From the title of this post, some of you might be scared…some of you might be intrigued, and some of you might be down right offended; however, judging that you are still reading this and that majority of you know me pretty well, you should know that I keep it pretty PG. After all I idolize the Mister Rogers and the Muppets…granted, Kermit the Frog is often topless, but that is beside the point! No eyes will be scarred in the reading of this blog. Please just bear with me, and all will be explained/shown [wink wink (but seriously, it’s PG)].

When last I wrote, I had left you with my thoughts on northern and central Italy, and now I shall pick up where I left off and explain the next destination of Spring Break 2013: Italian Edition --> The Amalfi Coast.

For those of you who don’t know and are too lazy to google it right now, the Amalfi Coast is the coastline of a small peninsula south of Naples, Italy. It is known for beautiful beaches, cliffside views, and serene peace from other major tourist attractions in Italy. How did I decide on this location? Well, I consulted my travel partner in crime, Laura Euller, who like myself is EXTREMELY attractive and into the great outdoors. Those of you with whom I have spoken have probably heard my unjust, socialist, tree hugging complaint that while living in Nantes, I have had a lack of nature in my day-to-day life. The appropriate response to this lament that many have given is, “Shut the front door, Andrew, and go eat some crêpes, you ungrateful spoiled, scruffy looking, nerf hurder.” To which my response has always been:

But often too, I concede the point that this is a truly silly complaint; however, I’m on vacation, and I am going to do what I (and my travel companions) want…so there!

Laura and I departed Rome on a train to Naples which took us then on a metro to Sorrento where we were supposed to meet a bus that would drive us 45 minutes along the winding twisting roads of the coast to the small town of Positano. You following so far? One problem though: the buses took a page from the French and decided to go on strike the day we got there, so we ended up biting the bullet and took a taxi out to the town.

As we arrived at Mama Rosa’s B&B (an establishment filled with quite literally the kindest and most helpful brother and sister in all of Italy. In all seriousness go there), we settled into our room, which looked out directly onto the coastline and Mediterranean Sea. Am I spoiled? Fortunate? Grateful? At complete peace? An assertive and blissful, “HECK YES.”

In Positano, we decided to take a hiking trail known as “The Path of the Gods.” Did it live up to its grandiose name? You be the judge: The walk took us up and along the cliff line of the coast where one can look out over the ocean but also marvel at the weathered limestone cliffs, outcrops, and caves that have been forming for centuries in the area.

Not only did it house beautiful views and magnificent natural features, but also it had extremely hardcore cabin porn.

Yes, there it is again: that arcane, ominous, and outlandish phrase used earlier. To give piece of mind to the ill-informed, cabin porn is the depiction of rural home structures in relation to the serene landscape which either compliments or enhances the structure’s beauty. Again there is no nudity involved. Instead it takes from Merriam-Webster’s third definition of porn: “the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction.” To get a better understanding of cabin pornography, go to: http://www.freecabinporn.com

I saw ancient medieval cabin ruins that were built either along the cliff line or directly into the cliff itself. As a lover of nature, archaeology, and all things good in this world, I constantly became weak at the knees at the sight of these structures in relation to their environment…while probably embarrassing Laura immensely due to my excessive drooling over the idea of living someday in one of these ancient cabins. To understand my sick and twisted fantasy, I encourage you to watch this film:

After this splendid visit in Positano, we then ventured down into Amalfi, the coastal town for which the coastline is named. In Amalfi we got to enjoy the narrow streets and intricate stairs that lead to multiple viewpoints and buildings along the coast.

After Amalfi, we made the long a weary journey back to France where Laura was gracious enough to host me in her home in Annecy. Located in the Haute-Savoie region, Annecy is located on an extremely large lake and is surrounded by the French Alps. The quick visit was filled with quaint streets, snow capped mountains, and delicious bread and cheese as I plunge back into my delightful French diet.

After a train ride across the center of the country, I am now back in my home in Nantes preparing for classes and fondly reflecting on the adventures had with such wonderful people. I must especially thank Laura Euller for having the patience and kindness to put up with my antics, bumbling, and much more during the majority of this vacation. I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant companion with which to share the adventure.

More news to come, as I make the turn around what will be the last bend here before the school year is over. How time flies, and how I look forward to those moments when it will stand still. Thank you, again for all of your kind words and support, and I hope that wherever you are, there is a cabin close by that you can either ogle or inhabit.

Firstly, I must apologize for my lack of blog postings. After returning from Christmas break, I received many visitors including dear friends like Hannah Berlin-Burns of study abroad fame, fellow former Duke TIP employee, John Stokes, and the loyalist of mountain alums, Chris Gracey, so my days have been spent entertaining and being entertained by these wonderful people and not writing. OOPS.

HOWEVER, the past two weeks I have been on spring break: 2013…it has been a complete whirlwind of excellence, and because of the daily adventures and excitement, it’s story (much like the most recent Hobbit film series) will be divided into multiple parts for royalties, merchandising, and cash money

My journey started in Bologna, Italy where I graced the home of John Stokes and his fellow Hopkins classmates for a few days. Upon arriving, I was greeted with a blizzard of epic proportions by my southern standards, but experienced delicious food, including a squid cooked in it’s own ink during a day trip to Venice!

The unique timing of this Roman adventure did allow for some once in a lifetime opportunities. For example, I went to the Vatican when there was no pope: an opportunity that I doubt I (or many others) will be able to experience again for a while. Despite the distinct lack of pope in the neighborhood, the Vatican a really aw-inspiring experience. One of the things that contributed to this experience was an encounter I had with a well-known American in the Vatican.

As one can imagine, there is quite a bit of news coverage of the Vatican right now due to the bizarre circumstances of the pope’s retirement. The square and the street approaching St. Peter’s were filled with local, European and international TV news stations. As a result, when I was leaving St Peter’s square, I encountered a familiar face from American television, ABC news anchor: George Stephanopoulos.

Now as many of you know, this isn’t the first time that I have encountered ‘famous people’ haphazardly, but I have a standard rule of conduct around these people: treat them as if they were normal human beings because that is truly all that they are. However, since being away from America for so long, I have felt the need to talk to anyone from America I recognize by virtue of the fact that it is relatively surreal to think that we are encountering one another across the globe. As a result, my reflex immediately is to talk to George Stephanopoulos as we cross paths in the street. The conversation went thusly with the parenthetical representing my inner dialogue:
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Me: Mr. Stephanopoulos! (Andrew, you don’t actually know him. What have you done.)

George: Hello!...How are you?

Me: (Mmm he is clearly wondering why he is even talking to me. Best thing is probably to make a joke) Well sir, like many today, I’m utterly popeless but otherwise functional. (Boom.)

George: Haha…That’s a good one…Do I know you?

Me: (Mmm judging by your two “ha’s,” I honestly doubt you thought it was “good one,” George. This is now awkward) No sir, you do not…but you go report the news. I’ll hold down the fort over here.

George: Alright, you have a good one.
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The conversation was over. We went our separate ways, and I sincerely doubt that George Stephanopoulos is writing a blog post about our interaction.  As I was walking away though, I started to think about how dumb it is that one of ABC’s lead anchors (let alone any body) was covering the Vatican.

Was it a unique day in history? Yes. But let’s be real for a sec: it is literally a thirty-second news segment were you have someone say, “Yes, I am standing in the Vatican City, and the rumors are true. He wasn’t bluffing. There is no pope right now.”

Better still, is that there is a rather elaborate scaffold structure for these news teams to continue reporting the situation, suggesting that they are going to be staying there for continuous coverage as if something is going to change within an instant…I imagine George Stephanopoulos almost like a weather reporter in this instance: “Yes Bob, the dew point in the Vatican City is around 48 and there is still a 0% chance of pope today.”

Needless to say, though I was excited to meet George, I am not envious of his situation because he did not get to see all the awesomeness that I saw nor be around the wonderful people with which I was lucky enough to visit. To get an idea of what I saw check out this video.

Part two of this adventure will be coming soon! Thanks again for all of your support, and I am sorry again for not being in better touch!

Disclaimer: As many of you know, I can brofix (the act of using the phonetic syllable |brō| as prefix or suffix) with the best of them, and I’m not ashamed to say it. Sometimes, it can be a little broverwhelming for people that are close to me, but it is completely brobligatory to describe the events of the past two weeks with my one and only bro, Nathan Bradshaw.  Don’t worry: it will not have the same level of bromance as the ultimate brode to bro’s, Brokeback Mountain. Seriously, they got one of the subtlest brofix’s past many movie lovers in the title alone.

As avid readers know from my last blog post, Nathan (aka Nabrolean Bronoparte) decided to spend his holiday vacation with me, here in Europe. To start our broventure, I had the opportunity to show off Nantes a little bit to him. Nathan (ei Brolverine) and I then ventured out to see many of the things that I have already written about (like yaks and crazy musicians), but we also saw a citywide panoramic perspective from 32 stories up, a brobotic elephant, and a small medieval town thirty minutes outside of Nantes called Angers. In addition I got him to sample much of the brocal cuisine including crepes, mussels, and frog legs. We also enjoyed the brotastic wine selection of the France such as Cabernet-Brauvignon, Braumur, and Cotes de Brhones. For Christmas day, we broasted the world’s smallest goose in the world’s smallest toaster oven and had chestnuts, veggies, and apple pie along with the bird. The bronly thing missing was some Natty Light, heady jam bands, and the comedic stylings of Dane Cook, but we managed.

Soon after Christmas, we set out on an adventure to see other lands from Nantes, so we spent 3 days in Strasbourg, in the eastern part of France. Strasbourg has a world-bronowned Christmas celebration, and even though we browed-up after Christmas, the markets and the festivities were still booming.  The region, being very close to Germany, has almost a French/German hybro-ed culture that can be seen in the architecture of the buildings and the local food and drink.  We enjoyed different local beers and an array of Alsacian cuisine including the crowd favorite tarte flambé: a thin pizza-like crust covered with a cream sauce, regional cheese, ham, and mushrooms (omnomnomnom…bro).

After our time in Strasbourg, we shuffled down the b-road a little ways to Berlin, Germany for a New Years celebration.  This was Nathan’s (aka Bronan Bro’Brian’s) second time in the town but my first adventure therein. Due to the countries unified history being much shorter than other European countries and renovations from the aftermaths of two world wars, the sights to see as well as the impacting history in Berlin is much more modern. The things to see by way of structures or nebroclassical, but many of the status and monuments on the buildings are from older collections that were moved from harms way during times of war. The Berlin Wall sections that are still intact are quite stunning as well. The East Side Gallery, along with Topography of Terror are sections of the wall that remain as commemorations to the more recent history of the town. New Years Eve was quite the adventure as fireworks are only legal in Germany from the 28th to the 31st of December, so at times, it kind of felt like we were in a war zone trying to dodge amateur pybrotechnics.

But after Berlin, I had to bid frère-well (aww yeah, French brofix) to my Count of Monte Crisbro, as he must return to America, and I must go back to Nantes to brorrupt young minds a little bronlier than I was earlier this week, but as the great Lupe Fiasbro says, “The show bro’s on.” In all seriousness though, I could not thank my brother enough for coming over to visit over the holidays. He is a true gentleman and a scholar, and I not only love him, I brove him.

Nathan (ie Brolando Bloom) decided to be principal brotographer of this journey, and he thought to take a crack at what I have enjoyed making for the public: silly youtube videos. Above, you will find his twisted perspective of what I do on a daily basis. It’s filled with graffiti, funk, and chaos!

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.

Sunday, November 11th: a frigid slow grey day in the city of Nantes, France.  It was the last day of my vacation from school.  My vacation had been quite enjoyable, but I think that because of its excitement and greatness, I was feeling slightly restless.  For those who do not know, there is NOTHING to do on Sunday in France. Everything is closed and if the weather is disagreeable, then there is very little motivation to brave the country; however, this Sunday, I was feeling particularly frisky…in part because I was wearing my flannel-lined jeans, which make it feel like I’m wearing my jammies, but I look as fly as a Jonathan Taylor Thomas between 1994 and 1998.

So I decide to brave the elements and search for adventure/trouble/the love of my life or whatever might come my way.  My journey takes me on a long walk through town and over to the island in the middle of the Loire River, which is where many of the old ports and docks rest from when Nantes was an important port town back in the day. I am walking along and pass through a back ally, and what do I see? A dumpster. To the average human this would not be enticing, but this dumpster was special. It didn’t smell good; but it smelled right, and there was a piece of wood with strings attached that was painted blue and black poking out of the side of it.  My heart was in my throat, my hair on end, and my hopes higher than R. Kelly could ever believe he could fly.

You see like every male between 15 and 25, I pretend to play the guitar. To say I am ‘talented’ would be an insult to talent everywhere because I really just have a working knowledge of about six chords, but for the past eight years or so, I have enjoyed dabbling on this popular instrument.  I had not touched a guitar for nearly two months, and to say I was pining to bumble on any musical instrument for a minute or two would be a gross understatement; so you can imagine my excitement at the potential of this dumpster.  I walk over to the painted wood…it is indeed a guitar neck.  I gently wiggle it to see if there is anything more…there is.  I slowly pull on the neck until the structure is removed from the dumpster, and low and behold, it is a blue sunburst six stringed acoustic guitar.  Did I pee my flannel-lined jeans out of excitement? No. Did I prance home as if I was a child clenching Willie Wonka’s golden ticket? Perhaps.

Due to his nationality, color, and the state in which I found him, I have named my good friend Porthos after Dumas’ Three Musketeers.  Porthos has a few bumps and bruises, but he's a player...and he plays pretty well for himself:

Serendipity strikes again, and she has struck a chord or two in the process.  Good Sunday.

So firstly, I apologize for my lack of communication.  I have been on vacation the past two weeks here and I’ve chosen the interwebs to take the backseat on my priority list and putting tomfoolery and shenanigans at the top.  Although I have been working for only a month, vacation as a very pleasant and needed occurrence. As many of you can guess, living over here with all this great food and culture is EXTREMELY difficult, but what is truly a first world problem is not having the time to appreciate or experience it on a deeper level than just the daily coming and goings of the work week.  How does my pillow stay dry at night, right?

So my adventure began with the return to Nantes of former study abroad mates, Hannah Berlin-Burns and Laura Euller who were kind enough to pay me a visit here in this fair city while they had some shared time off. Then my buddy Ellen Stothard and I took a little train down to Bordeaux (a port city south of Nantes known for specifically for its wine) to visit one of my dance partners from yesteryear, Chase Carpenter (or as Katy Perry and I call him, ‘the one that got away’).  Chase was kind enough to open his home to us and guide us through his town taking us around the region to Saint-Émilion wine country and the largest sand dune in all of Europe, the Dune of Pyla.  Check this not so creative video to get a sense of it:

In addition, we got to experience the Bordeaux nightlife on Halloween, which served as an night of education where I learned about Portuguese dining traditions and in return taught my educators how to wobble.  Returning from Bordeaux, I had the chance to hang out with long lost Swannanoan, Clara Canon back here in Nantes.  She was kind enough to put up with my antics and sniffles (sinus infection…bummer) as I got to show off a little bit of this nifty little town in which I live and reflect on some the awesome things I take for granted every day here.

Now however, it is back to the grind of work which I am surprisingly alright with…call my a socialist cow and revoke my US citizenship.  More updates to come. In the meantime, thank you for reading, and I hope all that were affected by the hurricane back home are doing well.  You are in my thoughts!

Yes indeed, the moment I’ve been waiting for has come. After weeks of frustration and rejection, some poor fool was stupid enough to rent me an apartment. Though Ingrid Michaelson has her hopes high hung to “buy our parents homes in the south of France,” she would be hard pressed to be able to rent a small apartment in the northeast section of the country without certified documentation of annual income, a French citizen willing to pay rent on the occasion that the occupant cannot pay, and mountain of paperwork written in French legal jargon...a double foreign language. For whatever reason, people prefer Ingrid Michaelson’s version…it must be the ukulele.

ANYWHO, I’m not one for complaining in excess, and the important thing is (as the title indicates) that I am currently housed.  You can now find me on the 4th floor of 1 bis Passage Leroy.  I am about a 20-minute walk from the heart of downtown, and my crib is fresh. It has everything you need: walls, a roof, and a door that both opens and closes. Click on this video to get a sense of it:

In addition to the new digs, you may or may not have noticed I have a roommate! His name is Herbert, the basil plant. He was technically two euro at the store, but he doesn’t know that because, well, you can’t put a price tag on love. Herbert has been kind enough to give me some of his leaves as I make grilled French cheese and tomato sandwiches and ratatouille, and in return, I give him sun, water, and an unwavering passion for flannel.  We listen to the same type of music; we’re comfortable with the occasional pause in conversation, and we’re both registered voters in the state of Ohio.  Needless to say, I really like Herbert even though he’s been really slow getting me his half of the rent.

Thanks again for all of your kind support and words of encouragement, and I am sorry that I have not been so consistent with my postings.  Now that I am living under my own roof, I will be better equipped to inform people about my work and my day-to-day tomfoolery.  May this blog post find you well wherever you read it, and I will write/film/talk again soon!

As a child, I was sent to the principal’s office a grand total of three times, and each time I felt as if the world was going to come down with all of its punitive powers on top of my (not yet graying) head. I was petrified of getting in trouble and always assumed that whatever it was that I was doing could warrant immediate administrative action. Was I conspiracy theorist in the making? Possibly. Was I right about the world scheming to destroy me? NO DOUBT, but, since my last visit to the principal’s office about 10 years ago, I like to think I have gained a bit of confidence in dealing with the great unknown of my actions. Realizing that more often than not, my actions were in the legal, ethical, and universal right. Justin Beiber calls it “swag”; Austin Powers calls it “mojo,” but I just call it my “inner Fonz”. As I went into my first day of work at the College Stendhal in Nantes, my inner Fonz was put to the test.  The following tale has been translated entirely into English to enthrall those who are not speakers of French. Here it goes.

I walk into the front door of the school and am greeted by the front desk receptionist. I explain that I am the new American fellow to help with the English classes.  He cordially greets me and then goes off to find one of the other English teachers. He returns with a teacher who also cordially greets me and immediately puts me to work with the other teachers, observing and helping out with one of their classes.  All seems to be going right, but then one of my new coworkers pops her head into the classroom where I am working and beckons me into the hallway.  She says to me, “So we are in a bit of trouble.” I give her the typical confused foreigner look. She continues, “We forgot to have you check in with the administration to make sure your paperwork was in order and that you actually are who you say you are and not a pedophile or other wrong-doer looking to be with the kids.”

Of course. On the first day of my first big kid job, my bosses are wondering if I have stolen my own identity and/or if I am some miscreant or escaped criminal. Conspiracy? Not yet. My inner Fonz is still strong thinking that it is just a misunderstanding. I’ll just report to the upset administrators, and all will be well.  My coworker adds with sense of fear, “She is pretty angry right now. I can stay in there and translate for you if you want. She is kind of scary. She’ll yell at you for about five minutes, and then, you’ll get a chance to talk.”  Conspiracy yet? HECK YES. The frogs have had it out for me since LITERALLY day one, but my inner Fonz hasn’t given up on me yet. I assure my coworker that I’ll be fine and that she could go back to her class.

I timidly walk down the long and narrow hallway reminiscent of that moment in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and crew go to their appointment with the wizard…except, I lack my usual ruby slippers and three musically complimentary supporting characters. I step into the office and am greeted by the administrator, a smiling elderly French lady, but not any ordinary smile. It was that smile I remember from being in the principal’s office years ago: the administrator’s smile that really meant, “I am so glad you are here because now I am going to rip you a new one.” We exchange pleasantries and than the hammer drops.

Admin: “Do you realize how many regulations you broke this morning?  How do we know that you are not a criminal? If you are the new teacher, why didn’t you reply to all of my emails from the summer? This is ridiculous! Are you sure this is the right job for you, son?”

Andrew: ”…Oh I’m sorry ma’am. Here is my passport and contract if that is any help, and I never received these emails. Are you sure you have the correct address?” (We check. It’s the wrong email)

Admin: “Regardless, you should have known better than to just go to work without even checking in with the people that are in charge!”

Andrew: “I admit that was pretty foolish, but in America we have this phrase called ‘the silver lining’ which means that even out of something that is an unfortunate situation, one can find some positive aspects. For instance, I was able to assist teachers that really needed the help today.”

Admin: “…Mr. Bradshaw, no such phrase exists in France.”

I finish the initial paperwork and then go back to my classroom with no tears, no new gray hairs, and my inner Fonz giving me his patented thumbs up. I made it.  Though it was a bumpy one, it is a first day of work that I can look back on fondly, and in spite of a terrible first interaction, I think I made a friend in the administration. As I went to check in the second day, the administrator was on the phone waiting on hold.  With a typical French tone of apathetic criticism, she says, “Well, at least the hold music is nice,” and with a slight smirk she jabs, “…silver lining.”

Oh Happy Days.

Since Taco Bell, I have flown across six timezones and landed safely in FRANCE (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rw1P7gdtAeY)! All went smoothly, and my return to Nantes has been a fantastic mixture of nostalgia, anticipation, and happy coincidences.  Just as I stepped off the TGV in the Nantes train station, I saw my old study abroad buddy Michael Goldfien who had also just returned to the area.  The other evening we were able to enjoy a wonderful meal with our former classmate, Cara Lowry, and local buddy, Lise Dubois.  It was quite the reunion.

It has been so wonderful to see the ole sites, brush the dust off my language skills and smell the country once more, and no, that smell is not that of a dirty armpit, but the mixture of a fresh rain, cigarettes, boulangeries, and adventure.  It still feels like home, but I have yet to find a home.  Unfortunately, many of the apartments in the city were taken by students before I was able to arrive, so it's slim pickin's at the moment. Currently, I have been scheduling appointments to view places in the area and figure out what would be the best spot for me as I commute between two schools on opposite sides of town.  Has it been frustrating/stressful? To an extent, yes, but even when I am frustrated by this dilemma, I am able to find relief in the simple task of grocery shopping. For example, my lunch today: local goat cheese, blueberry jam, and fresh baguette. To think that I am able to eat this well for 3 euros makes homelessness the mildest of irritations.

Of course, I could not have been able to do any of this without the help of others.  From the moment I arrived, I have been humbled by the overwhelming kindness and hospitality of my good friend John Gilmer.  John, a fellow Sewanee grad and current teacher at the University of Nantes, has opened his home to me as a place to stay until I could find my own home.  I am so grateful for his counsel and encouragement.  I also owe so much of my well-being so far here to Nicolas and Elvire Stefanni.  These two former members of the Sewanee French department and current residents in Nantes have been so helpful in teaching me the logistics and strategies of everyday living and homemaking in Nantes, and they have been kind enough to advise me and John on so many things as we begin our ventures into what I like to call "the big kid world."

I must also say thank you to those of you who have read these LONG postings and to all of you who have called, texted or messaged well wishes over the past week or so that I have been here.  It is truly empowering and humbling to have so many people looking out for you, and I will try my best to return the favor. THANKS!

Next week: Orientation and the start of work, wrangling me a place to live, and continuing to live the good life.