’t become too suspicious. In a mixture of broken Spanish, English and French, we communicated the situation and spent the next 3 hours in the police station. All told, the thief made off with over 1400 dollars worth in clothing, cash, electronics and unfortunately passports and other documents - including my camera (sorry faithful blog viewers). Needless to say we didn’t get much sleep that night. Without a phone, I spent another 3 hours the next day at the police station trying to convince French insurance agencies to get my window fixed. Without much help on the phones and no window in the car, Rob and I decided the best option was to just head back to Paris and cut our losses. It was a very angry and frustrating ride home – no beach, no surfing, no running with the bulls…and a heck of a lot of bills and headaches to sort out when we got back.


But all in all, I think we will look back on this in a positive light. We got to see a ton of new things and made quite a few great memories in the three days. We’re just a little older and a little wiser.

Videos of My Apartment!

It's been a long time coming! You can finally see what life is like at my place...

Bienvenue!



Sorry! this one's a bit Blair Witch-esque (ie. pretty shaky)...




The Loft



The make-shift coffee table

Cheers,
J

Race 6: Françières

Well, nothing much to write home about this one...the result I expected after taking three weeks off to focus on baseball - I finished! But it was by myself and by that I don't mean a solo victory...

Taken from trekearth.com

Cheers,
J

ASC: Mix Match Mexican Night

Well, the Anglophone Social Committee, as we are calling it, (us native English speaking folks - except Michaël and Jean Daniel who are just good sports) decided to have a Mexican party and my apartment was volunteered for it...so here are the resulting videos of the evening full of Mexican food (my specialty), games, and anglo-fun...

note: the "Mix Match" refers to the type of clothes that were worn...

I feel like I should also gives some names and nationalities to faces on the video:
Michaël Meillerais - Angers, France
Amy Meillerais - American (Near Bubba's Used Tire, Tennesee)
Vicky Toole - English
Alex Simpkin - Australian/English
Andre Sternberg - American (Berkley, California)

The Bean Ball and Other Fine Points of the Game

Yes, I've played the American national pastime for most of life. But growing up there was always one aspect of the game that scared me - getting hit by the ball in the batters box. And I'm sure "wearing one" is a fear that is shared by many a young ball player. When you think about it, it makes a bit sense: growing up your mother always told you to play with balls outside and away from windows and other people. That is fairly logical. Baseballs have some mass and are quite hard, and kids tend to lack the motor skills necessary to have pinpoint control. So at what point does stepping 12 inches away from the hopeful target of the "Big Bobby's" errant fastball sound like a good idea? And considering the size of a typical little league umpire's strikezone (it isn't too inside unless it hits you), and that shots from the doctor still made me cry, I don't think this fear was unjustified.

Somewhere between these early years and late high school, the fear of stepping into the batters box began to fade for various reasons. But for me, I began to turn into a bean ball magnet. I consistently got hit more than anyone else on the high school team. And this trend didn't end in college where even though I didn't start every game, I led the team in the HBP category and could practically wear a jersey with a target on it during batting practice. During a summer league game, I still hold the "honor" of getting hit twice in the same at bat and still striking out (you don't get to take first base when you purposefully "lean into one" - well, most of the time :) ).

Well, just to confirm to those faithful fans back home that things still haven't changed, follow the pictures below.





So French Nationale 1 pitchers beware: if its a tight game and we need base runners, don't throw that weak-sauce 60 mile an hour "spinner" inside cause I'll gratefully lean over the plate to "wear one" for the sake of the team.

Cheers

Just Because...

I recently went on a leisurely bike ride with Thad, Zac, and Wes through the Compiègne forests. During a brief repose I commandeered the 6-year-old's bike and Thad has his camera ready. It's just me being goofy (imagine that!), but I thought it was a cool shot.

In the press!!

A reporter stopped by our games last weekend to interview the team and specifically the two new Americans that have joined the Compiègne Marlins. Le Courrier Picard is a fairly predominant publication in the region with a diffusion of nearly 70,000 daily. Its the regional newspaper which would be similar to a state-wide newspaper in the US. For our team, this was a pretty big deal. So for the interview itself, Andre spoke through a translator and I did my best on my own - not too bad for my first French interview...

Here's the link to the newspaper's website: http://www.courrier-picard.fr/courrier/Sports/Sport-en-Picardie/Compiegne-c-est-l-Amerique-!/

Here's the translation:

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

BASEBALL (N1) Compiègne, it's America!

Photo caption: The two American recruits of Compiègne, Andre Sternberg and James Skyrm, dominate partners and opponents in National 1 (photo R & D).

Placing first in their pre-season tournament, and agaist PUC in the upcoming home match next weekend at the Parc des Sports Mercières, the Marlins of Compiègne have been strengthened this season by bringing two Americans, Andrew Sternberg and James Skyrm, thus giving a cosmopolitan connotation to a workforce already flavored with two players of Cuban origin, Luis Gomez (coach-player) and Juan Coca. Americans on a baseball club, nothing better! "It's always a plus for the team. We have good players but it is true that without them it is a little more difficult," agrees the Compiègne vice-president, Jean-Claude Clettes.

Faced against Boé last Sunday, Andre Sternberg showed the extent of his capabilities, striking out 16 batters through 7 innings and scoring three of the ten runs in the first game. "These are some monster stats!" says Pascal Maitrot, the treasurer of the club.

Sternberg is an essential, "The weakness of the teams today is the pitcher. It is he who does about 60-70% of the team's work. But against Boé today, André has done 90% of work! "Said the coach-player of the Marlins, Luis Gomez.

It must also be mentioned that James Skyrm also scored three runs in the second game.

The performance of the Americans is valued by their teammates. "They help us a lot in the field. Where we make mistakes, they explain, calmly and simply how to fix and avoid it the next time. And it's rather nice to speak three different languages in the dugout," said the younger Giordano Makholm. Luis Gomez adds: "It's the best recruitment we've ever done!"

Sternberg, who came straight from California, is a globe-trotter. He arrived at Compiègne in offering his services two months ago, after playing in England, Germany and Israel, in order to discover new leagues.

Skyrm came to the Marlins for professional reasons, as a hydraulic engineer at Poclain.

"They are very motivated but sometimes I think they might be a little disappointed with the level of play because they surely know better," says Juan Coca.

Skyrm admits in short: "We (Andre and I) both have many years of experience behind us. André has played for nearly twenty years, and I for 16. The game here is a bit different from what we know in the US; there isn't quite the arm strength here."

With these strengths in their game, Compiègne is well-equipped to advance to the Elite league by winning the championship. Sternberg sees it, by adding a small personal note concerning his season goals: "Advance the team to the Elite level and ... become MVP of the league! "

From DEZEQUE ROMAN

Races 3-5: Choisy au Bac, Choisy la Victoire, and Dreslincourt

Here's a brief summary of the past three races:

Choisy au Bac

This is a local race put on in the honor of André Mahe who won the 1949 edition of Paris Roubaix. He was even there at the start to see off the riders. As for me, the legs never showed up to the race and I actually DNF the race. I left the course after around 30 minutes nearly in tears partially because it hurt so badly, and also because I don't like to think of myself as a quitter.

The evening turned out alright when I was able to get my picture with Mr. Mahe and France's beloved "Mr. Eternal Second Place", Raymond Poulidor (Second in the Tour de France 3 times and third place 5 times).

Choisy la Victoire

This race took place two days after the previous and this time the results were better. I managed to sneak into a break away group of about 7 riders that worked well together as we stayed out front for the final 30 miles despite the howling crosswinds. Geared all up for the final sprint to the line, I attempted to accelerate and my legs finally said, "No more, bro!". I had exerted too much in the last hour and half and I was juiced. Despite the lackluster finish, I was super pumped about my performance and placement.

Thad and the McAuley boys (minus Lucas of course) made it to cheer me on!

Dreslincourt

Well, mama said there'd be days like this... I had a mechanical 10 minutes before the race and wasn't able to warm-up or take a look at the circuit. Let's just say the first part of the race was a tough one. On the bright side however, Thad and his sons were there to cheer me on and he took some great pics of me and my suffering.

Cheers!

J

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 3

Race Day!

I found in Cycle Sport America, a wonderfully-written British magazine, this article on the The Berg of the Tour of Flanders, the Muur.

Every year, on the first Sunday in April, 92 meters separate one man from history. Ninety-two meters. That's all the height that the second-to-last climb in the Tour of Flanders gains. 92 meters that select the winner of the most charismatic of races in front of the sport's most fanatical fans.

Wielervolk they call them - the bike fans of Flanders. They love the sport of cycling, warts and all. Some love it to distraction, and to join them on the Muur is to worship inside their cathedral. The atmosphere builds for hours as they wait, like electricity building before a storm. When the first riders thunder past, the fans are red-lining with hysteria.

The lightening flash of color passes so quickly and the Muur breathes again, relaxing into a 364-day torpor as just another quiet road over a hill. Sanity is restored. Fans, who moments before were baying like hounds, become fathers and mothers again, sons and daughters. The moment has passed, until next year.

There's no doubt that this is where I wanted to be on race day. I have decided that I've used enough superlatives in describing this weekend. So instead of more words, here are video clips I put together. The first is of the hum before the hysteria of the race. And the second...well, let's just say I join in with the baying of the hounds. As a result, I have probably lost all remaining dignity, but that's ok...

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 2

The day of The Ride!

Well, I survived the night as an amateur camper. I woke up and began a full day of carbo loading (one of the reasons I love riding bike!) in preparation for the long ride ahead.

Let me see if I can describe the course and try to try to put the legend into perspective. The race itself starts in Bruge, known as the Venice of the north. The finish is in Ninove, an academic Belgian town about 30 miles west of Brussels. The first 100 miles of the course are pretty flat and rather uninteresting, a nice warm-up ride, until the Flanders countryside turns its head dishes out some of the hardest racing conditions on the planet. 160 miles is a bit much for me, so I decided to bite off the second degree 90 mile version of the course which included all the famous last 16 category climbs and cobbled sections. And interestingly enough, for the entire duration of the ride, I was no farther than 15 miles from the finish in Ninove as the course just winds around the Belgian backroads in search of the the cobble stretches. Every one of the 16 climbs is named, and within the cycling community names such as "Koppenberg", "Paterberg", and the "Kapelmuur" ("muur" translates as "wall") are mentioned in the same reverent tones that accompany the names "Galibier" and "Alp d'Huez" mountains of the Tour de France. Riding over cobblestones is bad, but climbing on them at up to 23% (on short sections) at the end of a race is just devastating (for comparison: a 1 mile 10% climb is likely not surmountable by recreational cyclist http://bikecalculator.com/wattsUS.html). Bike manufactuers often provide the professional teams with specially modified bicycles with reinforced joints, more compliant seat stays for add dampening, and longer wheel-bases to handle the incessant pounding. Welcome to Flanders!

Here is a quick video of me prior to starting the ride:




All told, there was a record crowd on the course for the day. Some 19,000 cycling fans, ranging from shaven legged boy-racers on higpriced carbon bikes to the pant-wearing old codgers on heavy mountain/commuter bikes took to the course to tackle the legend. It was quite a spectacle. So not only were there plenty of people to meet and talk to on the roads, there were large numbers of fans on the side of the course watching the bikes go by and encouraging those struggling to continue. My personal favorite was a very old little gentleman brimming with enthusiasm. This man sat in a lawn chair in full Quickstep team uniform (lycra shorts, jersey, and even the hat). And next to him was a life-size cardboard cutout of Tom Boonen (the Michael Jordan of Belgium cycling) and a large homemade banner written in Flemish. He gave me two enthusiastic thumbs up as I went by. And from there he sat, cheering on every rider that passed. He had me chuckling even a few miles down the road.

The ride was super-well organized with large rest stops along the way to pick up some orange slices, bananas, Belgian pastries, sports drinks, water, granola bars, etc. And usually, atop every significant climb you could find entreprising Belgians selling all sorts of food and goodies. I found these to be great opportunities to guiltlessly eat as many Belgian pastries as I could find. One in particular was a sweet rice baked goodie that had the texture of flan and tasted like nothing I've every had before. Amazing! I'd probably get huge if I lived there.

And as far the ride itself: I'd probably say it was the best 6 hours I've ever spent on my bike - no exageration. I found that I actually somewhat enjoy riding cobblestones. Sure, your backside goes numb after a bit and your entire body starts itching because its vibrating so much, but it takes a certain focus, concentration, and power output that, for me, keeps things interesting. I can see though, that when ridden at a lung-searing race pace, they would be anything but fun. And the climbs, well... they're worth every ounce of respect that they garner. And with all the fans on the side of the road I felt like I was on team Quickstep, racing up the climbs with the peloton chasing me down. I don't think anyone passed me on any of the climbs. I felt like a pro, that is until I saw my final average speed. Haha, we can still dream can't we? The Kapelmuur was the most memorable climb for me. I had to keep yelling for people to walk their bikes on the side of the cobbles as there was no way I was going to walk up that hill. I thought I was going to crash on a few different occassions as my speed neared the tipping point due to the steepness. At the finish line, with all the cameramen lined up, I decided to finish in style with a sprint, crossing the line with both arms raised. I did, until some inconsiderate guy cut me off and almost caused a horiffic spill. I'm pretty sure that photo didn't turn out like I envisioned it. But throughout the past 3 years of cycling, I don't think I've ever had that much fun or smiled more than I did during those 6 hours.

Afterward, I showered and spent some time shopping and hanging out with my Basque friends. Among a mixture of Spanish, English, French, and their native Basque language they were teaching me, I learned that one of the guys frayed his derailleur cable in a collision and rode the remaining 100 miles in one gear! Now that's crazy!

my Basque friends
*Koppenberg photo taken from http://3.bp.blogspot.com

Becoming an Official Flandrien: Day 1

You may have heard me quite excitedly talking about my upcoming cycling trip to the Flanders region in Belgium. Well, let me give you a rundown on one of my most memorable weekends.

So let me give you a bit of background. There are numerous races on the professional cycling calendar, but 8 events really stand atop the rest. These include the 3 grand tours (three-week stage races with the king being le Tour de France) and 5 one-day classics. I am rather partial to the classics. While in the Tour, the riders must endure a relentless varying course over quite a period of time, the classics are often so long and so difficult that you get that same intensity and suffering of a three-week race compressed into 6 hours. For me that is the draw to these events.

So when I saw in a magazine the opportunity to ride Flanders the day before the real event, I was anxiously very interested. Flanders, one of the big classics, is the crown jewel of the sporting year in Belgium where the sport of cycling is king. For a Belgian cycist, winning this race in front of a home crowd is bigger than the world championships and even rivals the olympics.
So I registered online and within a few days I recieved an informatonal packet (in Flemish) and a racing number. All seemed good to go except the question, "Where am I going to stay?" Well, there were numerous bed and breakfasts, hotels, and park benches available, but I decided to give the camping experience a try. Now you must know, the Skyrms are not a big camping family, and I never really spent time at summer camp until I was 20 as a camp councilor, so this was definately going against the norm for me. I headed over to Decathlon, the French version of Dick's Sporting Goods, and picked up a 2-second tent and a sleeping bag. With that and borrowing Adam's GPS, I figured I was all ready to go. I didn't have the power cord to the GPS but I figured with its outstanding battery life I'd be good for one leg of the trip. I booked a half-day from work, threw everything in my tiny car and off I went. Simple right? Maybe too simple...

With the sun shining, Van Halen on the stereo, and the open road in front of me, I decided it was a good time to take the scenic route through northern France into Belgium. So using the GPS I eliminated major highways from my itinerary and begin my serioulsy undirect route. When I noticed that the GPS said my arrival time was approximately 5.5 hours for a 150 mile trip and that I had been following the same truck at 35 mph for too long, I decided there was plenty of scenery to be seen from the highway. And as you probably guessed, it wasn't too long after turning the odometer a few clicks on the highway that I noticed the GPS screen had turned black. That's when my oversight hit me like a brick. "I'm somewhere in northern France, I don't have a clue how to get to my final destination, I don't even know where this road is going, and I don't have any maps!" So trying to think rationally, I figured we used maps before the GPS gadgets came around, so I went searching for maps. I eventually saw a rest area sign ahead and so I pulled off the highway expecting the typical American rest area - with maps. I, however, was way-off. It ended up being an industrial zone with a small airport and no gas stations or anything! So then I nearly got lost getting back onto the main road. Continuing down the highway with my one goal of finding a map, I saw the French version of Wal-Mart go past on my right perched on a hill. So I promptly took the next exit which, of course, wasn't actually an exit but the entry onto a perpendicular highway. After following the curves of the new (and incorrect highway) I manage to find a real exit and backtrack to eventually find the superstore and the treasure - Michelin maps. Let's just say that's when the really poor navigating began.

For those of you who know me, I'm pretty good with directions. I navigate quite well with cardinal directions and it has served me quite well. However, that skill, I am convinced, is only useful in the traffic grid of the midwestern United States. In Europe, everything is relative to the largest city. For instance if you want to get to Choisy la Victoire you "take the road towards Beauvais", the French would say. Well, my geography isn't too good, so let's just say I was hosed. In short, I got lost. I got lost a lot! I now know where Brussels, Gent, Lille, Ninove are relative to just about any city in southern Belgium. Unlike some men, I now have no fear or qualms about asking for directions - in any country or any language.

On arrival (finally), I managed to find my camp site that turned out to be an abandoned industrial park with a patch of weeds here and there. Not the Sheraton, but oh well. I beat down some of the overgrowth and figured that was good enough for my tent. I then decided to figure out who else was as crazy as I, to ride such a course. So I walked over and met my neighbors -two super friendly guys from Holland and a crazy group of 5 from the Basque country in northern Spain.

All told, I still ended up driving for 6 hours, but I got some good memories and stories from it right?

Onward to the ride!

The Day of the Bike

This is one of my favorite moments of the year. With the Tour of Flanders last weekend (which I will share my experiences with you in later posts) and Paris-Roubaix tomorrow, two of the five grand classics of cycling sit inposingl in the middle of April. When most people, especially Americans, think of cycling, the Tour de France and the Lance Livestrong images come to mind. But it must be said that while the Tour is the staple of professional cycling, it is so much more multi-faceted and dynamic in personality than that. To take that view would be like trying to sum up the summer Olympics by the swimming competition. The rest of the cycling calender consists of many different types of races with the 5 "Classics" sitting as monumental one-day tests of strength and will. And it just so happens that my two favorites take place on back-to-back weekends just out my back door. What I find most endearing about these two great races, is truely how difficult they are. Flanders and Roubaix are not only long races in the difficult northern climate but they are also raced on the cobbles. Quite simply, cobblestones are not to be ridden on with a bike. But they do. And it hurts. Paris Roubaix consists of 27 different sections of cobbles, totaling 53 kilometers of the pain inducing little buggers. Its not uncommon for the bikes themselves to be stretched past their limits and will break apart from the riders on them. Yes, with hardly a hill, Paris Roubaix is known as the "Hell of the North" - and rightly so. It's the photos during and directly after the race that best depict the great suffering that is endured. These races find the limit of a man's will. Cycling in its finest hour.

George in Roubaix - taken from velonews.com

This weeknd we are celebrating the bicycle here in Compiègne. Today there have been bike specifc flee markets, amateur races, cyclo tours, hobnobing with professional teams, book signings, and of course, Paris-Roubaix.

I am amazed at the accessability of the professional riders. I gathered some items around today to head off to watch the professional team presentations before tomorrow's start. I found my cycling club teamates and gathered with them behind the stage to meet the riders. The riders' willingness to stop and take pictures with fans, sign autographs, great old friends, etc. was definately above what I have come to expect from athletes in the US. While there may have been one or two exceptions such as Tomas Haussler, the 25 year-old overnight sucess story from Cervelo who looked like he just missed the Bon Jovi World Tour bus and accidently found Cervelo's, the riders almost blended in with the crowd.

One rider in particular I was especially excited to see was George Hincapie. For those of you who don't know, George is from South Carolina and one of the finest riders America has ever produced. Yet he hasn't earned nearly the publicity or fame deserving of his talent because of his loyalty and humility. While he could have gone elsewhere during the finest years of his career in search of more money or opportunity, he decided to remain Lance's loyal servant - doing more for Lances' victories than he will ever be credited for. When I saw him approach the stage entrance, for possibily the final year, in his blue team jacket and signature sunglasss, I couldn't help but feel a little starstruck. He walked up to me, I put my hand out while wishing him good luck for the following day. He warmly shook it, a bit visibly taken aback by the American accent. Still acting as a favorite for the race despite his age, I told him to "Win one for the Stars and Stripes!" He cracked a smile as the crowd pushed him on.

Also on the list of things to do on the day was to meet some of the riders from the orange and blue argyle armada - Garmin Chipotle. This young American-base team is the brainchild of Johnathan Vaughters. American riders in Europe don't often expect to hear their native accent, and when the do, tend to be pretty friendly. This combined with the fact that I keep somewhat uptodate on the team, brought me to wander toward their team bus to meet those on the "inside". I recognized the dark-haired guy walking toward me to be Steven Cozza who I saw race the weekend before in Belgium. I admire someone who prefers to race in the difficult unforgiving classics and asked him about his Flanders experience the weekend before. "Its a great race. It was a lot of fun!" he responded. This young 24 year-old is a wonderfully genuine and nice guy. He then turned the conversation to me and what I was doing in France. It was definately a cool moment to have our nation's best, take the time to talk with me and hear my story. I can't imagine that happening in many other sports. It was then that Will Friskcorn, hearing the American accent, popped his head out of the team bus to shake my hand and introduce himself. Garmin Chipotle won a fan today.

Steven and I

In my humility I must also write that I accidently mistook veteran Bradely Wiggins - Olympic gold medalist, multi world champion, and Tour de France yellow jersey wearer - for another Garmin rider and called him Will...oops! Sorry Mr. Wiggins.

But we were not done yet! Our cycling club, CSC, was one of the particpants that helped organize and put on the pre -race celebrations. Thus they honored our team by allowing the young riders (I considerd myself young) to go onto the presentation stage. There, clad in matching team jerseys, we presented French cycling hero Laurent Jalabert with a medal. Monsieur Jalabert was one of the most decorated French riders in history, owning the number 1 ranking in the 90's. I shook his hand and greated him in French. He returned the favor and had some nice things to say. Now how these things end up working out, I do not know. But of the 30 riders on stage, I was the one next to Laurent. So there my face was, plastered all over the huge jumbotrom and televisions for everyone see as he accepted his award. I couldn't stop smiling, it was too ridiculous.

Well, the day of the bike continues. I am off to watch an amateur race through the town square. I may even get a chance to ride in the commissaires lead car. We will see!

Cheers!

Race 2: Verneuil en Halatte

Photo 1: town of Verneuil en Halatte

Bonjour à tous! (Hello everyone)


Well, this weekend brought about race number 2 for me. I was a bit hesitant about participating considering I wasn't feeling in top health and my "form" (cyclo-lingo for physical performance level) isn't quite where I'd like it be. But after a strong week of training I decided to take the advice of my Aussie friend, "No worries, mate. She'll be right", so off I went.

The course really couldn't have been taillored any better for my style of riding. It took place in the middle of a small town with one good short power climb mid-way through the course and ended with a gently sloping downhill finish that was fairly straight and wide, permitting a good sprint at the end (my specialty).

Photo 2: Vestiges of an ancient castle


This week, my legs decided to show up to the race too. I felt really good and was able to fight my way to the front of the pack to make things "exciting" for everyone else. I attacked the main group on a few different occasions which always feels good knowing you're making others suffer. But one case in particular was memorable. There was a group of about 8 cyclist in an escape group ahead of the peloton when I decided to make a move. Ok, now for a quick lesson in Bike Racing 101: The main group of riders (known as the "peloton") usually stays together in order to conserve energy by drafting each other. Drafting makes it approximately 33% easier to ride at the same speed than going at it individually. Thus the Golden Rule of cycling is "If you don't have to put your nose in the wind, don't! Draft!" So I was at the front of this peloton watching to see if anyone was going to try to bridge across to the group of 8 "escapees" up the road. It wasn't long before two riders "attacked" (attempted to separate from the peloton) and I quickly followed their draft. Now, this is where team tactics makes things interesting. One of those 8 riders ahead was a teammate of mine. Now the goal of the peloton is to ride quickly to catch up to the escapees in order to preserve your team's chance at winning the race. But if you already have a teammate up ahead in the escape group, you get to follow that Golden Rule I talked about earlier - just draft and save energy. So since I had a teammate in front of me, I had no reason to do any work with the other two guys - I simply get a free ride. Well, obviously this isn't too well recieved by the other guys doing all the work, but they knew the rules when they rolled the dice. As the two individuals begin to tire, one of them put his hand on my shoulder and began to bargin with me "Hey, you're young," he said. "If we make it up front, I'll let you ride to victory by yourself if you do some work." I started laughing.


Well after a good 50 km (around 30 miles) at about a 24 mph average the rains came down making things a bit more interesting for the finish. As the final lap unfolded, I did my best to stay in the top 4 riders of the main group. My teammate and his group of escapees managed to stay away for good but there were still points to be won in the final sprint. I came around the last curve into the straightaway in third position with a careful eye on number 2 who looked rather nervous and twitchy. Just as I thought, he got antsy, and started his sprint too early. I quickly jumped on his rear wheel to draft, getting his rain spray in the face. I quickly saw my opening on the left side of the road. I accelerated hard on the left and as I begin to slide past Twitchy, he began moving futher left blocking me out. Suddenly I realized that I was nearing the 40 mph mark and I was running out of pavement! I slided out into the 4 inch-wide stretch of cobblestones covered in a thin layer of asphalt next to the dangerous curb. You could audibly hear an "Ooooooohh" from the crowd lining the finish as they expected my glorious tumble. Freaking out, I gripped my bars hard, hoping to go anywhere but left. Tightwalkling the curb for about 100 meters, I managed to gain control and pull my bike back into the street, but alas the sprint was over and I had lost my good placing. I screamed out in frustration, but it quickly passed as I was pretty happy to still be upright. After wheeling past the line I caught up with my teammates and found that Thibaud, our young superstar, took yet another race.

So in the end, the results may not have been there, but it sure was a good time. For the first time I got to be an active player in the outcome of the race. The results will come, for the time being I'm just having fun!





Photo 3: a more modern chateau in the village

Do a little dance, flash a little glove...

Known simply as "The Catch" (haha...not really), this is one of the finer plays from the tournement. This over-the-shoulder basket catch made in the third game of the tournament proably saved a run.

Many thanks to Julien Dormard for having his camera ready. Although maybe not an Omar Visquel caliber webgem, you gotta throw a bone to some of us lesser athletic specimens right?

Somehow it felt so much more agile that it actually looks in the photo. Note for next time: the flailing right arm somehow detracts from the gracefulness of a superb play.

Cheers

Racing in Europe

I can now say "Yes, I raced in Europe!" I am now officially a member of team CSC (Compiegne Sports Cyclistes - notice the spiffy kit)

I will admit that within the first couple kilometers of the race, a big smile shone on my face. I realized that I got to experience something that most cyclists in the US and rest of the world only dream about. Sure it wasn't le Tour de France, Paris-Roubaix, or Milano San Remo (not by any stretch of the imagination). But I got the chance to race my bike in the hotbed of cycling. It was soon after, however, that the smile disappeared and was replaced with the pain, anguish, and burning lungs of racing. 10 kilometers into the 60 k race the usual thoughts begin, "Why do I do this? I spend all that time on training so I can hurt like this?!? Did I really volunteer for this?"

I, however, was not in top form today. Coming off a late one the night before, I woke up with a sore throat and gunk in my lungs causing me to cough all day. Not ideal, but at least the sun was shining.

Readying all my equipment (including changing my brake pads, saddle, and handle bar tape), I gathred my new team uniform that was given to me the day before and packed everything into my little car. I had the directions written down on a post-it note, and off I went. Everything was going well untill in true French fashion, I found out that the bridge was closed. Not closed because of construction, weather, or an accident - you know, normal things - but because Continental Tire factory workers decided to display their displeasure for the effects of the economic crisis by burning a huge pile of tires - on the bridge. And FYI, France isn't laid out like a grid like northern IN is, so I was lost. My itinerary to the race was trashed because of yet another French protest (Friday was another national day of striking). Mumbling at the French under my breath, I continued to drive in circles with no definate gameplan. In my search for the tiny village of "Tracy le Val" I hit three dead ends in a row, followed a car with a bicycle on the back hoping he might be going to the same race, drove the wrong way down a one way street, and drove through the same intersection 3 times - those were just the highlights. Finally, I just gave up the possibility of racing. I decided I could at least watch it and support my teammates if I got there late - or at all.

I finally found the course a mere 30 minutes before my heat. But the very cultural attitude that got me into the situation, got me right out of it. "Bonjour! You say you're late? Not a problem, we're not really running on time anyways. Just be at the start when you can make it. You might want to pick up your racing license if you get a chance." I pounded my peanut butter and honey sandwich and got myself ready.

"C'est parti!" Our race category (the 3's) took off with the level 1 racers already 2 minutes ahead on the course. The pace was immediately blazing. The course rolled through small lazy towns, busy French intersections, past lovely churches, and over narrow, gravely paths that divided cow pastures. It was a little taste of France in all its glory. I quicly realzed that I had my work cut out for me. Legs burning and lungs screaming for respite, I worked at trying to handle my bike at 35 mph in a group of 100 cyclists with just inches of space in every direction. Stressful is an understatement. Winning the race wasn't the goal, surviving the 9 lap circuit alive was. I attempted on several occasions to make my way to the front but I quickly got passed every time as riders would fly through the narrow corners 4-wide. This makes Nascar look like an organized parade. Then the we were lapped by the category 1 racers. To add to the confusion, I didn't know who I was racing against. "He's wearing orange, but is he a category 1 or 3?" By the time we came to the end of the race, I still couldn't figure out if our group was together or if the group up front was the other concurrent race. When we hit the narrow gravely path before the final climb, I got blocked in and couldn't make it to the front. With both calves cramping, I managed to sprint past a good number of riders on the final climb but it really didn't matter, I didn't make the top 15.

Overall, it was a good day: I had a good time, got my feet wet in European racing, and saw where I need to improve. The race commenator even introduced me as the "New American" to the crowd.

And you know, it's funny. Driving away from the race, the foregone smile returns and you can't quite remember those negative thoughts you had earlier...

Major League...not the MLB - rather the Movie

Baseball tourney in Chartres!

So, I'm trying to figure out how to best describe to you what our team is like. I've never played with a group quite so..."diverse", shall we say. The best way I can put it: Playing with the Compiegne Marlins is like walking onto the movie set of Major League.

For those of you who haven't seen it, let me describe a little bit what I mean. For many on our team, "warming up" consists of smoking a cigarette and walking to your position. If you're lucky, 70% of the team will be sober after the game. If you're really lucky, 95% of the team will be sober before the game. We have a 48 year old Cuban player that swings a mean stick but only plays when he feels like it. We have another 50 year old Cuban, who probably throws harder than I do. I once saw a teammate hit a ball in the gap and walk to first base - but he promptly stole second and third. We have a lefty from California, that showed up out of nowhere just to pitch for us. He dominated the championship game with 12 strikeouts through 7 innings. You'll find that the coach will often kiss you on the cheek. Your can hear at least three languages consistenly spoken in the dugout. Our left fielder owns his own nightclub and wears soccer shinguards under his socks. A third of our team are too young get their driver's license in the US. I once brought sunflower seeds into the dugout and had to teach everyone how to propery eat them - I thought that was a baseball fundamental on the same level as fielding a groundball? I wore eyeblack for the championship game and you would have thought I grew a second head from some of the looks I got. I spend time trying to translate baseball chatter into French. How would you translate the following: "Gett'on one and drive it! Frozen rope right here, whaddha-ya say kid?" I'm really not too sure, but some of the French guys feel left out if I don't at least try...

And then there's me...For those of you who know me well, you know that I only know one way to play the game - as hard as I possible can. If I'm not dirty by the second inning, something is wrong. A headfirst slide is acceptable in all situations. The innings start and end with a sprint on and off the field - not a jog. I am the team's biggest cheerleader (and chatter-er). And always, always, always be aggressive on the basepaths. They gave me the number 1, and I wear it with pride. So you add me to the mix and we're quite the bunch.

Welcome to another part of my adventure I'm living in. I had to smile when I stood at shortstop with the famous Cathedrale of Chartres in the background, wondering "How in the heck did I get here?"

As for the tournament. We won it rather decidedly in my opinion with good pitching and defense. I didn't hit the ball all that well, but we got it done with the glove. It was a ton of fun and also completely exhausting - 4 games in two days. I didn't think I'd ever travel with a baseball team or stay in a hotel with the guys like that again. I've learned not to use the word "never" anymore.

As always, you can follow the team on its website at http://www.cbbc.fr/ including seeing the updated photos...

Cheers

A Great Gift

The name is Chouchi....I must apologize. We also stopped by Nounours' appartment too...great memories!

Baseball tournament in Paris this weekend and hopefully my first cycling race next weekend!! I'll keep you updated...

Cheers

Uh-oh!

How to sum up the latest news concerning the economic crisis' effect on my employment... "Uh-oh"...

We need to cut costs immediately. Currently, we are trying to hold onto jobs here in Verberie (they've already fired somee in the US and the Tcheque Republic), but things are looking grim. For those of you who don't know, it is a legal nightmare to fire people here in France, very much unlike the US. Currently, our syndicate is trying to come to resolution with the heads of the company but things are looking grim. If a proposal isn't met to cut wages, then we are going to cut 25% of employees. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be here.

But despite the news, I still have a peace. I'm the only one I know of who prays openly before lunch (Adam does too, but he rarly eats in the cantine). And as usual, I did so today. This time however, one of the workers across from me said, "say a prayer for us too."

Hold on - here we go...

A weekend for the memories

Salut mes amis!

We had a plant shutdown last week on Thursday and Friday so I decided to make the best of my four day weekend by heading down to the old stomping grounds in Nantes. Ronan Durand, a close French friend of mine (who also studied in Grove City for a few months) invited me down to see Kervegans play in concert. Now, Kervegans is my favorite French band. They play a sort of Britanic celtic rock that I love (you can check out some of the songs on their website: http://www.kervegans.com/). I saw them in concert two and a half years ago with Chris Bowser when we were studying in Nantes and we received the "special treatment". We got to go backstage and meet all the band members and we got assorted merchandise given to us. So when I heard there was another opportunity to see them, I jumped all over it.

Now in true Jamie form, I had to run the 500 meters to catch the train. This time however, I missed it - always a good way to start a trip. By the way, the train system is about the only thing in this country that runs on time. And the TGV trains are simply a trip (pun intended)...crossing the countryside at 200 mph in a traincar that feels as though its moving at 20 mph is something you need experience to understand.

In short I had a wonderful weekend. Friendships in France are a bit different than friendships in the US. French people don't understand he concept of simple aquaintences; thus this is why many view them as snobby to strangers. Ronan made sure that it was a weekend to remember with wonderful meals, meeting all his friends, gifts, and making me feel as one of his own family. If you're reading this, thanks!

On my train ride back from Nantes to Paris, I decided to write down my thoughts from the weekend. I'll enclose some of those notes:

"...we spent the day driving around running errands just talking, reminiscing, and shooting the cultural breeze. One really cool story from Friday afternoon was when we just happened to pass his grandfather’s house and we saw his grandfather “Bobbi” by the window. So we stopped to say hey and in true French fashion we stayed around for over an hour. When this 80+ year old man found out that his grandson brought his American friend, Robert began telling stories about the war. From stories that included the first time he tasted chewing gum that was from an American soldier to stories of his family members in the “Resistance” against the German invasion; you could tell he was honored to have an American in his midst. Then he began to recount, teary-eyed, how his older brother had been murdered by the Germans when he was 15 years old. Hearing history from highschool textbooks brought to life by the people who experienced its original setting was “impressionant” as the French would say. Not only that, but seeing the continued thankfulness after all these years from those who lived through the hell of World War II made me proud to be an American."

"The concert that night was simply amazing. So much energy! They put on a great show and even gave a shout out and a special song to their Anglo friends (that’s me). I’m the self-proclaimed biggest fan from the United States. I doubt there are too many vying for that title – although they should."

Cheers,
J

Test 73: Plumbing in a foreign country

Well, the adventure continues...

Test 73: Plumbing in a foreign country:

French plumbing, like many things in this country, doesn't make a ton of sense to me. In my bathroom (which does not contain a toilet but rather just a sink and shower), a random faucet head protrudes from the wall. It has no basin, no temperatue controls, and looks more apt to be connected to a garden hose than next to my hair spray.

Well, early this morning after a good bike ride, I exited the shower to find this estranged faucet dripping to the tile floor. So I quickly grabbed a large used popcorn tupperware and placed it below the leak as I tried to turn the the faucet closed. Turning the handle clockwise increased the flow. Ok weird... So I turned the hande in the other direction to find that it too, opened the flow further.

Uhhh...now what! My heart rate began to increase at the thought of a watering stream cascading the two stories beneath me.

As I continued to fiddle with the handle, and more and more water continued to pour from it and onto the floor, and I realized I had gotten mysel into another French Test. Eventually, I began seeing pieces of my faucet show up inside the tupperware...Oh no!! I ran to the appartment next door and tried to explain the scenario that was taking place merely 10 feet away, but I realized very quickly that my plumbing vocabulary is not very strong in English let alone in French. I ran back into the bathroom to empty the bucket and then ran back out to my neighbor for further council and a lesson in French vocabulary.

Just as my neighbor was about to walk her daughter to school she mentioned, "You should probably shut off the water valve to your appartment."

Great Idea! Where's that?

After leaping down the steps to our "cave" to find the vaguely described and quit unmarked valve, I shut what I guessed to be mine. Flying back up the steps, I found I had actually beat Murphy at his laws and got the right one the first time.

A quick Google search provided me with a good enough grasp of the vocabulary I would need to call the associated persons to get this issue fixed. But of course no one answered the phone. Why make just a simple phone call when you can go sort everything out in person?!? (Oops, that would be the American in me again - I have to suppress those notions)

To skip ahead a bit, I returned from work during my lunch break to find an Italian plumber knocking on my door. I suppressed the desire to sing the Mario Brothers theme song or to join Monsieur Luigi in his exploits against King Koopa (Ok, so I never got his first name but we can imagine can't we...). And with a smile and few wrenches he had my problems fixed up and ready to go before you could say Mario Kart. And it cost me nothing...

Off Monsieur Secci went with his wrenches and a few well-wishes, and that my friends is how we made it through Test 73.

Here comes 74...

Cheers,
J