New Year Newness

Turns out 2009 has started out right and January has been the month of unprecedented events. Haircuts, road trips, and cut up hands, to name just a few.

Let us begin with the hair situation. I blame the American for this since she put the idea in my head one day and I ruminated about it day and night until one day in a fit of spontaneity I finally decided to go for the gold and chop it all off. 3 years of hard work, all gone in the snip of a blade. Fortunately the stylist that was fixing to redo my melon was the world's happiest French girl and hated every second of it. I think we came in, oh I don't know, 2 hours before closing time, and in this country that means 6 hours too late. Sometimes that gets lost in translation. Needless to say it was a fail in a bigtime way and I came home looking like a 6 year old. The German was horrified but pretended to like it and Matt attempted to tell me he didn't know how he'd feel but "I could pull it off".... I'll tell you one thing sir - Nobody pulls off 6-foot 6 year old.

Round 2 came the next day when I went back to our old standby at the salon by the post office. She was so memorable when she cut my hurr a couple months back that I still don't know the name... but the important thing is she did me a solid and fixed the 'do. So I think I've come around and have jumped on the bandwagon. Shout out to my sister Sarah who cut hers a few weeks ago. Sorry to steal your thunder, but you know you're prettier anyway.


Besides the road trip to Carcassonne the other week, I took a couple of trips in this fine month. First was Saturday morning which isn't really a road trip in the true sense of the word since it was only 20 mins down the freeway but I had to test the limits of our new wheels to attempt to get to practice in time.

It all started when a certain friend of mine, who I won't call out by name 'cause I'm a lady like that, was supposed to catch a train to the airport at 9:04 AM but miraculously slept in til 8:45 when I woke him up and we have 3 minutes to leave. I'm shakin' my head. The cat decides to take a shower.

Dudes. I'll never understand.

So we miss the train from the Albi station by approx. 2.3 minutes and decide to pull a Bond move to try to beat the train to the next town on its way to Toulouse. The 90-year old behind the wheel of a white Renault on its last legs foiled that plan though and we missed it once again by 2 minutes. Just how many of y'all can say you've missed the SAME train twice? That's what I thought. Respect.

So at this point it's like 9:40 and I tearfully leave the friend to take the next train at 9:51 and pray he makes his flight. Meanwhile I got more pressing concerns in the form of practice in 20 minutes, no court shoes with me and a 23 minute drive ahead. So I kick the Kia into high gear and attempt to beat the clock. I failed and despite going 170 km/h for most of the drive was 8 minutes late. Unexpected road trip vol. 2 of 3 unspectacularly complete. The GPS lied to me and my coach was none too pleased. Luckily he was a little distracted when I arrived and this is where the next event seamlessly comes in...

The American. I'ma choose my words wisely here - it's obvious we're tight and I've got nothin' but love for her, after all she's my literal saviour in this country - but she has the unfortunate habit of accidentally getting hurt in one way or another everyday. I mean EVERY day.

Case in point, Friday night while cutting fruit (I'll once again not name names but it was produce of the yellow variety, and ends in 'nana') somehow the knife slipped and she filleted off the side of her left pointer finger. So bananas, knives and bits of finger are flying and the blood starts gushing. Luckily we worked some magic and pieced it back together so she made it through the night.

The next morning our coach gets the news and being that The American is a setter and her hands are literally her livelihood, this was kind of a big deal. As he's trying fruitlessly to redress the wound I come flying through the gym door - hair unbrushed, sweating and gasping for breath. I thought I was off the hook for the first 3 minutes and attempted to pretend I had been warming up in the parking lot... but I was busted shortly thereafter.

So in an attempt to redeem a bad start to the weekend we won a game Saturday night. Just kidding. Well, we did, but actually The American and I redeemed it by taking a little trip Sunday on down to the French village of my youth 2.5 hrs away. I've been back to Montagnac twice since back in the day of running those streets as a 6-year old but with the new haircut, this time I finally looked the part. We poked around a little and I found my old house only to sadly discover nobody was home and the front window was boarded up.

#34 Rue de l'Hospice. The house formerly known at #26...
until the renumbering of 2003 came along.

So in the spirit of nostalgia, I took a walk around the way to what my siblings and I affectionately called Geezer Corner to catch up on the latest village gossip and chew the fat with the local elderly. Suckily, I'm sad to say that times have changed and these days, between me and the scraggly pigeon, I'm the oldest thing sitting on that classy cement bench.

Lost as last year's Easter egg

Montagnac tour complete (yeah back off, it's a small place) we were on to bigger and better things to watch a some men's ball in a town next door. Some Canadian players were in the house and represented for the home and native land. Side note - to me, men's volleyball is like the kid to get picked second last in gym. He's the kid that wants to be taken seriously and somewhere under the too much exposed man-thigh, short shorts and cheering & hugging between every point, he has talent. It just gets overlooked sometimes. And don't worry, I would kill to watch it daily and I am bearing in mind I play the women's version of that sport so I'm not sure what that says about me... or my kid brother who tears up the guy's game... but it's all love.

So yeah. That's about all I got. But last piece of newness - turns out since the Ukrainians screwed up their visas for this round of Euro cup, they had to forfeit and my dream to play against Severodonchanka Severodonec was foiled. Fortunately my dream to get HANDLED by an Italian team will finally be fulfilled as it looks like we automatically advance to quarter finals against Jesi who beat Cannes who beat us. That means nothing to anybody but me and French kids but suffice it to say you can all start praying for me now. And for The American please. We need her. Fingers and all.

Crazy castle-y type place we found on the way

My future home

Admiring my future digs

Doin' my best Ray Charles

Cheating Death

So this has been an interesting week. A collection of recent happenings...

First off, I had the rare opportunity to eat with wooden utensils at a post-game meal Tuesday. You read that right. A game on a Tuesday. It's unprecedented. Just kidding. But yes, wooden silverware, circa 300 B.C. I suppose silverware isn't really an accurate name at this point... But take a moment to appreciate how much more exciting a meal gets when you're eating off uncoated wood. A fool's just beggin' for a splinter. Lip splinter... now that's something you just don't get to say everyday.

Livin' on the edge

The highlight of the evening came when I showed the above "tools" to Matt & The German upon returning home (you better believe the American & I kept those. Collector's items, no doubt), whose first comment was "Hey, this is balsa wood.". Balsa you say... That was definitely my first thought when I saw those and put the first death-cheating forkful of eats in my mouth. Luckily my lips survived unscathed and will live to see another day.

Second, in keeping with the death-defying theme of the week, it snowed quite a bit ("quite a bit" in France means literally about 2 cm) and the country was in a panic. We decided it would be an opportune time to head to Carcasssonne, a sweet medieval city supposedly about an hour and a half away. The way there was an adventure since the GPS took us the back route through some sort of mini mountain range and it got down to a record -9 degrees Celsius which just blew the American's mind. Since I talked to my moms last week and she reported it was -31 out, I celebrated by pullin' out the flip flops and rolling all the windows down.

Family picture in the mountains

Unfortunately upon descending from the mountains, we discovered that not only had it had snowed at lower altitudes as well (and this was accompanied by a biting easterly wind) but the trip taken more like 2 hours. Lucky for us, this means we arrived in Carcassonne at exactly 5:03 PM, aka 3 minutes past closing time for EVERY shop, cathedral and restaurant in the city... Of course we did.

We did a quick once over of the ville, which was a crazy deja vu for me since the last time I was there was as a spry young 6-year old, navigatin' the cobblestone streets on one rollerblade while my brother was rockin' the other boot... Ah yes, 1992 was a good year and back in those days, a pair of rollerblades went far in the Meek household.

Anyway, we saw the outside castle-y bits and after finding that though every sign of human existence had vanished, the main cathedral was unlocked. If you've ever been inside a pitch black, empty, 400 year old building, you know how creepy it can be. The wind picked up at a key moment, knocking the half-open door about, which made us think they were lockin' up the place and we'd get stuck inside for the night. But we made it out alive and I cheated death for the 2nd time this week.


On the way home, it was sheer chaos. Apparently 2 cm of snow is cause for mass hysteria in France and people were driving at approximately 20 km/h (aka walking speed for the Americans out there), hazard lights a-flashin'. We saw one guy going maybe 40, but he was leading one of the convoys of cars we saw travelling in packs and so was just takin' one for the team to chart a course in the treacherous conditions.

Being that I've seen my fair share of winter driving conditions that put this "storm" to shame, it was time to show I had the skills to pay the bills. I was going a reasonable yet cautious 80 km/h and I think I gave more than a few monsieurs cause for concern. Plus it only took us 2.5 hrs to get home so we drove for 5.5 hours to spend 1.5 hours in Carcassone. A successful trip by all accounts.

By the way, to show that I wasn't just tryin' to be a rebel without a cause, all the snow melted the very next day... there was kind of a lot.
'

By the way, I neglected to mention we finally got new cars a few weeks ago.
It is now much more difficult to break traffic laws on the DL.

Finally, this has nothing to do with anything but it was my Frenchest moment so far so I feel the need to share with the class... My teammates were trying on each other's berets before practice yesterday. That's some realness. Who, under 50 or otherwise, owns a beret, let alone wears it, let alone compares it to someone else's and has beret envy? Only. In. France.

P.S. Today I learned that the French do not, in fact, call the delicious breakfast staple below "french toast" but pain perdu aka lost bread. Free lesson for the kids.

Cross-Country Journeyings

After enduring what can only be described as a road trip of epic proportions, I unfortunately no longer have usable legs or a tailbone. My sports career has been a long and fruitful one and though I'm forced to walk away from the game I love, I'd like to thank my parents, my teammates and the many coaches that have been there for me al--

K, bad jokes aside, I'm semi out of commission because we had a match up in Calais this weekend and instead of flying - as I'm told the club used to back in the pre-economic fiasco days - we decided it would be fun to drive. And by "we" I mean the president and coaches.

So Friday after training we once again saddle up the ol' mini-buses and the caravan across the entirety of France begins. According to Google maps, it's supposedly only about a 9 hr trip... but somehow that translates into more like 11-12 hrs when you stop for multiple bathroom breaks and oh, I don't know, a full 3 course proper sit-down lunch. Forget making good time, it's apparent these people appreciate a good meal. I mean really appreciate. Then again, I guess you know you're in the culinary capital of the world when...

So, many hours later, we arrive in at our destination. The gym was old-school sweet and channeled somewhat of a hockey rink feeling. Naturally, as a Canadian, I felt right at home. The hockey rink vibe was due to the fact that the stands directly behind the bench were divided into what can only be described as penalty boxes. Enough room for maybe 3 people in each, I liked to think each walled section could either be utilized for crowd control to maintain the peace during a rowdy upset. Or sold as exclusive high roller court-side suites... The marketing department and I are in negotiations.

But I digress.

So we roll in and took care of the biznass we came for, winning in 3. Holla. Nevermind we won the first set 25-15 and then somehow barely came out alive with a 31-29 W in the 3rd... A win's a win. Oh and I played pretty well, which is a refreshing change from my on-court antics of late.

Anyway, travelling to/being in Calais was interesting for a couple of reasons... First, being a native of a Commonwealth country, and the fact that we were so close to Britain I could almost taste it, I felt a special connection with the (true) motherland I hadn't felt before. Heck, a couple times I almost burst into a rousing solo rendition of God Save the Queen. I'm not sure if all the driving was getting to me but I think it was just the proximity to the English-speaking world and the possibility of hearing decent music that warmed my heart. It doesn't really make sense, but allow me to explain:

In my opinion, the French do many things well. They do a good meal. They do a good wine. They do a good revolution. However, they do not do good music. I'm sorry, but it had to be said. 4 months in and the standard French musical fare is starting to get to me... I've been fed a steady diet of bad dance music, campy guitar singalongs and old Rihanna. And I don't get it.

The English - while their traditional cuisine leaves more than a little to be desired - I say they know how to do good music. Obviously and especially good rock, to which I'm particularly inclined. I recognized a couple songs in the restaurant during the post-game meal that nearly brought tears to my eyes since they were both 1) new, and 2) decent. And both by indie English bands that have not seen the light of day further south of the "border". I love France, don't get me wrong, but ah for a moment I pined to be back in a land of decent musical taste.

Moving on.

This trip was also interesting because the Canadian in me was brought out more than once. Obviously the hockey-gym thing was a factor but also because it started to snow heavily on the beginning of the return drive home. My panicked coach - being an inexperienced southern driver - handed the team wheels over to me and let me just say - the mini-bus might not look like much, but she handles like a beaut.

Actually, I chilled in the back of the bus and just hoped the unfortunate weather wouldn't tack on an extra 3 hours to the already lengthy voyage. It did make me reminiscent of home though... For about 2.4 seconds. A swift snowball to the face from my asst. coach snapped me out of it though, and I quickly remembered this was why I left Alberta in the first place.

So cold, so bored.

The real Canadian in me also shouldn't have been complaining about the voyage because this little joy ride was chump change compared to many a road trip I've taken in my youth. I don't know if Canadians don't believe in jet travel or are just too cheap for it, but I've concluded it's more something like a twisted rite of passage. 14-hr team trip to Vancouver? Check. 20-hrs solo drive to Winnipeg? Check. Oh wait, twice? Check. 36-hr family vacay drive to California? Check. Check. Check. (We made that trip a lot...). You get the picture.

So 10 hours across France shouldn't have been a big deal but, just my luck, I was sitting on the only chair in the van that was more of a jump seat than a real spot. Less padding, more pain. Basically, after my laptop died I had nothing left to focus on but the soreness of my bod, the van's mood lighting (there was an actual button on the ceiling, next to ON/OFF and DOOR that said MOOD. When pushed, it cast an appealing orange glow about the interior of the vehicle. I swear I'm not kidding this time) and the horrible music playing on the radio.

Not to be a downer, I'll finish this by returning to the fact that we played well, and more importantly, this trip is done for the year. Calais comes to us next and I will appreciate every minute I spend not in a mini-bus rumbling down French freeways... Which, at some point during the trip, ALWAYS lead to rolling down the main street of a small village going, at most, 40 km/h. Who planned these "highways"? It's another thing I don't think the French do well... But that's a story for another day.

Je m'appelle Mini-Bus

Earlier last week our coach Stéphane decided to be so kind as to offer to leave us his car for the weekend. Now many of you are familiar with the impressively petite size of French cars and anticipating his vehicle to be something of this size, we (the American, Bulgarian and I) enthusiastically accepted his generous offer. Unbeknownst to us, Stevie is not your typical Frenchman and does not own a typical French car. He rolls deep in a Fiat Scudo aka, Le Mini-Bus.

First off, don’t be deceived by the word “mini”. Well actually, it’s probably like, the size of your typical North American minivan, but let’s ponder for a moment on the narrowness (narrowness?) of European roads where it’s not uncommon for small children to become trapped between buildings while trying to cross the street.

Knowing this, we threw caution to the wind and decided to saddle up the Mini-Bus for the first time Saturday for a trip to the grocery store. All was going well as we eased her out of our parking lot and through the labyrinth of Albi’s one-way streets, all the while folding in the side mirrors trying to avoid the other cars parked inches from our lane and the grandpa out for his morning bike ride. Turns out the downfall of our journey would come early as we approached our first of 17 roundabouts with none of the directions out of it looking at all familiar.

The butcher talking to delivery guy outside his shop looked amused as us 3 screaming foreigners sped past not once, not twice, but thrice. Actually it was 4 times around before we decided we needed to get off this ride and chose the wrong road. A couple wrong turns later, we eventually resume the proper course and make it to the store like 15 minutes before closing time.

So we buy our goods and thinking all the day’s drama was behind us, begin the return trip back to our ‘hood. Our downfall on the way home turned out to be the miniscule blue road signs affixed in size 4 font to the sides of buildings (see picture below), entirely preventing us from finding the street we needed and resulting in another 3 spins around yet a different roundabout. Shout-out to my Uncle Bruce who once set a Canadian record with 67 times around a traffic circle in Calgary. Our effort rivals his only because roundabouts are about 1/4 the size over here so we were basically flying around it at mach speed a la teacup ride at Disneyland.

A little appreciation for what we're deailng with...5 points to whoever can read this street sign.

Anyway, to make an already long story short, we made it home unscathed and thankful the Mini-Bus didn’t take anyone/anything out on the way. Unfortunately that wasn’t our last ride and today we had to take her out for another trip, this time into the city center. Basically we learned buses of any kind should not be parked underground in France, least of all by foreign people under 25. After trying fruitlessly to park in 2 different spots, we spot a good one and the American, Desma, begins what was literally an 11-point turn to get the vehicle backed into a space originally meant for a child’s wagon:

As we walked out of the parking lot, sweating profusely, I vowed that until we get cars at the end of the month I'm walking.

This is how happy the Bulgarian is about never having to ride in the Mini-Bus again...