I returned to France for one final night. In less than 16 hours, I would step off a transatlantic flight, enjoy a fine assortment of French cheeses, tartes and quiches, play in a large concert, say a few more goodbyes, pack most of my possessions into a couple pieces of luggage, sleep an hour and hop on a plane to Berlin. 

Even though it was jam-packed, I was thankful to spend one more evening in Toulouse. The concert was the 20th anniversary of the clarinet ensemble, so I got to play with former members of the ensemble and also a guest virtuoso. My French friends were shocked at his improvisation ability. In the Artie Shaw Concerto, he played a lick from "Happy Birthday," and I got plenty of questions about that afterward. Oh, the freedom of jazz music!

A few of my friends who I didn't have the chance to see before I left for Christmas came to the concert. I also saw other friends for one last time (or, until the next time....à la prochaine). I was reminded of just how many wonderful people God put in my path while I lived here.

I didn't start packing until about 10 p.m., but the adrenaline and caffeine helped me to finish the task. I probably spent too much time trying to maximize every last gram of my 23-kg limit, but everything I could bring with me was one less thing to mail. 

My roommate Lucy helped me get my luggage from the metro to the airport shuttle. This was no easy task. In the haze of jet lag, I didn't transfer my backpack into my large duffel bag in order to be able to strap it on my back. This meant that the duffel bag was more like a body bag – dead weight! 

Anyways, I barely got my luggage off the bus and into the airport. And if it wasn't for a nice airport employee who watched my luggage while I found a luggage cart, I might have missed my flight trying to kick the duffel bag up an incline to the check-in counter! 

All things considered, I had a smooth, short transition from the US to France to Germany. Thank you for however you supported me in Toulouse. I won't forget the chapter of my life story written in France. 

If you want to follow the encore of my French experience in Berlin, Germany, visit my new blog, D. Marie in Germany. 

Merci et à bientot en Allemagne ! 

It doesn't look like much, does it? A bunch of posts and a bit of plant rubble. 

It is common knowledge that fine wine undergoes an aging process, but I didn't know until my family and I visited several vineyards in Graves, France, that the plants themselves must also reach maturity.

How long does it take? According to the master of this vineyard in Graves, France, it will take ten or more years for these vines to resemble the ones below.

A whole decade? Just to start producing enough grapes for wine? Now granted, once the vines begin producing, they will continue to bear fruit for well over a decade, provided that they are well-tended to and the conditions of the soil and weather patterns are conducive to the grapes' development. 

My experience in the vineyard caused me to rethink what Jesus had to say about the vine and the branches. 

"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing." – John 15:1-5

As branches on Jesus' vine, we are dependent upon Him to bear fruit. I cannot bear fruit on my own anymore than a branch of an apple tree can produce an apple when it has been broken off the tree. I am completely dependent on the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the pruning and care of God the Father, the vinedresser, to grow. Apart from Him, I can do nothing.

I have no control of the process either. I can't fast-forward through the years required to grow. It is in God's timing.

The pressure is also off of me. No amount of spiritual discipline is going to expedite growth. All I can do is abide. It is also not dependent on me to make others bear fruit either, for it is God's vineyard. He knows exactly what each branch needs and tends to each one. I can't even come close to his knowledge and care. 

So how will anyone know that I am abiding in Christ? By the God-produced fruit in me. 

"You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?" – Matthew 7:16

The French school of wine-producing is also unique in that they use terroir – that is a sense of place that includes all conditions including geography, geology and climate. Each terroir dictates what variety of grape will best grow there. A vinedresser can't decide one year to grow one kind of grape and try a different one the next year. 

This concept of terroir influences how wines our named. All of France is divided in to appellations, literally callings. The names of French wines come from where the vineyard is located. The wine of each region tastes different because of where it was grown. 

As Christians, we bear the name of our vine, Jesus Christ. As His strength is manifest in us, we bear fruit – fruit that looks, smells and tastes like the life-giving hope we have in Him. What a privilege it is to bear His name!

"Cheveux" or "chevaux." One letter makes all the difference. The first means "hairs," and the second means "horses." It may have been fear of saying, "Je veux couper mes chevaux," (I want to cut my horses) that caused me to wait nine months between haircuts (yes, my last haircut was back in the States). 

Anyways, a haircut in France is quite the experience. First, my hairdresser and his last client tried to guess my nationality. They guessed pretty much every nationality in Western Europe and Scandinavia before giving up. 

After that game was done, we went down to business. He didn't want to give me just a haircut but a style. He showed me all kinds of photos of looks that he just "adored." Once we settled on a look, he went to work, shampooing my hair and then cutting it seemingly at random. He even showed me a Spanish haircutting technique, which he called "magic," where hair is twisted vertically to make a tower and then let go while cutting whatever hair the scissors meets in the whirlwind. Apparently this gets rid of dead ends. 

My hairdresser was infatuated with his work. He would consistently ooh and ahh at his creation (yes, the words, "oh la la" did come out of his mouth). He then proceeded to ask me about my love life and was entirely convinced that I was going to spend that night winning over men's hearts. He continued to tell me how beautiful I was (in a non-creepy way) and lectured me about how I shouldn't have insecurities. "Can't you see that you are beautiful?" he asked me. "You are beautiful." I guess a self-esteem boost comes with the package ;).  

To top everything off, he pretty much made me make claws and growl in the mirror (after all, the haircutting smock I was in was an animal print...it was only natural). Watch out world!

The whirring of tires and pedals. Jerseys of many colors. A cheering crowd. Cameras. Cries. Concluded. All in about a minute.

When I heard that the seventh stage of the 100th Tour de France would be passing less than an hour from Toulouse, I decided it was time to cross this off my bucket list. A few friends and I made covoiturage (carpool) reservations and set out on a "less-than-a-day" trip to Albi.

The various stages (21 to be exact) make the Tour unique. The infamous yellow jersey is worn by the overall time leader. The green jersey belongs to the rider with the most points. The red polka-dotted jersey goes to the best climber. The white jersey goes to the rider age 25 or under with the best time. There is also a combativity award and team classification given after each state. 

Each stage starts and finishes in a different city. Roads are transformed into a race course complete with cameras, VIP areas, concessions, souvenirs and the like. A couple hours before the riders finish, a caravan passes. The caravan is much like a parade, with floats, candy, hats and excitement.

While all the spectators are having a party, the cyclists are pedaling hard with only their fellow competitors for company. Then in the last few kilometers, they are greeted by the rumbling and screaming of fans (this is a short video of the last of the leaders and the American flag – we ended up behind an overly enthusiastic American).

All this work for a moment of glory. To wake up each day to start the next stage with the same routine. It reminds me a bit of the pace of life. Thirteen years of school to walk across a stage in a room full of people to receive a high school diploma. Four or five more years to walk across another stage for another degree. Years of dating before a wedding day. Nine months waiting to hold a baby. And the list goes on. 

We compete for the rare moments of glory – the times when we get the promotion, have the best car, win the race, but for what gain? The writer of Ecclesiastes writes, "All is vanity.What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?" 

I doubt that Chris Froome, the winner of this year's tour, will wear his yellow jersey forever. One day his prize money will run out. One day he might not even be able to pedal a bike. Then what?

I find it necessary to see a more extensive picture – one where not every camera angle focuses on me, one where my successes matter, not just for me, but for my neighbor as well. One where my failures can be redeemed for the greater good. For me, I find this in my Christian faith. This doesn't mean that I don't compete, but the only prize that matters, salvation, is already won and is offered freely.

For those of you who made it to the end of this post, you will be rewarded. I have one last video to share (this one is not so serious). Just so you know that the tour really does take place in France, here a video of the baguette mascot. Yes, a man in a giant baguette suit handing out pieces of bread, baguettes and hats. Pretty amazing, right? Did I mention that the temperature broke 90 degrees (F)?

I mentioned in my last post that the Toulouse clarinet ensemble that I play with was taped during two of our performances at the open air festival. Well today the director sent us all a link to one of the videos about the festival. 

You can see and hear our ensemble play and also take in the sights and sounds of the day. One of goals of the day was to get people back in touch with the earth and agriculture. There were nature walks and various activities (you can even watch little kids make brioches). 

The video is all in French, so for those of you who are francophones or just want to listen to the language, have fun! The music, of course, is a language of its own :).

I made (or played) my French musical debut with l'Ensemble de Clarinettes de Toulouse on Sunday. 

Everything happened rather unexpectedly. I found the ensemble via Facebook, exchanged some emails with the director and attended my first rehearsal with the ensemble the previous Thursday. I enjoy the group immensely. The ensemble is made up of professionals, high-level amateurs and conservatory students. They welcomed me warmly, giving me compliments on my ability to speak French and sight-read music, and afterward I was invited to play for the group's last concert of the season.

As I often do, I agreed without completely knowing what I was getting myself into. All I knew was that I needed to meet the group at the metro, that we would be eating lunch and that we would be playing for two hours. 

It turns out that we were playing at an open-air festival in the countryside more or less outside of Toulouse. You could buy cheese, bread, jelly and even sheep while listening to various musical ensembles, taking a ride on a horse-drawn carriage and learning to identify tree species. Pretty spectacular! 

We ate many assorted delicious farm products (which were unidentified, but how can you go wrong?), and then we played at three sites around the festival. 

At the first station, a video camera came to tape us and some of my friends came out to watch us play. At the second station, we kept being interrupted by a lady with a very strong Southwestern accent making announcements (and I entertained my fellow clarinetists in my attempts to imitate her speech). 

The third station was on the top of a very large hill. It was probably at least a half-mile walk up and quite steep. And remember that we are carrying clarinets and stands on a very windy day. I was told after the hike that the ensemble "rarely" plays gigs like this.

At the this last station, we had a hard time keeping the music on the stand. Actually, a gust of wind took our music at the end of one of the pieces. What a finish! Thankfully the kind spectators helped us recover our music. We had torn everything down when a television station car pulled up. The camera people asked if we could play for them, and we agreed. So they rearranged the hay bales for ten minutes to set up a better camera angle, and we then we performed a 30-second clip. 

All in all, I wouldn't have imagined a debut like this, but it was fabulous. It is summer vacation now in France, and I am sad to have a couple of months without this musical camaraderie. However, on the trek back down the hill, the director offered me a first clarinet position in September for the new season. I am looking forward to continuing with this welcoming and musically skilled ensemble in the fall. 

I experienced regional music for the first time last weekend. Every year there is la Fête de la Musique (music party/festival) in France and in many other countries as well. Musicians and musical groups play concerts all across town starting in the evening and continuing well into the night.

A couple friends and I went to hear music in Occitan. Occitan is a regional language from the southwest of France (each region has its own dialect). The only other time I hear the language spoken is during the metro stop announcements in the subway. It sounds like a strange mixture of Spanish and Italian. 

With music comes dancing, and my German teammate Binia and I joined in the traditional dances for the first time. We tried to follow along, and hopefully nobody noticed that we had no idea what we were doing. I was fascinated by the instrumentation and instruments, so I took a couple short videos on my phone. Hopefully this will give you a bit of an aural picture of Occitan. 

"Arrogant and rude." These adjectives have commonly been attributed to the French (notably by Americans). If you don't believe me (or just want to be amused), check out this article about Americans' stereotypes of the French. 

With this in mind, I didn't have high expectations of the French when I arrived in Toulouse. I expected not to receive any customer service, to be scolded when made a cultural faux pas, to be glared at when it was clear that I wasn't French.

Yes, I did have to get a new bag of onions myself when mine didn't have a barcode, and I have been chided once for joining the wrong line. And I always have to ask for the bill at a restaurant. But more often than not, the French have made my day.

Here are a few of my stories:

I was in a hurry and was full-out power-walking to the grocery store. On my way, two guys started huffing and puffing, serious looks on their faces, arms swinging frantically. Pretty quickly, I realized they were imitating me. I smiled, and one of them remarked, "That's better." 

My French debit card stopped being readable, and I needed to order a new one. I also had money that I couldn't deposit as a result. I arrived slightly frazzled at the bank and wasn't processing everything being spoken to me. When I apologized for not understanding a question, the teller kindly remarked that it was ok and that she didn't speak English well. Then she wrote the information I needed to know on a sticky note, ordered me a new card, found the checks that I had ordered a while back and filled out my deposit slip for me, even filling in the account number that I had forgotten to bring with me. 

Then there was the time I was at the French equivalent of Wal-Mart and accidentally pressed the "pay in dollars" button (which you should never do, unless you want to give a few extra dollars to Reuters Interback for unnecessarily converting your euros to dollars and then charging you an additional 2.5 percent). As a result, my receipt printed in English, and the cashier didn't know English. She didn't scold me or get irritated. She asked her colleague for help, and when that didn't work, I was able to help her figure out what copy I needed to sign. After I signed, there were no sarcastic remarks, just the customary merci, au revoir. 

I often use the city bikes to get around. It is really nifty because you can check out a bike at one station and return it at another station located strategically throughout the city. However, I have, on more than one occasion, checked out the bike with the seat that won't adjust or continually falls down. I was at a station adjusting a bike seat, when a nice (and not creepy) gentleman came over and offered to help me with the seat. He adjusted everything and made sure that I was good to go. I thanked him, and then he told me to have a good evening. What a wonderful random act of kindness!

Yes, French culture doesn't always make sense. Occasionally, it can be a bit complicated. But don't write off the French. They are not solely the producers of fois gras and more than 400 types of cheese, who lay claim to famous sites like the Eiffel Tower. They are also pretty marvelous human beings of whom I am quite fond. 

My brother Nate came back through Toulouse after spending about a month backpacking through Europe. He was less jet-legged this time around and got to participate in some of my team's activities. The highlights of his second visit were going on a hike near the Spanish border (and then having a jam session afterward) and taking a day trip to Carcassonne. 

France has a carpool system called covoiturage, which we used to get to get to and from the fortified city. It is pretty nifty. Drivers and prospective passengers can post their itineraries on the website along with the price per passenger. Then passengers can sign up with drivers (and vice-versa). You get a code to give to the driver (which they have to enter in on the site to get paid). It worked well for us, and we made some new friends, including a pet ferret with which we shared the backseat on the return trip. 

I could write a short novel about how much it meant to me to have my brother visit, experience a bit of my life and meet some of my friends and teammates, but, instead, I made a slideshow. Enjoy!

It is officially spring in France, and a great time to go hiking (faire la randonée). Often our team has formal sorties (outings) to go skiing, hiking or head to the beach. This time around we were more informal and each invited a couple friends to join us for a hike up a mountain in a nearby village. 

We explored a couple caves thanks to the flashlight app on Assad's iPhone. Next time, I will remember my headlamp!

Spring turned to "fall" for this part of our hike in the woods. Don't we look like a fun bunch?!

The beauty of this view couldn't be captured in a photo.

What? You mean we have to walk back down the mountain too? According to Michael, more people die on the way down than the way up (don't worry, we all made it back down alive).

One thing I am appreciating about living in France is actually enjoying spring. I forget sometimes how much hope spring brings.