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My Fulbright Experience
Though I credit Rachel Carson as an important inspiration for
my career in marine science, I was a child of the 60's and the
television specials of Jacques Cousteau were treated as special
events in my family - I was allowed to stay-up past my bedtime
to watch them. My appreciation of French marine science thus dates
back to my childhood. As my professional career in deep-sea science
developed, I witnessed collaborations between French and American
scientists that led to major discoveries about the geology and
biology of the seafloor. I have sailed on extended research voyages
with French colleagues, and together we have participated in numerous
conferences and workshops. Through all this time, I relied on
my French colleagues to speak English. This was not satisfactory,
but there always seemed to be too much to do to for me to take
the time to learn French.
As I approached my first-ever opportunity for a sabbatical leave,
it was easy to imagine where I might spend my time and profit
most. The French oceanographic community continues to be strong
and productive, especially within my particular field of specialization,
and I wanted to spend a part of my sabbatical year with colleagues
at l'Institut français de recherche pour l'exploitation
de la mer (Ifremer) in Brest. My Fulbright experience thus
began as I considered how to develop a compelling application.
The language issue loomed large, but my solution to this was a
delightful one. I signed-up for intensive language classes in
Rambouillet, a beautiful town within an easy train ride of Paris.
In three 2-3 week intervals, I plunged into learning the French
language and culture, happily thrown into the briar patch! I continued
my lessons through 2 undergraduate courses at my home university.
By the time I arrived in Brest to begin my 3-month stay, I had
the basics of grammar and a modest vocabulary. I was an avid reader
of contemporary and classic novels in French, but it was difficult
for me to understand spoken French and to speak it myself.
My colleagues at Ifremer have been welcoming, generous, and eager
to share their work and ideas with me. I quickly became accustomed
to my new routines: an early morning walk to the boulangerie
in my village to fetch a warm croissant or pain au chocolat to
accompany a bowl of strong coffee for breakfast, arrive at Ifremer
by 8 am to begin a day filled with short meetings in the hall
with colleagues and longer stretches of time in front of video
and computer monitors as part of a collaboration to document environmental
changes on the seabed, and at the word processor where I compose
the first draft of an article to be co-authored with one of my
hosts. I enjoy the coffee breaks scattered through the day near
the vending machine, close by a spectacular view of the water,
and the Friday noon apéritif.
My scientific work progresses, but the highlight of my Fulbright
experience has to be my ever-improving ability to communicate
in French. I did not imagine at the outset that I might ever be
able to give a coherent 1-hour seminar in French about my research.
But I did so, and not once, but twice, lecturing on two different
aspects of my research and enjoying long and interesting discussion
about my work after each lecture. I cannot understate the value
of being able to communicate in the native language of my colleagues.
It is fabulous.
Evenings I return to my rented apartment on the third floor of
the house of a widow, Anna, who seems to have added me to her
brood of 8 grown children. I have been treated to jars of her
homemade apricot and apple confiture, and at least once
a week she greets me at the door in the evening with a plate laden
with a piece of cake or apple tart that she has made. Anna was
a teenager during World War II and has shared with me stories
of her life in occupied France. She has taken me to see the manor
where she spent her childhood and to the annual Pardon at the
tiny Chapel of Bodonnou, where I danced traditional Breton dances
to the music of bombarde, biniou coz, and accordian.
Though I do not have a television in my home in the U.S., I am
an unabashed viewer of television in France in my effort to soak
up as much of the language as possible. The channel Arte exposes
me to films and documentaries that I would never encounter in
the U.S.. I marvel at the French méteo (weather)
productions, wherein energetic hosts or hostesses use exaggerated
arm motions to sweep vaguely over regions of the country that
will be experiencing particular weather conditions (usually involving
a menacing combination of grey clouds and rain drops in November),
in such a way as to preclude gaining much understanding of what
to expect in a particular location. I closely watched the intense
French interest in the U.S. presidential elections; one was left
in no doubt as to where lay French political sympathies. Talk
shows and police shows dominate the evening line-up on the major
channels. I have not yet resolved the statistical paradox that
results from the fact that pubs (commercials) take up only
10 minutes of every 60 minutes of airtime, yet whenever I turn
on the TV, I find myself at the start of the publicité
cycle.
I have taken seriously the Fulbright mandate to have a culturally
enriching experience and have traveled throughout Finisterre,
soaking up the Breton world. The cities of Quimper, St. Malo,
and the smaller towns and villages - Concarneau, Roscoff, Locronan,
Le Conquet, Huelgoat, Pont Aven - have astounded me with their
beauty and charm. Though not a religious person, I seek out the
humble chapels and ornate baroque and renaissance churches of
Finisterre and find within them quiet moments of soothing peace.
I have become an advocate of rond points (roundabouts)
instead of stoplights as means of traffic control. I see evidence
of the wars of the last century everywhere and daily. I will never,
ever appreciate Turkish-style toilets. I keep a life-list of Breton
fontaines upon which I have stumbled in my wanderings,
each with a placid stone-enclosed pool reflecting the memory of
days when women gathered there to wash their clothes. I walk the
network of footpaths that carry me along cliffs beneath which
the Atlantic Ocean mounts its perpetual attack and retreat, through
forests of oak along stream-beds strewn with a chaos of granite
boulders, beside cornfields and pastures of emerald green. In
the cities, my footsteps adjust maladroitly to the unevenly cobbled
streets and sidewalks, even as my eye enjoys the somber palette
of grays that color the ancient stone buildings and cloud-burdened
autumnal skies. I have had the dubious pleasure of shopping at
Carrefour - the French equivalent of Wal-Mart - and I found real
pleasure in exploring an exposition hall filled with hundreds
of booths occupied by vintners and producers of fromages,
sauscissons, and foie gras from all over France,
each offering samples of their wares. I idle my way through museums
and galleries, and ache to have the talent to capture the landscape,
light, and people just so, as the Breton painters do.
As it must be with all other Fulbright scholars privileged to
work and study in France or any other country, the only bad thing
about the Fulbright experience is that it must end. I will be
sorry to leave my new and old friends in December, but we look
forward to continuing our collaborations after I am gone.
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