Bulgarian grip

I emerged from the comforts of cafes and kebabs, and entered into the world jf Judo. Lights lit up the sacred training room, and even the air in Judo Club Yonnais smelled rugged; as if the atmosphere had been infused with the aroma of warrior sweat and battle. I am not here to participate. No. Probably never. 

The biggest workout I will get tonight will be from the flexing of my fingers grasping ever so tightly upon my camera. However, while I am clasping cameras, Stoyan, a Bulgarian exchange student, looks to grip his opponents, to throw, twist, and perhaps choke them into submission. He will do all of the work tonight.

For the past two months every Tuesday and Friday was the same. He would enter the university with a smirk as if he had a big secret and always seemed to be in a good mood.

“Why are you smiling?”  I  asked.

“Because man, tonight is judo. Ussssss!”

That smile was enduring. It is as solid as his Judo hardened handshake, which was bizarre because he almost never smiles. Sometimes the sunniest of days, the funniest jokes, barely earned a smirk from him, but judo somehow had his honest joy. 

I had to see  for myself. I had to know why.

“Politeness,courage, friendship, self-control, modesty, honor, and respect” are plastered along the walls. These principles of judo are tattooed on his face as he begins warming up; leaping, ducking, and rolling in preparation for battle. 

 

There are no smiles, not now. Not when he does what he loves. Only focus.

His arm is wrapped around the neck of his opponent who struggles to break free of the Bulgarian grip.

 His legs grapple his adversary, squeezing all oxygen from their body.  

One by one, his opponents tap out, but before and after every match they bow in respect.

 Even after physically humiliating someone, there is always respect. 

Honor seemed even more important when Stoyan battled an Old Judo Man, whose years of training showed in every move. Against him was the only time I thought that he had met his match. 

“Man, he is stronger than all of the younger guys,” said Stoyan.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with that guy.”

Actually, I wouldn’t mess with any of these guys.

 I’m a writer, not a fighter. 

  

The judo instructor calls the class to an end, and everyone sits around catching their breaths. Stoyan sits sweating against the wall. Without a smile, smirk, or hint of emotion. 

 But somehow I know, he had a great night.

He is a sad animal.

Everyone has a unique perspective, a way of seeing and experiencing the world. Upon arriving in Nantes, the 6th biggest city in France located 40 minutes north of La Roche-Sur-Yon, I wondered how to explain 6 foreign students and 2 french student tour guides’ impressions of an entire city. I can’t possibly know what everyone thought at every moment, but there are some things that go without explaining. They are evident.

Saint Paul Cathedrale is a massive marvel of architecture, which has seen its share of damage throughout wars. It seems even larger when compared to the smallest student of us all, Sinyi.

It’s evident: It is big. She is small. 

Our guides whisk us down a side street towards the Moat Gardens which surround the Royal Palace. These things were designed to keep invaders away, but are useless to euro toting tourists. There is a statue in front of the Palace which is locked in an eternal gaze at the Royal gates. We all agree it is beautiful because it is our first time there, but somehow I imagine the frozen figure is is quite tired of looking at it.

       

Inside the palace walls we find the open courtyard where the royals would host events and parties. It is surrounded by walkways giving us breathtaking views of the city. It’s as if at any moment we could make a royal decree, but we say nothing. It’s too beautiful. 

As we leave, there is a dog. Obviously, he was not allowed in, and I don’t blame him for looking so depressed. He has to stay outside while we live like kings and queens. He is a sad animal.

However, when we visit the Machines of the Isle of Nantes we find beasts with completely different attitudes. The metallic mammals, reptiles and amphibians are the work of François Delarozière and Pierre Orefice who crossed the imaginary worlds of Jules Verne and Leonardo da Vinci. 

Their proudest result is a mammoth who stomps triumphantly, while spectators stand in awe of his intimidating stature. His trunk waves wildly through the air, spewing water on the crowd, and at one point turns spray those on his back. 

One of the best, and even most beautiful ways to view a city is from the top. At the pinnacle of the Tour Bretagne Tour is the Le Nid (The Nest) which is designed just as its name and altitude suggest. 

It is filled with overgrown birds and egg chairs, and when we look upon the city we see where clumsy birds have dropped their eggs.  We can see all of the sights and streets, including the Saint Paul Cathedrale.

It’s evident, from this perspective, it’s not so big anymore.

Bisous, Bisous

It wasn’t until I arrived in La Roche-Sur-Yon that I realized I had been living a life deprived of affection. My cheeks were cold from the lack of casual lips greeting them everyday, and now I look back on my life in Texas wondering how any drifting cowboy could ever go without a bisous, bisous.

It took me off guard at first. People whom I hardly knew, kissing me hello, one bisous per cheek whenever I see them. I’m used to extending a firm American handshake of freedom and commerce to everyone, including females, and perhaps I gentle hug to the closest of friends. But when I saw the confusion, and perhaps horror, on the faces of french girls after seeing my extended hand I knew I had to make a change. I had to adapt. It’s the only way someone can survive in a new culture, and sometimes adapting can mean survival. 

I admit it was not a difficult decision.

Day-by-day I become more accustomed to bisous,bisous. It’s normal, it’s casual, to authentically greet everyone you encounter for the first time in a day, and sometimes it’s the same for saying goodbye. However, these bisous are not without their setbacks. One time I was on a bisous rampage. One morning I walked in the university to find a group of girl students. After undertaking my cultural duties to greet each one of them i was feeling very liberal with my bisous. Soon after I saw a female professor who I needed to talk about a class, but when I tried to bisous her she slowly moved back. I casually played it off while continuing our discussion, but I knew something was not right. You can’t go around just “bisouing” everybody.

After two months of being here I think I’ve learned how the bisous,bisous works. Perhaps, it is a part of me. It was never more evident than when I left France for the holidays. I met with a Croatian in Brussels, Belgium who told me stop all of these French things and to give her a big hug. When in Holland I learned to greet with three kisses, which was ok, but seemed a bit too much for my newly found French customs. As soon as I came within the Vendee boundaries I knew I was home. Everything made sense again. One bisous, equally placed to each cheek,  followed or preceded by a friendly “bonjour”. My cheeks will never be cold again.