In France, a Swimming Pool with a Story

Years ago, I arrived in Rennes, France, with two large black suitcases—one so oversized it barely fit through the Paris metro turnstiles—armed with years of classroom French and a mix of excitement and fear. As an older college junior at the University of Washington studying journalism and French, I was also beginning to explore my sexuality, though I didn't realize it yet. I knew I wanted to immerse myself in French culture and language, so I opted for a program that placed me with a local family for nearly a year.

My host family resided in a historic four-bedroom apartment with tall shuttered windows overlooking Rennes' main square, the Place de la Mairie. Agnes, my host mother, was elegantly dressed and polite, though initially a bit distant—an archetype of the intimidating French woman. Her husband, Patrick, was jovial and humorous, once part of a group advocating for Normandy's independence from France, a revolutionary spark now softened by age. Their son, Antoine, in his twenties and living with them due to a disability, was charming and kind.

Despite their warm welcome, I experienced significant culture shock. My classes were conducted in French, my home life revolved around the language, and I was navigating new friendships. Everything felt different, and during those initial months, I often felt lonely and overwhelmed. To calm my mind, I turned to exercise, starting with runs through Rennes' cobbled streets and elegant parks lined with historic architecture.

One day, while running through the central plaza, I needed to pause and stretch. I stopped in front of a particularly ornate building that had intrigued me before, initially dismissed as yet another of the city's many government structures. That day, as I caught my breath, I looked more closely and discovered it was something far more inviting: a public swimming pool. It felt like unexpectedly encountering an old friend in an unfamiliar place; I had to embrace it. As I stepped through the lobby, the familiar scent of chlorine wrapped around me, banishing my homesickness.

A true art deco gem, the Piscine Saint-Georges welcomes visitors through blue, arch-shaped metal doors adorned with intricate swirls, complemented by a vibrant mosaic of tiles. Above, almost out of sight, rectangular glass panels are surrounded by the words "PISCINE MUNICIPAL." The interior is even more breathtaking. Constructed in the early 1920s, the spacious main hall features a rectangular layout, flanked by 30 changing rooms with painted blue doors. A balcony graces the second floor, and the blue ceiling tiles evoke waves, as if envisioned by Picasso himself.

The pool itself measures 36 yards in length and 15 yards in width, every inch adorned with a mosaic of tiny square tiles in every shade of blue. Encircling the pool is a frieze depicting wavelets in blue and green, highlighted by yellow and brown tiles that shimmer as artificial waves lap at the edges.

The stunning tiled masterpiece owes its creation to brothers Isidore and Vincent Odorico, descendants of a long lineage of mosaic artisans. They immigrated from Friuli, Italy—home to one of Italy’s finest mosaic schools—in the late 1800s and decorated much of Brittany with their artistry. Architect Emmanuel Le Ray hired the brothers after designing the pool, inspired by two existing pools: the rectangular Butte-aux-Cailles pool in Paris, known for its high arched ceiling, and a sunlit round pool at a thermal complex in Nancy, northwestern France. Both still stand today.

While the Odoricos’ artistry is undoubtedly beautiful, the all-tile commission served a greater purpose for the public. Following the 1918 flu epidemic, there was a growing awareness of disease transmission, with tile emerging as one of the most hygienic choices available. Le Ray enlisted the brothers to create a visually appealing solution for public health. Every shower and changing room—everything—is tiled.

This heightened awareness of health and disease transmission coincided with what is now referred to as the “Golden Age of Swimming.” Although pools began appearing worldwide in the late 19th century, they primarily served as bathing facilities. Wealthy individuals enjoyed the luxury of private baths thanks to indoor plumbing, while the lower classes relied on public pools for their bathing needs. It was less about swimming laps and more about washing away the grime of the day.

In the early 20th century, swimming transitioned from a leisurely activity to a competitive sport, particularly after its inclusion in the Olympics. This era saw the emergence of swimming pools in Western countries, including Europe and the United States, catering to those seeking health benefits through swimming. It was also a significant time for women, who were now participating in the Olympics, albeit only in freestyle events, while bathing suits became progressively more revealing, much to the dismay of traditionalists.

Amidst this transformative period, the Piscine Saint-Georges was inaugurated.

The study abroad program brought an unexpected advantage. My program fee covered accommodation and meals, allowing me to focus solely on studying, tidying my room, and taking care of myself. Agnes, Patrick, and Antoine led busy lives and didn't require much from me.

Reaching this point took immense effort: I became dedicated to my community college courses, decided on a career in storytelling, transferred to the University of Washington, and navigated the complexities of getting to France—all the applications, visa processes, finances, and flights. I had been independent for all those years, barely scraping by and pushing forward.

Even prior to that, I felt a significant emotional obligation towards my family. As a single mother, my mom faced many challenges. She always did her utmost and loved both my sister and me unconditionally. However, she was also navigating her own struggles, pursuing a degree, and confronting the shadows of her past, which often made me feel responsible for ensuring her well-being.

To put it simply: There wasn’t much room for deep emotional exploration, particularly concerning the intricate issue of sexual orientation. I had experimented with dating boys, but there was always something amiss, something that just didn’t resonate. It felt like the expected path, and I hesitated to consider what it might mean to delve deeper, even though a tiny voice inside me whispered, This isn’t working for you.

In Rennes, it felt like the first time I could focus solely on myself. Those around me were fine, finances were stable, and life was good. It was as if the barriers crumbled, allowing that inner voice that had long sought to be heard to finally grow stronger. Or perhaps I simply became better at listening to it.

Much of this self-discovery unfolded while I was in the pool.

Swimming is in our blood, my family. My grandmother was always active—skiing, hiking, swimming—but in the 1960s, she found herself at home with five young children and only one shower. Resourceful as she was, she enrolled the family at Aqua Dive, a deep, chlorinated pool just a few blocks away. Daily, the family would head to the pool; she would swim laps to maintain her fitness, while the kids played joyfully in the water. Everyone returned home clean and happy, shower crisis averted. This tradition lasted for years: even after the children grew up, my grandparents continued to swim their daily laps at Aqua Dive.

I also grew up in that environment. My mom has pictures of me as a six-month-old in that very pool (sporting a rainbow bathing suit, no less). As I honed my swimming skills and my sister, Aleia, joined the scene, our trips to Aqua Dive continued, where we played mermaids and hosted tea parties on the pool floor. With my mom working long hours, Aleia and I often spent half our time with our grandparents, which frequently included morning trips to the pool. Our love for water extended beyond the club; summers were spent splashing in Idaho lakes and braving the chilly Pacific along the Oregon coast. Swimming became an integral part of our identity.

It’s well-known that swimming is beneficial for the human body. There are the obvious physical advantages: it’s a low-impact, full-body workout that releases endorphins, boosting mood and reducing stress and anxiety—essentially our brain’s natural way of creating pain relief. However, swimming offers even deeper psychological benefits.

According to marine biologist Wallace J. Nichols in his book, Blue Mind: How Water Makes You Happier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do, “we are starting to understand that our brains are naturally inclined to respond positively to water. Being near it can soothe and connect us, enhance creativity and insight, and even mend what is broken.”

Nichols’s research delves into the human body's response to stress. He claims that many of us exist in a constant state of 'red mind,' filled with anxiety and stress, which contributes to various health issues we encounter today. By measuring stress hormones, EEGs, oxygen levels, and heart rate, Nichols found that exposure to water—be it oceans, lakes, or even a simple bath—led to reduced levels of stress and anxiety.

I appreciate the anthropological and reflective angle presented by writer Bonnie Tsui in her 2020 book, Why We Swim. She examines the allure of water and its persistent draw on us, despite its inherent dangers. She references the late naturalist Roger Deakin, who remarked that swimming has a transformative, Alice-in-Wonderland-like quality, as she notes.

“Stepping into the water triggers a transformation,” Deakin noted. “You leave the solid ground behind, crossing the looking glass to enter a whole new realm. When you swim, you perceive and feel things in ways that are utterly unique. The sensation of the present moment can be overwhelming.”

That weekend, I decided to get a membership at Piscine Saint-Georges, which offered a monthly punch card allowing up to three swims per week. Surprisingly, I felt a wave of nervousness on my first visit. It took ages to slip into my suit, stow my belongings in a locker, and shower. I even stalled by attempting to absorb all the pool rules, the funniest being a pictogram aimed at men that seemed to prohibit swim trunks while endorsing tiny Speedos. (I later found this to be true across France.)

Some elements felt intensely familiar: the distinctive smell of the pool air, the snug fit of my polyester-and-spandex swimsuit, the cool water brushing against my calves as I entered. Yet, standing in the shallow end, adjusting my new swim cap and goggles, I felt like a fish out of water, despite being in the water. I scanned the area, trying to grasp the etiquette.

Unlike the lap pools I was accustomed to, Piscine Saint-Georges was organized into four distinct sections. One expansive area seemed designated for those with fins or kickboards, while three lap lanes were separated by nylon ropes adorned with blue and white plastic floats. These lanes were notably wider than what I was used to, and sometimes swimmers utilized the center part of each lane for passing, much like on a highway. I lingered in the pool, observing, until the chill finally compelled me to dive in.

As I submerged, the world fell silent. I began my familiar side-stroke, observing other swimmers gliding past in their lanes. Upon reaching the opposite side of the pool, I executed a somewhat awkward flip turn, my feet connecting with the tiled wall for a little push. I completed perhaps 10 laps like that, still feeling a bit timid, listening for the lifeguard and watching for others wanting to pass. It wasn’t easy: After so many years on land, the water felt like a force I had to navigate. Despite my fatigue, I found myself grinning underwater on the last lap, surrounded by thousands of shimmering blue tiles.

Exiting Piscine Saint-Georges, I felt buoyant, almost electric, with a tranquility that had eluded me for weeks. A few days later, I returned to swim another 10 laps; the same routine continued the following week. Within a month, I pushed myself to 15, then 20 laps, and more. Each time I entered the cool water, it felt almost sacramental. As I began to swim, my thoughts would calm, and whatever obstacle I faced that day faded away. Swimming transformed into my form of meditation.

The challenges of those early laps mirrored the struggles of adapting to the program, grappling with cultural differences, and the fatigue of living 24/7 in a completely foreign language. But as time passed and I gained strength, those hurdles began to diminish. I fell in love with the pool, Rennes, my room overlooking the Place de la Mairie, and the program itself.

As this love blossomed, I found more emotional space, and my meditative swims began to touch on something deeper: my sexual orientation. Since I was 16, I’d sensed something was different. I vividly remember sitting on our living room carpet, watching K.D. Lang perform on TV. I knew her music but had never seen her live, and I was entranced. It may sound like a lesbian cliché, but she awakened something within me. At that time, I hadn’t dated or even kissed anyone, and I started feeling oddly out of place about that. The issue was, I didn’t really want to kiss anyone, and I was unsure how to process that.

In the late ’90s, before the internet was widespread and long before The L Word, I genuinely, and rather naively, thought being gay meant I had to want to look like K.D. I felt compelled to present more masculine or at least less feminine. I embraced my femininity, enjoying dresses, makeup, and long hair. Looking back, I realize I wanted to blend in with those around me. In my fairly conservative school, no one was (outwardly) gay, and many friends participated in Christian youth groups that excluded the gay community. Thus, I meandered into my 20s, suppressing that spark, that quiet voice.

However, in my French life at Piscine Saint-Georges, I began to reflect on that moment with K.D. and the years that followed, pondering what it all might signify. I didn’t seek therapy or discuss this with friends in the program or at home. Instead, I went to the pool, where the water washed away years of denial. It was just me and my fellow swim-capped seekers, kicking and splashing toward a form of transcendence.

The exact moment I realized my truth is hazy now, blurred together like images beneath rippling water. Yet, I clearly recall the first time I told myself, “I think I’m gay.” It felt undeniably true and simple, though not easy. It was both terrifying and disorienting, yet fiercely liberating. Suddenly, everything made sense: my late start with dating, the fleeting relationships I had with boys, and a deep friendship with a woman that felt more intimate than any I’d experienced with men.

I believe the strangeness of my new life contributed to this awakening: In a place where everything was unfamiliar, my perspective on the world and my identity shifted. Being different in France made me consider that—just maybe—I could embrace that difference back home. Would I have discovered this part of myself had I moved to New York instead of France? Perhaps. Yet, it often requires a complete upheaval of our lives to uncover hidden truths, and travel can be a powerful catalyst for that change.

In France, I didn’t act on this newfound awareness. I avoided gay clubs and dates with French women; it felt too daunting at that time. It was enough to simply acknowledge my truth. I needed time to strengthen myself, both physically and mentally, and the pool became my chrysalis, preparing me for my return home, transformed.

Upon returning home, it took time to uncover my layers. I navigated the sometimes awkward, often heartwarming process of coming out to family and friends. Eventually, I moved to the Bay Area and continued swimming. In fact, swimming was how I met my now-wife, Jeannie. In 2014, my friend Simone texted me about entering a relay triathlon with her friend Jeannie and needed a swimmer. Jeannie loves to share that I enthusiastically replied with a quick “yes” and a flurry of swim emojis, which impressed her because she believes the swim is the toughest leg.

As we trained for our triathlon, we often ran or swam together, forging a friendship through afternoons spent in the pool or under Oakland's towering redwoods. I vividly recall a sunny day standing in the shallow end of the pool, chatting with Simone and Jeannie, our goggles resting on our foreheads. It felt like something wonderful was in the making, and I cherished that moment, anticipating the future I had longed for.

Jeannie and I exchanged vows in September 2016 at Goleta State Park, situated near Santa Barbara, California, on a sandy beach kissed by the Pacific Ocean. As we pledged our love, dolphins leaped gracefully in the background, celebrating our union.

Nine months later, the Piscine Saint-Georges welcomed the moon—or rather, a 23-foot inflatable sphere, featuring NASA images that created a stunning replica of the moon. This traveling exhibit, called Museum of the Moon, was conceived by artist Luke Jerram, who collaborates with venues worldwide to display the moon for a limited time, hosting events with music by composer Dan Jones. I was utterly entranced by the imagery; the glowing moon seemed perfectly at home in the Rennes pool, like the final piece of a beautiful puzzle.

The moon illuminated the Piscine Saint-Georges for three weeks, both day and night. In that first year of marriage, far from my beginnings in France, I often envisioned myself swimming in that pool at night, embraced by the ethereal glow of the inflatable moon. In my mind’s eye, I would swim powerfully, gazing down into the deep blue tiles until I grew weary. Then, flipping onto my back, I’d gaze up, buoyed by the clear waters, admiring the celestial force above me, moonlight guiding me home.