Christmas: though many see the holiday as a time to spend with loved-ones and to experience the merits of generosity and goodwill towards humanity, I have long seen it as a cutthroat competition showing supremacy over one’s peers in who can take the festive spirit to the extreme without causing emotional or bodily harm to oneself or those in immediate proximity.  Christmas has winners, and Christmas has losers.  You may ask yourself, “How can you lose Christmas?” Well, let me take you to Christmas Eve of 2006: in order to comprehend the gifts of “the three wise guys,” Father Bradshaw decides to get some frankincense for the family.  Extreme festive spirit? Yes, but unfortunately for my family, Father Bradshaw burned enough frankincense to raise Jacob and Robert (Bob) Marley from their Dickensian/Rastafarian graves and to set off the smoke/incense detector all through out the night. Needless to say, Pa lost the Christmas of 2006.

Don’t worry though. Pa isn’t the only loser. My brother lost when he almost burned down the house one year, and even my little old grandmother lost once when she decided to eat the Froot Loops we were using to string along the Christmas tree.  Through all of these difficult times though, I can safely say that I have never lost Christmas…this isn’t to say that I have always been a winner at Christmas. I don’t have the confidence or the power to make that presumption, but I certainly have never come in dead last.

This year, there was a fairly high probability that I would lose Christmas in part because I have chosen to stay in France for the holidays, separating the Bradshaw Clan for the first time in 22 years at the holiday season.  However keep in mind that there was a fairly high probability, until Sunday.

For those of you that do not know, Christmas trees cost an arm and a leg here in France (the cheapest I could find was around 40 euros for a shrub), and while I knew I was going to be away from home this year, that didn’t mean that I was going to be without a Christmas tree. So as I normally do when I face adversity, I ran away as far as I could…but this time, into the woods in search of a 5-6 foot abies grandis (Grand Fir Tree) on a gray 45-degree day. Extreme? Somewhat, but you should also know that cutting down trees in France is EXTREMELY ILLEGAL. But while I try my best to abide as many laws as possible for the safety of my loved-ones and myself, there are some universal rights that I believe go above the laws of man and one of those is the right to get festive.

I walked about 7 miles into the woods up the Edre and onto the Cens River (a small offshoot heading east) in order to avoid cutting down a tree that would be terribly noticeable. I got about ¾ of a mile off the trail into a wooded area where nobody can see me and where I can spot a patch of evergreens, and what should my wondering eyes should appear, but a 6 foot abies grandis. Was he rich with color and branches? No, not really…it was kind of a tall Charlie Brown tree, but it was my goal.

Now, you might be asking the question, “How is he going to cut down this tree? Is he walking around France with an axe?” No, I don’t have an axe, hatchet, or saw with me here, but what I do have is a blunt serrated butter knife and the heart of a lumberjack. The tree came down, and I was a glass of scotch away from being the most masculine thing in the forest.

While my “swag” was definitely on, my journey was far from over, for as I had just knowingly committed a minor crime and now had to transport my abies grandis back into the city to my apartment without attracting the authorities.  Once I emerged from the forest and back into the urban environment, I still had a 4 mile journey ahead of me back to my home, and I had two options: (1) sneaking with tree in hand on back roads--prolonging the time in the open to be seen or (2) taking public transportation through the heart of the city--shortening my time in the open but raising the risk of detection. I chose public transportation, and so for 20 minutes, I road with a tree in the back of the tram.  I get out near the center of town and immediately look around and then I saw them—two police officers looking in my direction.

I was terrified and almost peed myself, but luckily they were not looking at me but the manifestation of French strikers walking up the street behind me. Being a bearded man holding a 6 foot abies grandis, I figured that it was the best camouflage that I could find, so I decided to join the manifestation and use it to bring me closer to my home. Once I made it through the mass of smelly, peace loving, bureaucracy hating strikers, I started to make my way towards my neighborhood. I was on the home stretch, but unfortunately, what was walking 60 yards behind me? A police officer. My heart was in my throat. My piney victim clenched in my sweaty hands. I thought it was over, but then nothing short of a Christmas miracle happened: I feel something very hard and cold hit my body. I look up into the sky and then immediately have to look down at the ground as coin sized pellets fall from the sky. It had begun to hail.

Now while some select few might think that this is a disaster, those select few fail to realize that HAIL IS THE GREATEST WEATHER ODDITY OF ALL TIME. It makes no sense. It is warmer than freezing yet ice the size of golf balls is falling from the sky.   Is hail painful? Of course, but in my mind, hail is one of the most beautiful types of pain.  Of course one should always try to find shelter to avoid being injured by hail, and that is exactly what my trailing police officer did in going under the awning of a local fruit stand. My shelter, however, was 6-foot abies grandis that I held over my head for the rest of my journey home leaving my potential follower stranded.

Extreme festive spirit without harm to loved-ones or myself? Yes. There is no chance that I can lose Christmas in my books now. However, I must say that the winner of Christmas in the Bradshaw family this year is my brother, Nathan, who has taken the time out of his extremely busy schedule to visit me in France for the holidays. No amount of frankincense, trees, or hail could make me happier this season than to have him around. Ma and Pa, I hope you can step your game this year because the festive spirit is in full force out here in Nantes.

Nantes: I have been in this city for a little more than two months this trip and about six months in the past two years.  While I do enjoy a squatter’s life style from time to time, I really yearn for a feeling of home. Nantes has provided me with that sense, and I am very grateful for it; HOWEVER, Nantes (the fifth largest city in France) is a much different place than the two other places I have called home, Swannanoa, NC and Sewanee, TN (two rural towns in the southeastern Appalachian Mountains). I have really enjoyed the city life, and I’ve learned to not stick out as much as the Beverly Hillbillies; but at times, I wish I could step outside my door and experience a more rural style of life.  I wouldn’t call it homesickness, but rather home-convenience.

December 1st, I decided to make my new home convenient in this way—I hunted for nature.  Flowing into Nantes, is the Edre River (an offshoot of the Loire). This river has some of the only trails I have seen in the city—granted paved trails but trails nonetheless.  I have walked along this route for a few hours at a time enjoying the scenery and the brief moments serenity, but the Edre runs for 60 miles outside the city, so I was sure that there had to be more woods to be explored.  With no map, no compass, and no inhibitions, I set out at 8 am on a chilly morning with water, food, and my five senses perked to go to Nort, a small town about 20 miles north of Nantes on the river. Did I know if there was anything to see in Nort? No clue…but I just wanted to see something that was different from what I had already known.

With a quick pace, my journey took me on beautiful trails filled with colorful leaves and scenic waters, a grand total of twelve small chateaux (two of which I accidentally trespassed on, and one that was in ruins), grassy fields, and a vineyard.  I reached Nort, but in all honesty, it was kind of disappointing. It was a good thing in the long run, because it gave me the motivation to turn around and head back home before the sun started to set. On my way back though, I happened upon a short but steep rock formation that had a route to the top almost like a natural latter.  To preface, I am by no means a rock climber nor can I ever claim to be, but I do enjoy the occasional bouldering.  I ascended, and at the top, walked for a few yards. What should greet me but a field of what (at the time) I could only assume were yaks.  No, that’s not a typo…Y-A-K-S.  I take a few photos, and then a man in the field wanders towards me.  Our brief conversation translated in to English for non-French speakers:

Farmer Brun: Hello…can I help you?

Me: Hello, I am sorry if I am trespassing. I just climbed the rocks to see what was up here.

Farmer Brun: Yes…I can see that…you’re not trespassing. We have visitors all the time, but those hours are passed.

Me: Oh I understand, I’ll be on my way…Hey um, are those yaks? (Thankfully, it’s the same word in French)

Farmer Brun: Yes…yes, they are. We raise yaks and highland cattle together here. (He points to where the longhaired cattle are)

Me: Hmm that must be a really rewarding experience (Resisting the urge to say, “Holy cow, that’s so freaking cool!”). Thanks for talking to me, and I hope that you have a nice evening!

Farmer Brun: You too. Come back and see us sometime, but next time use the road over there. (Gesturing to the simpler path)

The conversation was over.  I went on my way, and I felt as if my journey was complete.  Obviously this is a very short rendition of what was a longer adventure, but if for the sake of trying not to bore the majority of oddballs that read these blog posts, I try to keep things a little shorter.  If you would like to hear more about these adventures, I am always happier to go into greater detail. Otherwise, know that I found what I was looking for and more, and as long as my legs don’t object, I think I am going to be getting lost around here a little more often. To get a sense of what the hike was like, check out this time laps montage of images taken at different time increments along the journey.

Thanks again for all of your support as I continue my adventure here. I hope that, wherever you are and whoever you are, your “No-shave November” was as pleasant and enlightening as can be imagined, and if you participated in the month long event and are contemplating returning to the realm of the clean shaven know this: the winter months are a lot colder without the fuzz on your face, and dudes without beards can’t chop wood (scientific fact). Just throwing it out there.