Translating for a Cause

Through a friend I was contacted to interpret for the FAITES SANS OGM festival in Le Thor. I said yes, put aside the dates, and went about my life. Then I looked again and said oops, who is that? oh yes. That's why I'm busy this weekend.

I managed to re-ignite the contact and confirm times, payment (what they could afford) and place, etc.,

And off I went on Sunday -- they were set on Saturday apparently.

And what a delightful experience! I was there interpreting during the speeches of Percy Schmeiser (the Canadian farmer who had such a terrible experience being sued by Monsanto for theft of their patented canola plants, which had arrived by the wind from his neighbor's land! -- though in the end he won the battle) and Vandana Shiva, the mother of all seed preservers in India.

These two have worked for years to combat the ever creeping presence and power of Monsanto and the world of genetically modified seeds. They have worked to preserve the ancient varieties of seeds and the ancient ways of farmers. They have stressed and explained why organic and traditional methods get the best yields, nourish the land and feed families and communities. They have spoken at the International Monetary Fund, the UN and far and wide dispelling the myths propagated by Monsanto as to yields (far below what was predicted so confidently) use of toxic pesticides (far over what was predicted) and the reality of organic agriculture.

These two 'grosses pointures' as we say here (super VIP) were joined by their Mexican colleague (for whom I did not translate, but who was splendid and fascinating), Ana De Ita who has been defending the varieties and bio-diversity of the local corns of Mexico against the infiltration (illegal during a moratorium banning OGM corn!) of Monsanto's GMO corn into Mexico.

I had a grand time, learned oodles, and managed to convince the conference operators that they should hire skilled translators more often. It is a truism that many many people speak English in France. But, sadly, this does not always mean they can retain information in their heads for a few minutes, and repeat it in coherent sentences for the audience to follow. Nor is a basically good vocabulary always sufficient. And, well, just take a look at many a translated menu...

All this to say, I will be keeping in touch with this group and am likely to work with them again.

What's ironic is that I actually knew a handful of the actors in this festival -- from the attaché for the Green Party in the mayor's office of Le Thor (from Tango) to two of the volunteers and adherents to Folle'Avoine, the non-profit that helped put this festival together (also from Tango), to one of the civil representatives for the safety of humanity (from the Steiner School), to a number of faces from the Conféderation Paysanne (from my years as companion to an organic vintner).

And yet the job offer came via a friend in Avignon (thank you my dear!) not at all from these numerous individuals who've seen me regularly in the past few years. Apparently, I have not been particularly open or demonstrative as to my interpreting skills... or they're all simply so accustomed to communicating with me in French that they forget that I'm fully bi-lingual?

Ah yes, I've neglected to say that the day finished at a wonderful tango spot, and shoes in hand, I danced a lovely bit before heading home to my kids, my normal life, and an early morning the next day.

I'm rather in awe at how many aspects of my life came together on this day: Steiner school, tango, nutrition/organic agriculture/life-style, translating skills (including simultaneous), and my accumulation of knowledge on this topic (thank you Michael Pollan!, OCA newsletters and more!).

A Tango Demo to tempt the masses

I can be both a dancer and a spectator. T'is a pleasure both ways.

Tango in the Streets

Live musicians, dancing on asphalt (not easy to turn, I have to say), and many friends and new acquaintances. After the streets, we danced till 2 in the morning in the moonlight (literally for the last dance -- only by the full moon!) by the lake amidst the woods. T'was magical!

For future dancing afficionados, this is a mid-July festival, and lasts a week.

Feeling a bit more here

The house is getting in order. I'm putting away things as they should be, getting the kids' rooms ready for them, watering the garden and just re-investing it all with my energy and presence.

I've refreshed my sourdough bread starter (I stashed it into the freezer for the summer, upon the recommendation of Shirley Corriher in Cookwise) -- or rather I'm in the midst of refreshing it and have added flour and water to it to double its volume now for two days in a row. However, it isn't bubbling fiercely as yet, so I'll wait another day or two to make bread.

I've picked and simmered and canned elderberry syrup, sirop des baies de sureau, for this winter's various throat ailments (though it's rare that the boys are sick, Jonas has been known to cough occasionally). They were there, abundant on the trees, and I'm here. Thus, why not?

It was easy. I got out the ladder, my scissors and a basket and harvested away. Then I brushed the berries into a tub of water with my fingers to remove the stems and wash them, also sift out the dried or green berries, the branches, etc. I put them in my big copper jam pot with two litres of water and two plus 2/3 (all I had) kilos of sugar. I simmered for a bit. Then turned it off and let it sit over night. Then I mixed the whole batch in the blender -- breaking up the berries-- and put it back onto simmer. Then I poured through a strainer, pressing with a silicon spatula to get the least bit out. And voila. Now, no doubt, I should sterilize them. I don't think my quantity of sugar is enough to truly preserve. There was more juice in the berries than I anticipated, and I've quite a bit made. It was only 2 litres of water, but I've 2 bottles (750ml) and 3 jars (500ml).


In fact, the final product is a bit bland and vegetal in flavor. Though it is gorgeously deep purple and enticing to the eye, it won't replace black currant syrup for drinks or kyr any time soon.

Meantime, kidless for the week, I'm living a night life as I've rarely done since my youth. The days are too hot to be up and about (after 11AM that is) and the evenings are wonderfully refreshing and pleasant. There are tango balls all over the region, and so off I go. Being a night owl is not helping me get over jet lag. Quite the contrary. But as I'm able to work somewhat during the day (translations, email list, missive to the world for my tourism business, writing, letters, articles, etc.,) I don't feel completely slothful -- though definitely somewhat.

It is always such a strange thing to have time on one's hands. Once you become a mother, run a household, have a job, a thousand things to do daily, etc., it is simply surreal to be mellow and to discover you have time to read a novel -- if quite lovely. It looks like I'll be finishing Wolf Hall (all about the Tudors and Thomas Cromwell) by this weekend.

Tomorrow a few more errands, perhaps a bike ride? and more writing. Thus, perhaps, I'll feel virtuous and useful, if only briefly.

A summer of Tango Bals

And so I return to the world of tango. The outer world. The one I visited only in the company of JP and in which I wasn't particularly at ease.

The summer is a time of many outdoor bals tango. Tango en plein air. But not in Avignon. Here we have the theatre festival and the city hasn't given permission to the tango associations to have outdoor events on the glorious Place du Palais or elsewhere. Ah well.

And so, I travel. And I return to the places of yore. I return to the places I frequented only in the company of JP. At first a bit frightened. I contacted a new friend and asked that we dine together beforehand. I was hesitant to be there. And yes, within minutes I saw JP. We waved and I stayed by my friends.

But then I arrived on the piste, the dance floor. And from a place I knew not was in me I found the courage to catch the eyes of a cavalier and nod yes, let us dance. Someone I'd never seen before. After a tanga of four dances we graciously went on to new partners. I saw, greeted, gave the kisses to and plopped myself in front of every person, female and male, that I've crossed paths with over the last two years in the world of tango. And, I danced the night away.

Ahhhhh. No, I didn't dance with JP. He didn't invite me. He says he meant to but... when he came towards me and I asked if he intended to invite me, he replied in the negative. So I said, no problem, I was just about to dance with D. And off I went.

Rarely before did I stay till so late. Rarely before did I dance nearly every dance. But now, three nights in a row and for I trust two more, I am dancing my heart away. I am present, enjoying the women, enjoying the men. Simply happy to be there. No further agenda. I'm not looking for a lover. I'm not in need. I just want to dance. I am invited but many an unknown, I invite those I've known for years. It's a lovely feeling.

I am welcomed back into a world that barely knew me. I sense the shift in my presence, in myself. Where before I was scared, shy, anxious, in the shadow of JP, now I am there, on my own, in the strength and confidence of being a better dancer. I don't feel childish and at odds. Though I do occasionally let slip an 'oops' when I mess up. However, I no longer take it completely upon myself. The guidage of my partner must be clear as well for me to react and complete the gestures.

And off I go, meeting new and lovely people, sharing special moments, joyous and present. What a gift the universe is offering me! And yes, I did manage to find a lovely pair of simple black summer tango shoes on sale half price this summer. They're getting a work-out!

For those who are curious tango in this region is possible nearly all over. Here's the schedule as I know it now:

Wednesday : tango in Montpellier in front of the museum
Thursday : tango in Nimes at the Place du Chapitre
Friday : tango in Nimes at the Place d'Assas
Saturday : Tango in Martigues by the canals
Sunday : tango in Aubais at the winery Aubais Mema and in Aix
Monday??
Tuesday??

This week is the Tango Guinguette in Caromb by the Lac du Paty.

Testing the Waters

Hmmm, the single life. It's interesting. There are moments that are quite precious. Going out to concerts and events with friends, sleeping in, moving at my own pace, eating or not, just being with my dog Filou. But there are also curious and unsettling moments. I'm not truly sure what I want.

It is a chance to be with me. I need this. Of this I'm fully aware. It's a chance to shift directions, to go deeply into myself and my potential, the possible of my life.

I'm living a blend of lots of work, time alone, being with friends, and going out on my own. The tango world is there to amuse me, but also to throw me off balance a bit.

With the temptation of many an evening of dance this summer I agreed to go out with a dancer I'd danced with here and there over the past two years. It was truly a lovely date. But not.

The evening after I'd spent days cleaning my house for the renters, still exhausted, not completely present, stressed from the general over-fullness of the month of June. I said yes to an invitation to the opening night vernissage of the summer art show in the Palais des Papes and the Petit Palais. I said yes to mingling with the mondio of the Vaucluse and Provence. And I said yes to dancing by the canals of Martigue, a little Venice, under the full moon. But then I said no.

The thought, the act, the physical realness of a man groping me (somewhat gracefully, but also in a very deaf way), just made me ill. No, I'm not ready. Thank you, the evening couldn't have been more lovely, but, no. I can't. I've just come out of something intense and I just can't. I can dance, I can go out, I can chat, but that is all I can offer.

So, take your hands of me and take me home. Bye.

I saw him again Sunday night, after my day feeding guests at JP's and after my tango class with one of my favorite teachers. Not unexpectedly he was obnoxious. Les femmes sont des drôles de bêtes, he said. Yes, and no. I am simply not ready for more than being spun around the dance floor.

And so I was, by others, by my teacher, by pleasant unknown men who were respectful and amused. And then I went home alone.

Back to my cocoon of a camper van, back to my dog, back to my very good stack of books.

Yes, it is interesting being where I'm at. I'm discovering myself what I can and cannot handle. I am realizing daily what is possible, what I want, what I can tolerate, what I seek. The lessons are many.

A Year of Tango

One of the things that drew me to JP quite a while ago was his love of dance. It is the rare man who really loves to dance. Hence, along with our shared interest in wine (and my desire to learn more), we shared this passion from our first date.

A year of group classes (for which I drove the 45 minutes from Avignon to Nîmes) and a handful of private lessons have paid off -- to a certain extent. I'm comfortable with the basic moves now, and yes, I can easily follow the guiding of JP and my teacher. At the informal group dances held by our school, and the more formal balls, I say yes when others invite me. Sometimes this is a pleasure, sometimes it's rather painful.

I'm still hesitant -- will I be able to follow their guiding style? I do often forget the signal for a forward cross (croisé en avant). Will I be light on their shoulders? balanced? easy to swirl around? I still have work to do on my confidence, and on remembering to let the music as much as my partner guide my moves.

As so many of these balls happen during the hot summer weather, there are added ingredients to the mix which can be disorienting for a highly sensitive person like myself. For example: it is a tad stressful to dance with someone you don't know well. As a newly formed dancing couple we have at least three dances before us so as to get to know each other. Leaving this new partner earlier would be rude. These are the rules of the ball. Will we click? The heat of our two bodies pressed against each other, in the embrasso so favored by the Argentinians, brings our chests to touch, our arms wrapped around the other's back . . . Amongst other things, it's darn hot, thus we will and do sweat. Can my dress handle this?

I am strongly affected by the intensity of the men's scents. One might have heavily perfumed himself with cologne, another has scented gel stiffly holding his long curls, another might be emanating the aroma of simple savon de Marseille. There is a predominance of strong artificial scents which throw me. It's more jolting and dizzying than attractive. Natural pheromones emanating from a man recently showered are my preference -- but hey, this is Mediterranean France, that would be going out undressed, right?

Whatever physical awkwardness or shyness one might have had earlier in life, when you dance the tango you simply need to get over it. In the embrasso you'll be pressing your breasts (big, little, what-have-you) into the chest of the man you're dancing with. It is very rare to dance in the open position. So, here goes, I press my generous gifts from Mother Nature high upon the chest, hold myself high, breath, and await my guiding signals.

Gene Kelly and Dancing Shoes

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

Men dance in France. Oh but what a lovely thing. They truly enjoy it, and seem to have rhythm, a sense of their bodies and a proud pleasure in swinging around the women in their lives. Nearly every Frenchman of a certain age (35 and over -- well up to 60-65 if not older) dances "le rock," the swinging couple's dance that is somewhere between disco and bebop. It goes well to Rock Around the Clock and some classic 50s songs. But, the creative soul can manage it to nearly anything.

In the States, at least where I grew up, we practiced non-touching dancing, each in his own corner, facing each other, or maybe not (excepting some disco). This style of dance permitted girlfriends to dance together as the dancing hetero-sexual white male had become a rare creature. All through high school, and most of college, I danced with my girlfriends, bopping, swinging, turning. Only the rare guy joined us, and then few could go beyond a basic Elvis interpretation. I attribute this serious lack of dancing feet to be due to the intensely athletic aka macho male culture. I mean, does American football playing encourage a guy to then go and gracefully boogie? I did date a fabulously skilled dancing black/Chinese American of Jamaican heritage and Canadian upbringing for a time. We had a blast, but when we broke up, a part of me wondered if I'd ever have a dancing boyfriend/mate again?

I've always loved to dance. I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I grew up. I was that little (horribly cute and obnoxious no doubt) girl with blond curls who danced pretend tap on the teak coffee table to the duets of my mother and her friend the cellist. I wound up and put on all the music boxes in my grandmother's summer cottage and danced about the room, oblivious to any spectators. By the age of seven I was going to ballet class. Then I started going twice weekly; then I added on jazz modern, and gymnastics... At university, I tried my hand at choreography. But actually, I really just loved to move, being intellectually creative with my body wasn't what I sought.

When I came to Arles and started seeing Erick, we had a couple occasions and parties where we were able to dance. He liked dancing 'le rock', the favored dance of the French, but, hated my way of dancing -- separate but together, facing each other but doing your own thing. Either le rock or nothing. He'd leave the dance floor whenever he didn't like the music -- which was unfortunately way too often for me. Then, if I tried to continue dancing in my own way, I'd get unwanted attention from various men, married or not. It was very frustrating. However, our dancing opportunities were few, the ever rarer wedding bash, and then life, kids, etc., got in the way and dance fell out of my life completely. Years went by and my past life as a lover of dance was just that.

And here we are in the present. I bought Jean Paul An American in Paris the other day, and we watched it together during the past week's winter vacation. He'd never seen Gene Kelly dance. I, raised by a mother who adores all those wonderful Hollywood classics, was emphatic that he had to experience this American love letter to Paris, and watch one of the world's most fun cinematic dancers (next up, Singing in the Rain and the Gene Kelly duet with Cyd Charisse). He was amused by the romance, the kitsch, the nostalgia for a Paris that is no longer. I liked re-visiting the characters, the good American who is honest, energetic, optimistic, joyous, naive and enthusiastic. Anything is possible, if you want it enough.... We both enjoyed the romantic couple's dance between Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron down by the Seine, so smooth, so lovely, the push and pull, she sinking back into his embrace.

I can't deny that part of Jean Paul's charm is that he loves to dance. Long before there was anything between us, he told me about his tango lessons, and then his swing and salsa lessons and I listened avidly. When he later told me of his weak ankles and that he'd given up dancing due to them, I was dreadfully sorry. Why he asked? And here I taught him the English word "vicarious"; I'd been enjoying living the life of a dancer vicariously through him.

But happily, the ankle is better (if not perfect), and from the moment we started going out, we've been dancing together. I am re-born to a distant part of me. For too many years now I'd hidden away from myself how much I loved to move, how much I adore rhythm, and sensing each part of my body flow to the music. Now, if not weekly, then quite often we go out to dance. It might be Salsa, Swing or Tango, or le rock, always a good fallback. Salsa is pretty easy, swing can be terribly hard to do well, and tango... well, we're taking classes together by absolute necessity. You don't just dance tango.

When I first attempted to, I was simply two left feet stumbling over each other, no matter my past dancing history and my current yoga practice. It was hard. Jean Paul would try to teach me some basics, and then suffer through my stubbing toes and my insecurities, and nervousness. And I was hyper-conscious that it wasn't much fun for him, that he was being stoic and patient (he's had over five years of tango lessons). On top of all this, I'd never really done any couples' dancing, and learning to follow his lead, no matter the dance, was still a new skill for me.

A year since I was first introduced to this complicated art, it's finally getting easier. I am still at the stage of refining how to be on my axe and how to hold lightly to my partner (yet be chest to chest close too), how to stay longer on the standing leg and allow the free leg to be freer. Over and beyond these basics, I'm getting better at being attentive to the signals of my partner, and to move gracefully, fluidly from step to step... or wait till the signal is clearer.

Oh, and yes, for a shoe-aholic tango is awesome. Imagine, you get to draw your feet, fine tune their measurements, send them by email to a far-distant shop in Buenos Aires, and two months later, get a marvelous personalized package in the mail. The more outrageous and colorful the style, the better... So far, I've kept this shoe lust in check: I've only two pairs. But, the temptation for more is there...