It wasn't long into our short drive that we found ourselves discussing the sad state of international judo politics. Stéphane is some six years in the midst of his battle against the French Judo Federation for removing him from his position from the federation, as my father has just begun his own war against the rampant misappropriation of funds by USA Judo (the two organizations are affiliated only through the larger governing body; the International Judo Federation-- whose leader(s) are also of questionable moral and ethical standing...). The conversation then turned to more getting-to-know-you type talk, which was much more relaxing. A phone call disabled the car's radio and Beatrice politely apologized, and took the call over speaker phone without ever taking her hands off of the wheel (Hmm, Europe beat us to that much better implementation of Bluetooth technology-- or can US cars do that now?..) The change in language was a jolt to my brain: that's not French, I thought. The sweet, meek voice on the other end was obviously the Traineaus' youngest child, their eleven year old daughter.
The conversation finished, and I inquired, "So, I noticed you were speaking German?"
"Yeah, I am German. I always speak it to the kids in the home," she replied informatively.
"Ah, very cool." (Second to the ability to fly, I always wished that I could just immediately pick up any language-- especially due to my occasional laziness when it comes to studying subjects properly) I told Beatrice that my father was born in Munich, and the conversation continued pleasantly.
The Traineau family lives in Villiers sur Marne. A relatively small town (relative to Paris, that is) of about 29,000 people, Villiers is probably a quite typical French suburb. The houses in the town have that very traditional French sort of look: white or eggshell in color, stucco or stack stone outer, with red or brown earthen tile roofs.
Beatrice showed me to my quarters, which are separate from the main house and just through the office of Stéphane's and his wife's communication agency. The one bedroom studio flat has everything a judo player needs; a bed, full bathroom, half kitchen, and sufficient solitude. I put my bags down and was invited to lunch in the main house. My first meal of oven roasted potatoes, green beans and homemade pâté, was to set the standard for meals to come in the Traineau abode-- delicious, and proportional enough to jam a diesel powered commercial wood chipper. I think I shall have little trouble gaining the weight that I need to become a proper 90 kilo competitor.
You see, the current and relatively new weight classes are an issue for me. At 81 kilos (that's about 178lbs for you Americans-- just multiply by 2.2 to get from kilos to lbs) which is the next weight class down, I am way too light. I start straining muscles and have little control over my 6'3.5" frame. Once I really begin to train for tournaments, and get my cardio level up, then my mother's fantastic furnace genes kick in. And if I could manage to get it down, I could consume an entire school bus and it wouldn't show. The old weight class of 86 kilos would have been perfect for me, but c'est la vie, non? There are certainly worst problems to have, and worst places to have them in.
I took my lunch with the Traineaus' youngest son, and two gals that work for their agency. The ladies were very cordial and one of them asked me in English if I speak French. I replied, "Some Spanish, but no French." They both smiled politely, and continued their conversation in French.
After beginning the diligent but happy work of tackling my lunch, I realized that I was going to need something to wash it down with. So, I managed to get several gobs full of potatoes only half way down my gullet (it's no secret that I tend to inhale food, never mind the fact the fact that I was really, really hungry) before eyeballing the kitchen for a glass and probably looking much like a choking victim in the process... I managed to swallow at least enough to try and speak. "Um, (I think I might have even said, "un vaso"-- I suppose when one doesn't know the correct word in a particular foreign language, like French, yet they know it in another foreign language, like Spanish-- then the latter is the one they go for..) where are your glasses?" I had asked their son. He looked puzzled, and I needed to be able to breathe pretty soon. So, I simplified the request, "Glass?" Thankfully, he understood and fixed me a glass of water. I almost choked myself out before I even made it on the mat. Nice one.
After finishing my mound of lunch, I excused myself to take a much needed nap. I knew that Stéphane would be in Paris for at least a few more hours on business, so now was the time. So, nap I did. For at least two solid hours. I didn't sleep more than a couple hours on my red eye flight across the pond-- which is strange because I fly often for work and am generally out before the plane finishes taxiing for takeoff.
I awoke to a sound that would become my new alarm-- fingers clacking hard and fast on keyboards and business being conducted by what sounded like dozens of people (though, there are actually less than half of that) in a slew of different languages (and, they generally only speak French and German). I sorted myself out before heading into the bustle. I opened my door and at the opposite end of the office there was a large man with a giant smile that said, "Mat-THEW!"
Stéphane and I are probably almost an exact match in height. But that is it as far as the comparison goes. His back is much wider, his forearms are almost double mine in thickness, so too are his his hands and fingers: a champion judo player born.
After greeting one another and talking for a minute, it was agreed that we would go to practice that evening, but Stéphane mandated that I should take it easy as not to injure myself from being jet lagged. Of course, I agreed. And, in that moment, I did so sincerely. However, this is something that judo players ALWAYS do. Their coach says to "Take it easy!" for whatever reason (usually due to rehabbing an injury) the player says "OK" and again, for whatever reason, once on the mat the player takes it as a personal challenge and pushes themselves twice as hard like a complete fool. Or, like a judo player. Call it as you wish.
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