An American Girl in Avignon
Friday, April 17, 2009
Civil Unrest, Cadillac Club, and Conversation
The past two days have been quite a trip. Fascination and Love of this place: growing. Pocketbook and Patience: shrinking.
The other day in-between class, a group of us started talking about how we have all have had the weirdest dreams since coming here. I don’t know if these dreams are subconscious thoughts and worries surfacing themselves while we slumber – or just simply the result of being in a place so different from the one you like to call home. What is more bizarre is that we all seem to be dreaming similar things. I am dreaming about people I haven’t seen in years, being lost, and of course, strange situations happening here and at OU. I find myself waking up some mornings and thinking, “Where the heck am I???!!” Before I realize, oh wait…I am in France. I wish there was some sort of explanation for all the thoughts floating in my head forming some really awkward and unexplainable dreams. Dream analysis has always fascinated me, and it’s always entertaining to try to recall the crazy events your mind pieced together between REM cycles. Traveler’s night traumas, perhaps?
For example, I dreamt about drying my clothes the other night – probably because I am really missing the convenience of dryers. Here, I hang my jeans out to air dry, and they are finally ready to wear…three days later. Perhaps with the aid of the sun, this process will quicken. As one can imagine, it is kind of awkward having to air dry you underwear in someone else’s house, so Kristina and I designated a spot in our room specifically for this.
After class, I went to the post office with Rachel…possibly one of the most confusing places in France. There were blue and yellow machines along the wall and a long line of people. The place was so big and overwhelming, I felt like I was in an airport. The stamps I bought for my postcards (which hopefully I will get around to sending sometime soon) are humongous! I had to white-out and rewrite the addresses, because the stamp was so big. I found out later that all stamps in France aren’t this big. The man behind the counter misunderstood me, and gave me jumbo sized ones. Oh, the joys of a language barrier. At least they didn’t cost any more than the others…
That night at dinner, conversation with Madame went surprisingly well. For some reason, I was able to speak French decently tonight. I have bad days with my attempts to “parler,” and I have good ones. Unfortunately, lately it seems that I keep getting worse and worse, but maybe you have to get worse, before you get better. After all, if you never make a mistake, then how can you learn?? The conversation went from the Mistral (the nasty wind that blows through the South of France) to language. The French language is lot more restricted than ours, perhaps because of its age. There isn’t as much flexibility, or room “to play” with words and such as there is in English. Something I find difficult in French is remembering all of the genders of nouns. To reference David Sedaris’s “Me Talk Pretty One Day,” (so sad that I could not see him speak at OU this quarter) what on earth makes a man’s shirt feminine, and a woman’s masculine? There is absolutely no sense to the system. Why is the sun masculine, but the moon feminine? I don’t see any masculine quality about the sun, or any feminine qualities about the moon. I have no idea who decided these things, but there is a long line of tradition behind the sexuality of nouns in lots of languages. At least French is not as complicated as German, where there are three possibilities: masculine, feminine, and neuter. My explanation is that maybe the Germans thought if they couldn’t find a masculine or feminine quality, the noun would be an “it.” :)
Yes, learning a language is complicated. Especially when one tries to adopt another after their language skills are fully developed in early childhood. (Which is why I would argue that foreign language education needs to begin much earlier for students in the United States. Wrote a paper for English about that last quarter.) In France, it seems like a majority of the population speaks two, if not three, or four languages. You feel incompetent when they asked you what language you speak, and reply English…and in the process of learning French. That’s another funny thing. I still don’t feel comfortable telling people that I speak French. Mainly because I am not very good at it, and I still have a lot to learn. Hopefully, things will get easier, because every day, I feel like I am learning something new.
When I went to get crepes with my correspondent yesterday, who conveniently is best friends with Elisse’s, I learned a few new slang French words: one is “vachement”: equivalent to très (very) en français; the other one I remember is “boulet,”- which literally translates means a ball-n-chain. But in casual convo means either a grand task, or refers to that “one person” who always seems to hang around…when no one else wants them there. Funny, huh? Thankfully no “boulets” so far on this trip, but we shall see…
Thinking that we were going to be late for our dreaded oral production class after our Nutella and banana outing, Elisse and I ran down a side street, only to bump into John and Kelby on their way to the Red Sky. Class was cancelled. Apparently, the students at the university were causing “civil unrest” (there was a band playing, people speaking, and students congregating to state their opinions), so class was cancelled. Later that night at Red Sky, one of the leaders on the trip called us to say that there would be no class for us tomorrow, due to the severity of la grève. Although the situation for the university is frightening, I was happy to have the day off. Who would have thought that I would be in France amongst one of the biggest student strikes in history? You never know what’s coming around the bend…
Phone tree time!! It was as if someone had told us exams would be eliminated from the college curriculum! We were so excited =time to go out and celebrate! Our French friends came by to pick us up and take us to a place called the Cadillac Club. The club was outside the walls, and man, were there a lot of students there…after a while. I find it funny/comforting that the college students in France are similar to the ones in the US (in that the party doesn’t really start until after an hour or so when it is supposed to). Ahh…I feel like I am back in Athens, when I am thousands of miles across the Atlantic.
Some observations I made: the French dance differently than Americans. It is more tasteful in some aspects in that touching and grinding (rarely seen) is kept to a minimum, but just plain weird in others. You can dance like a total dork here and feel completely comfortable, because guaranteed there is someone worse than you out there…I noticed most of them just sort of sway their hips and raise their arms. Needless to say, there was no reason to feel awkward after I got a look around me and saw how everyone else was dancing. Having a good time, but dying in need of some fresh air, I stepped outside with Rachel, Kyle, and Nicolaus to cool down…only to be met with the modern apocalypse outside!
The wind (that whipping Mistral again) was swirling, but it wasn’t raining. Just as Kyle and I turned to step outside and meet Rachel and Nicolaus…CRACKKKK!!! The biggest bolt of lightning I have ever seen in my life strikes near the telephone pole on the other side of the street (really close to where we run). I swear I felt the Earth shake beneath my feet! It was crazy! Kyle swore that the hairs on his legs stood up…and I believe him, because I think the hairs on the back of my neck did the same. Suddenly, it began to hail…really hard. Huge balls of ice came crashing down like rain. It was absolutely terrifying. The lights across the street went out, and the lamp in the breezeway we were standing in flickered. Rachel and Nicolaus ran inside, followed by Lance, Melissa, Brad, Elisse, and Meghan…who were wet and scared out of their minds from walking (more like sprinting) in the storm. We all ran upstairs as fast as we could, screaming, “DID YOU HEAR THAT????!!” to everyone around. They had. Thankfully, the scary weather was over for the night, but the wind and subtle sprinkles walking home were still going strong. Let’s hope April showers, bring May flowers in Avignon.
I returned to my house at 2 something, only to find myself fumbling with the keys my family gave me in the dark, cave-like tunnel next to our garden – which happens to be located next to a pitch-black parking garage. I was sweating it. Pulling out my cell, and pushing the buttons over and over to use the dim, blue-ish glare of my screen as my only light source, I finally made my way to the backyard…to find that the shutters had been locked. Great…I panicked for a few minutes, until I remembered that the family had given me the key to the other entrance just last week (after I had to make an early morning phone call to my sleepy roomie to be let in). After some struggle with the lock, I stumbled into the pitch black house. Due to the lack of lighting, I knocked over something on the kitchen table as I made my way to the back staircase that leads upstairs. As I pushed the obnoxious buzzer-triggered light by the stairs and heard the sudden mumbling of voices, I knew Madame and Monsieur’s sleep had been disturbed. They were kind of grumpy this morning…and I don’t blame them. Oh, it is going to be a fun spring indeed. :) I wish they would get rid of that dang buzzer…
For a change of scenery, tomorrow, I am going to Nîmes for the day with some friends. The train leaves early, so I should probably go to bed soon...but I am going to watch a movie instead. XX. More later!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Je rêve d’ailleurs
Today in class I learned another new word. I feel like my brain is overloaded from all of this new vocabulary (which in a way, is a good thing), but for some reason, this word stuck. I am thinking the word resonated so well with me because I could relate. It had meaning. The word was “ailleurs,” which according to trusty old wordreference.com (my new favorite website) means: “elsewhere/somewhere/someone/something else.”
The word was in Marcel Pagnol’s play of unspoken love called “Marius.” The tale of bittersweet romance is between a want-to-be sailor, named Marius and Fanny, a girl who he sees at the bar every day. Of course, Marius is in love with Fanny, but can’t tell her. Isn’t this always the case? Yet, when she finally confesses her love for him, even though he loves her, he can’t say it back. His longing to travel and fear of a long-term/long-distance commitment prevents him from saying so, so he leaves on a boat to travel to world. He “rêve d’ailleurs.” (Dreamed of something more). In the midst of love, he longed to see people and places beyond his own backyard.
I can relate to Marius in that “Je rêve d’ailleurs.” (I dream of elsewhere/something else/more) I want to travel the world, and experience life: see the places and meet the people you watch on the Travel Channel or read about in books. Unfortunately, my European adventure meant leaving behind the people I loved most as well: my family and friends. But I believe the old travel bug has bit me hard, and I am ready to roam…to Rome…or wherever else I may end up, God willing. Life is too short to sit back and let go by without going out there and trying something new.
Which brings me back to the phrase for France 2009: “C’est maintenant ou jamais (it’s now or never): you’ve only got one life to live, and it’s a wonderful life.” Since “C’est maintenant ou jamais” and because « je rêve d’ailleurs, » I am going to make the most of my time in Europe by traveling around France and Europe (pocketbook providing, and God and parents willing :)).
I am going to Nimes this weekend, and I am currently working on my travel plans to London, Rome or Prague, back to Paris, and wherever else is accessible and reasonably priced. It’s frustrating, because there is so much to see over here, and so little time to try to do it all. You can’t see everything, and I have to have money to eat, so one has to learn to make sacrifices along the way. Even if I don’t get to see all the places I want to go to while I am over here, I know I should be thankful. I finally made it to France, and that is a blessing and as “ailleurs” enough as is. :) Any suggestions?
We're so different, yet the same
When one travels, he or she can’t help but notice those inevitable “cultural differences.” Those things that make you go, “Hmmm, well that’s different…” At first, one may be confused, or even irritated by customs unlike his or her own, but after some reflection, and remembering to keep an open mind, one can learn from people who are different from themselves. I would personally like to apologize for a post I had on here the other night, which I thankfully deleted, about things I had noticed since arriving in France. I honestly did not mean anything by it: I did it out of fun and sarcasm really. But looking back, I realized that it may have come off as harsh or more arrogant and closed-minded than intended; I apologize for this. It’s funny how we can say one thing, or write it, and think nothing of it, yet it may come off as rude or offensive. I need to learn to think before I post… That’s the only thing I don’t like about writing/online conversations. The intention, meaning, or “reading b/w the lines” is not always as clear as the writer may think. So here is my attempt at a rewrite: Some things I find fascinating/bizarre/yet oh so wonderful about France:
Okay, so one can make their own version of Mission Impossible 20 (or whatever number they are on now): how to find a public restroom in Europe…without paying anything. Most places won’t allow you to use the facilities, unless you are a paying customer. So, every time nature calls, one has to sit at a café for a noisette or something equivalent, just to be “allowed” to perform a natural human function (or else begin the hunt for the scarcely scattered porcelain retreats). There are no restrooms in stores for customers, only the people that work there. Which I guess makes sense in a way. If I was a manager, I wouldn’t want everyone and their brother dirtying up the restroom. But you could also argue that when you gotta go, you gotta go. What is most disappointing to me was my trip to McDonalds today. I stopped here, thinking it likely that no other place would serve us. I ran upstairs only to discover that the bathroom had OPERATING HOURS. I am not joking. The bathrooms would be “out of service” every day from 14H00 to 16H00. It was 14H30. So, if your bladder starts pulsating within that two hour span, one is just fresh out of luck. This was different. Cleaning hours, maybe? I don’t really know…Irritated and about to burst, we walked briskly to a crêperie. Trying to blend in by acting like I had come from the outdoor patio, a man pointed me in the direction of the massive patisserie’s only bathroom. Ahh, success. I tried to figure out some bizarre explanation for why finding a bathroom is so difficult and came to the conclusion that we have been spoiled by convenience. Whenever I have to go to the bathroom in the states, I always know that there will be one waiting for me. Europe’s system is probably better for the economy, but good luck to all those with overactive bladders while traveling! (Side note: sometimes you will get lucky and find someone who will have pity on your soul; especially if you start to do the “potty dance”:) ) Tip: Whenever at a restroom, use it, whether you have to go or not, because chances are that you will have to use it later…and not be able to find one. Keep pocket change with you too, just in case you have to buy a coffee or something to use the facilities. Trust me, if you have to go that badly, you will gladly fork over a euro or two for an au lait…already happened to me)
Speaking of bathroom needs, yesterday during our feast, Monsieur pulled out the guinea pig, Zephyr, and placed a collar around his neck as he held him. I mentioned this story in my previous blog, but somehow forgot to add that the rodent peed all over his shirt, and then left two presents right beneath my feet. Monsieur just laughed, too hyped up on expensive champagne to care. I like that in general, the French seemed to be less stressed about things like this. (You can probably tell that I am getting used to the laissez-faire, relaxed Provencal attitude…and loving it!) :)
And speaking of “presents,” I know I have mentioned how there is a lot of dog poop on the ground here, but failed to say anything about the treatment of French dogs. The French love, love, love their pooches. They go with them in stores, restaurants, and supermarkets…just about anywhere really. It is also not uncommon for dogs to be wandering the streets without leashes, or panting while striding in front or behind of their masters on busy boulevards. Being a dog lover, it doesn’t bother me one bit, aside from the time I accidently stepped in one of their “presents.” If you don’t like dogs, just mentally prepare yourself for seeing a whole lot of them before coming here.
This brings me to “social smoking.” Apparently, one who participates in just “social smoking,” or smoking when one drinks or with others who smoke, isn’t considered as a “smoker.” I guess this is because smoking seems to be more culturally accepted in France. The more I think about it, I realize that this is kind of similar to the US, in that some people (particularly in a college setting) only smoke when they drink, and don’t consider themselves “smoker.” I was just surprised by the number of people who do smoke here. More often than not, the French seem to smoke. Although I personally to not like smoking, to each, his own.
Reverting back to music. When I was sitting in Place Pie today (which I apologize that I have been spelling incorrectly this whole blog…it’s Place PIE, not Pis), and getting swarmed by some of those inevitable pigeons, I heard Kid Cudi’s “Day ‘n’ Nite” blaring as a SAAB drove by. I asked Paul the other day if the people in France knew what the lyrics to the American songs they love to listen to meant. He replied, “Nope, most don’t, they just like the beat.” I found this really amusing. How different from the US this was. It’s not too common to find Americans who listen to French music; aside from French majors/French nerds comme moi. What’s even funnier is that I have seen some of them walk around mumbling/mouthing words to American songs…inappropriate ones. So one could walk around saying, “Let me see you grind and that pole,” and think that they are singing something as innocent as the Temptation’s “My Girl.” A little bizarre, but I realized that I (and I’m sure countless others) had done the same thing with Lady Marmalade’s infamous “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?!” before taking French. I’ll be the first to admit walked around singing this, when in reality, I had no clue what I was saying. I’m pretty sure that most people know what it means by now know…but on first listen (and no French) who would have thought that tune was a hooker ballad??…I just thought it was cool that it was French. It is really quite funny…in a disturbing sort of way.
The fashion-forward Frenchies love to dress up. I have noted that they where a ton of boots over here; which being a boot lover myself, I really enjoy seeing. What I find interesting is how it seems rare to spot one in shorts over here, unless those shorts are accessorized with tights and the wearer’s feet are adorned with boots. Normally in the states one would consider this kind of attire tasteless, but it works over here…and they wear it well! I don’t know how they do it, but French people have flair about them. They could put on a paper bag and strut down the street and still look fabulous. It must be in their blood: we are in the country where Chanel and couture originated after all…
Speaking of walking down the streets, one should be careful crossing them. Pedestrians do not have the right of way; cars do. “Look both ways” could never be more applicable. You may get killed (I almost have).
What’s also really interesting to me is the French people’s obsession with American shows like “House,” whom is affectionately referred to as “DR HOUSE,” in a cute French accent. There is even a Dr. House quote on our family’s refrigerator. Fascinating, being that the television here is from the US, meaning that they watch dubbed shows all the time. I wonder if the French people get tired of watching everyone’s mouth out of sync with the dialogue. You’ll be watching something like Gossip Girl, and all the sudden ,when Penn Bagley is about to speak in that sexy, sarcastic tone of his, some weasely voice will come out of his beautiful mouth (thank God that voice has an accent). It just ruins it for me really…(aside from the Penn Badgley thing, most of the other dubbing is a-okay with me.) The French also have their own version of American Idol called Nouvel Star. I have only watched it once, and I am not embarrassed to admit that I was really entertained. But I think it is funny how something just as popular in the states, like House, can be brought to a foreign country, dubbed, and then become just as much (if not more) of a hit. It just goes to show you that although there may be some cultural difference and things I don’t understand about the French, people everywhere are really the same. I guess “it’s a small world after all” in that aspect. But there’s so much world to see and so many things to learn to try to understand. And I have only begun to start learning…
Monday, April 13, 2009
Peace et Pâques
April 12, 2009
Today was Easter Sunday. As mentioned in a previous blog, this is my second time being out of the country during the holiday, but this time I am in a country where the majority of the country recognizes and respects the holiday 9last year I was in China). Although the people in France may not be very religious, it is tradition that most people attend mass Easter Sunday.
Something that I found amusing about the holiday is that instead of an Easter Bunny bringing children a basket full of chocolately goodness in the morning, the bearer of gifts in France is a bell. Yep…an inanimate object. Why one would choose an inanimate object to bring gifts is beyond me, but I am guessing that it has something to do with how many church bells I heard ringing throughout the day. Thankfully, the children still receive chocolate on this special day, and when Kristina and I walked downstairs to the elaborately adorned table, we were delighted to see nine chocolate bunnies (with bell collars around their neck) as edible décor. I nonchalantly pre-staked my claim on one of the two dark chocolate ones (which were bigger that the milk :) ) by casually mentioning to the family that I liked dark chocolate more. It worked.
After a hurried, freezing cold shower (I had slept in, so everyone had already used all the hot water), I rushed to get downstairs by noon. Of course, I didn’t make it until 12:30, mostly due to the fact that I spent at least twenty minutes holding the shower nozzle as far away from me as possible, frantically turning the knobs in search of any lukewarm water. No such luck. Running downstairs at half past twelve, I apologized for my tardiness, only to find that I wasn’t late at all. This was France after all. It is even sometimes considered rude to be on time to someone’s house here. Fifteen minutes is just fashionably late, but one is truly en vogue if they show up a half an hour late, but never more than 45 minutes, or you are considered an unappreciative pig. I am slowly beginning to understand the thought process behind their ways.
The beautifully decorated table was lined with three glasses at each setting, and countless knives and forks. A little panicked, and thinking how beneficial it would have been to have taken something like etiquette or cotillion classes before being thrown head first into a formal gathering such as this, I turned to my host brother and whispered what on earth all those plates, utensils, and glasses were for. The old “work your way from the outside in” apparently would work in this situation, and I learned that you started with the plate on top and worked your way down as each course you were served. Simpler than I had thought. The three glasses were for water, wine, and CHAMPAGNE!!! It was going to be a good day indeed. Free feast and champagne (my favorite!)…this was my lucky day!! I am just going to except the fact that deep down, I am a true romantic: a strawberries and champagne kind of girl. :)
Wondering what we were supposed to do, Kristin and I twiddled our thumbs, and after our family insisted that they didn’t need any help, we made our way to the living room to sit and wait for the aperitif. When the family’s friends arrived, the awkwardness level went through the roof. I was greeted by the husband, wife, and three children with three bissous on my cheeks. I told you the French people had no personal space boundaries. These people didn’t even know me and they were already kissing me. I was thrown off guard by this (because frankly I was not used to someone kissing me on the cheek when we first meet for obvious reasons), that when I pulled away to say, “Enchantée (nice to meet you), je m’appelle Catherine (my name is Catherine),” I stopped before my name (I swear the pause seemed like 5 seconds), before finally spitting it out. I am sure I made a great first impression....
The three kids, two girls who were sixteen and thirteen, and a boy of eighteen, sat on the opposite end of the couch, saying nothing and looking at the ground as they were handed glasses of coco-cola in place of the straight whiskey or mimosa-like thing I was drinking. The adults talked amongst themselves in a lightning-fast speed. It was like watching a tennis match, my head bobbed back and forth between each person, desperately trying to keep up with what they were talking about (which I know was about something intellectual I wouldn’t know anything about anyway), but it was obvious that I was in way over my head. Monsieur could tell this, as he casually whispered aside during the firing of French pharses, “Un peu trop vite, n’est-ce pas?” (A little too fast, right?) I just nodded and kept the stunned look on my face. I am happy to report that as the day went on, and after a few drinks, it became easier to understand what they were saying…so I am trying to stay optimistic and think there is hope for me! After munching on bowls of pretzels and Pringles (of all things), Madame called us to the elaborately set table for the feast.
I don’t think I have ever eaten so much food in my life in one sitting! It was absolutely marvelous! I felt like a princess as I attempted to eat as fancy and as well mannered as possible, but I was still my dorky, awkward self, so my plan of impressing the other family didn’t work out quite as well as envisioned in my head. Things usually never do, but that’s life. The first course was oversized asparagus with a crème sauce accompanied by white wine. The following course was the plat principal: bread and baby potatoes (baby bakers…so yummy!!) with sautéed zucchini, and succulent lamb meat. My mouth is watering just talking about it. The main course was accompanied by a rich, regional red wine and dipping sauce. After this came the cheese and bread course (with more wine), which was followed by dessert: mocha cake (which the family informed us they were up till 1:30 in the morning making, while we were out dancing) accompanied by champagne. ..two glasses of champagne. Knowing how I love champagne, I really think the family was trying to get me drunk for their amusement, because they kept refilling my glass. I finally had to tell them to stop, because after an aperitif, two glasses of wine, and two glasses of champagne, and my zero-alcohol tolerance, I was starting to feel REALLY good…and a little loopy. But I vowed to buy that same brand for my return trip to the US, since it was so yummy. I for sure didn’t get drunk, but I KNOW my host dad was a little buzzed. I lost count of how many glasses of alcohol he had consumed(after downing three or four aperitifs); he started laughing a lot, making jokes, and then ended dessert by pulling out the guinea pig and placing the bell collar (originally around the lapin au chocolat’s (chocolate bunny’s) neck) around his pet. His slap-happy mood was hysterical. If it would have been different circumstances, I would have taken a video, because he was in a really, REALLLY good mood. After FOUR hours of sitting and conversation, the massive meal ended with us finally consuming the chocolate rabbits and drinking coffee (three cups for me, because we served in shot-size espresso glasses). Ahhh…what a meal. It was really great to participate in a traditional afternoon with family and friends in Provence. This was the kind of meal I had only read about in books, or seen in movies, and to get to experience the intelligent conversation, laughs, and flavors of a formal French afternoon was truly a blessing I will remember for the rest of my life.
Thankfully, the other family opened up to conversation after they had food and wine in their bellies, so the rest of the afternoon was relaxing and enjoyable. After more conversation, and realizing that it was nearing 5, the family left, bissous for all! This meant that Kristina and I had an hour to get ready for an evening Easter mass in town at the St. Paul cathedral. We just sat around, letting our stomachs settle for a while before making that hike across town.
The cathedral and service were both…beautiful. A candle-lit mass with a simple guitar and hymn book was all one needed to feel the presence and warm of a place so welcoming on Easter Sunday. Although the service and songs were in French, so that meant I didn’t really have a clue as to what was going on, it didn’t matter. The church had a welcoming feeling of warmth, and even though, being a contemporary Protestant, I am not used to a traditional Catholic service, it was easy to follow along by watching everyone else. Although, I am sure that I looked like a fool when I did that whole cross thing where you touch your head, then your chest, and your two shoulders…in the wrong direction. What is that called by the way? Oh…never mind.
During prayer, I felt something wet splash across my face, and realized that the priest was walking around sprinkling people’s heads with an olive branch drenched in holy water. This was different for me, but it was really neat to get to see how different types of churches worship the same God in their own way. It’s fascinating to me. Although, I interrupted another time of prayer, when I felt something grab my leg and let out a little gasp, as I jumped to look down and spot a smiling child who had wondered over to me, who I am guessing decided that I looked friendly and felt the need to latch on to my leg. Everyone turned around and glared at me…then to my surprise, smiled. It was Easter after all. Gosh, I just cause so many problems when I travel…
After the mass, we stood in line to greet the priest, to whom my family informed that I was from America. As soon as they said this, it seemed as though all the people within an earshot turned around to get a glance at the American girl who had interrupted their service. To my delight, I was met by smiling faces and looks of fascination. I think it is safe to say that they were just as intrigued by Kristina and me as we were by them. The priest shook my hand, looked me in the eye, as he said in French, “God bless you child,”…and added in English, “Have fun, and safe travels.” I felt really touched as I turned to look back at the Renaissance period building. I paused for a moment and thanked God for how blessed I was to be spending Easter with such a nice family in France.
Walking back to the house, I took my time, lingering behind to absorb all the sights and sounds of a beautiful town called Avignon. I looked up at the starry cloudless sky, and then down to the pavement of the Rue de la Republic, which is embedded with fragments glass, so it sparkles under the light. It was like something out of a dream. Then, it hit me: there I was standing in the middle of a sparkly road on Easter Sunday. I was slowly but surely falling in love…with France. I think it is going to be harder to leave this place then I had previously thought.
Today was Easter Sunday. As mentioned in a previous blog, this is my second time being out of the country during the holiday, but this time I am in a country where the majority of the country recognizes and respects the holiday 9last year I was in China). Although the people in France may not be very religious, it is tradition that most people attend mass Easter Sunday.
Something that I found amusing about the holiday is that instead of an Easter Bunny bringing children a basket full of chocolately goodness in the morning, the bearer of gifts in France is a bell. Yep…an inanimate object. Why one would choose an inanimate object to bring gifts is beyond me, but I am guessing that it has something to do with how many church bells I heard ringing throughout the day. Thankfully, the children still receive chocolate on this special day, and when Kristina and I walked downstairs to the elaborately adorned table, we were delighted to see nine chocolate bunnies (with bell collars around their neck) as edible décor. I nonchalantly pre-staked my claim on one of the two dark chocolate ones (which were bigger that the milk :) ) by casually mentioning to the family that I liked dark chocolate more. It worked.
After a hurried, freezing cold shower (I had slept in, so everyone had already used all the hot water), I rushed to get downstairs by noon. Of course, I didn’t make it until 12:30, mostly due to the fact that I spent at least twenty minutes holding the shower nozzle as far away from me as possible, frantically turning the knobs in search of any lukewarm water. No such luck. Running downstairs at half past twelve, I apologized for my tardiness, only to find that I wasn’t late at all. This was France after all. It is even sometimes considered rude to be on time to someone’s house here. Fifteen minutes is just fashionably late, but one is truly en vogue if they show up a half an hour late, but never more than 45 minutes, or you are considered an unappreciative pig. I am slowly beginning to understand the thought process behind their ways.
The beautifully decorated table was lined with three glasses at each setting, and countless knives and forks. A little panicked, and thinking how beneficial it would have been to have taken something like etiquette or cotillion classes before being thrown head first into a formal gathering such as this, I turned to my host brother and whispered what on earth all those plates, utensils, and glasses were for. The old “work your way from the outside in” apparently would work in this situation, and I learned that you started with the plate on top and worked your way down as each course you were served. Simpler than I had thought. The three glasses were for water, wine, and CHAMPAGNE!!! It was going to be a good day indeed. Free feast and champagne (my favorite!)…this was my lucky day!! I am just going to except the fact that deep down, I am a true romantic: a strawberries and champagne kind of girl. :)
Wondering what we were supposed to do, Kristin and I twiddled our thumbs, and after our family insisted that they didn’t need any help, we made our way to the living room to sit and wait for the aperitif. When the family’s friends arrived, the awkwardness level went through the roof. I was greeted by the husband, wife, and three children with three bissous on my cheeks. I told you the French people had no personal space boundaries. These people didn’t even know me and they were already kissing me. I was thrown off guard by this (because frankly I was not used to someone kissing me on the cheek when we first meet for obvious reasons), that when I pulled away to say, “Enchantée (nice to meet you), je m’appelle Catherine (my name is Catherine),” I stopped before my name (I swear the pause seemed like 5 seconds), before finally spitting it out. I am sure I made a great first impression....
The three kids, two girls who were sixteen and thirteen, and a boy of eighteen, sat on the opposite end of the couch, saying nothing and looking at the ground as they were handed glasses of coco-cola in place of the straight whiskey or mimosa-like thing I was drinking. The adults talked amongst themselves in a lightning-fast speed. It was like watching a tennis match, my head bobbed back and forth between each person, desperately trying to keep up with what they were talking about (which I know was about something intellectual I wouldn’t know anything about anyway), but it was obvious that I was in way over my head. Monsieur could tell this, as he casually whispered aside during the firing of French pharses, “Un peu trop vite, n’est-ce pas?” (A little too fast, right?) I just nodded and kept the stunned look on my face. I am happy to report that as the day went on, and after a few drinks, it became easier to understand what they were saying…so I am trying to stay optimistic and think there is hope for me! After munching on bowls of pretzels and Pringles (of all things), Madame called us to the elaborately set table for the feast.
I don’t think I have ever eaten so much food in my life in one sitting! It was absolutely marvelous! I felt like a princess as I attempted to eat as fancy and as well mannered as possible, but I was still my dorky, awkward self, so my plan of impressing the other family didn’t work out quite as well as envisioned in my head. Things usually never do, but that’s life. The first course was oversized asparagus with a crème sauce accompanied by white wine. The following course was the plat principal: bread and baby potatoes (baby bakers…so yummy!!) with sautéed zucchini, and succulent lamb meat. My mouth is watering just talking about it. The main course was accompanied by a rich, regional red wine and dipping sauce. After this came the cheese and bread course (with more wine), which was followed by dessert: mocha cake (which the family informed us they were up till 1:30 in the morning making, while we were out dancing) accompanied by champagne. ..two glasses of champagne. Knowing how I love champagne, I really think the family was trying to get me drunk for their amusement, because they kept refilling my glass. I finally had to tell them to stop, because after an aperitif, two glasses of wine, and two glasses of champagne, and my zero-alcohol tolerance, I was starting to feel REALLY good…and a little loopy. But I vowed to buy that same brand for my return trip to the US, since it was so yummy. I for sure didn’t get drunk, but I KNOW my host dad was a little buzzed. I lost count of how many glasses of alcohol he had consumed(after downing three or four aperitifs); he started laughing a lot, making jokes, and then ended dessert by pulling out the guinea pig and placing the bell collar (originally around the lapin au chocolat’s (chocolate bunny’s) neck) around his pet. His slap-happy mood was hysterical. If it would have been different circumstances, I would have taken a video, because he was in a really, REALLLY good mood. After FOUR hours of sitting and conversation, the massive meal ended with us finally consuming the chocolate rabbits and drinking coffee (three cups for me, because we served in shot-size espresso glasses). Ahhh…what a meal. It was really great to participate in a traditional afternoon with family and friends in Provence. This was the kind of meal I had only read about in books, or seen in movies, and to get to experience the intelligent conversation, laughs, and flavors of a formal French afternoon was truly a blessing I will remember for the rest of my life.
Thankfully, the other family opened up to conversation after they had food and wine in their bellies, so the rest of the afternoon was relaxing and enjoyable. After more conversation, and realizing that it was nearing 5, the family left, bissous for all! This meant that Kristina and I had an hour to get ready for an evening Easter mass in town at the St. Paul cathedral. We just sat around, letting our stomachs settle for a while before making that hike across town.
The cathedral and service were both…beautiful. A candle-lit mass with a simple guitar and hymn book was all one needed to feel the presence and warm of a place so welcoming on Easter Sunday. Although the service and songs were in French, so that meant I didn’t really have a clue as to what was going on, it didn’t matter. The church had a welcoming feeling of warmth, and even though, being a contemporary Protestant, I am not used to a traditional Catholic service, it was easy to follow along by watching everyone else. Although, I am sure that I looked like a fool when I did that whole cross thing where you touch your head, then your chest, and your two shoulders…in the wrong direction. What is that called by the way? Oh…never mind.
During prayer, I felt something wet splash across my face, and realized that the priest was walking around sprinkling people’s heads with an olive branch drenched in holy water. This was different for me, but it was really neat to get to see how different types of churches worship the same God in their own way. It’s fascinating to me. Although, I interrupted another time of prayer, when I felt something grab my leg and let out a little gasp, as I jumped to look down and spot a smiling child who had wondered over to me, who I am guessing decided that I looked friendly and felt the need to latch on to my leg. Everyone turned around and glared at me…then to my surprise, smiled. It was Easter after all. Gosh, I just cause so many problems when I travel…
After the mass, we stood in line to greet the priest, to whom my family informed that I was from America. As soon as they said this, it seemed as though all the people within an earshot turned around to get a glance at the American girl who had interrupted their service. To my delight, I was met by smiling faces and looks of fascination. I think it is safe to say that they were just as intrigued by Kristina and me as we were by them. The priest shook my hand, looked me in the eye, as he said in French, “God bless you child,”…and added in English, “Have fun, and safe travels.” I felt really touched as I turned to look back at the Renaissance period building. I paused for a moment and thanked God for how blessed I was to be spending Easter with such a nice family in France.
Walking back to the house, I took my time, lingering behind to absorb all the sights and sounds of a beautiful town called Avignon. I looked up at the starry cloudless sky, and then down to the pavement of the Rue de la Republic, which is embedded with fragments glass, so it sparkles under the light. It was like something out of a dream. Then, it hit me: there I was standing in the middle of a sparkly road on Easter Sunday. I was slowly but surely falling in love…with France. I think it is going to be harder to leave this place then I had previously thought.
La Musique est la Vie
Knowing that we had an excursion today, Kristina and I stayed in last night to watch a movie after our very, very late dinner. Getting up at the last second, realizing that we had less than fifteen minutes to be at our assigned meeting spot, we grabbed a makeshift lunch by throwing a baguette, a jar of off-brand nutella, apples, and a knife in my purse. Classy and nutritious, I know. Nutella and bread: the lunch of champions. I need to put that knife back in the Morviellez’s drawer by the way…It was of course freezing and raining on the day we would be going to the Beaux de Provence: a beautiful village up on a mountain with an ancient chateau and the cathedral d’images, but thankfully, God invented umbrellas and hot drinks.
The town was gorgeous: little sweets shops, endless cafes, and boutiques lined the cobblestone streets. The chateau ruins were really tucked away in the hills like something out of a storybook, and climbing the steep stairs, while fighting the chilly wind, was worth the hike once one reached the top. Although overcast, the view was breathtaking: miles of lush vineyards and little villages dotted the hilly countryside. It was like something out of a postcard; but at the same time, this was of those places that’s beauty is hard to capture on film. After two hours of free time, there was a trebuchet demonstration, which Brad, John, Adam, Kelby, and Meghan volunteered for without hesitation. It was so funny to watch them try to turn the wheels of the Middle Age contraption, only to tire themselves out before lowering the bar to launch the rocks sky-high. Good show indeed.
After the longest ten minute walk in the rain, we arrived at the Cathedral d’Images. Not knowing what on Earth I was about to see, I walked into the massive building, assuming I was probably about to take a tour of some old church. I was pleasantly surprised when I approached a massive, modern cave-like structure tucked inside a hill. Yet, I had no idea what to expect as I walked into the Picasso exhibit. I was delighted to be greeted by enormous, glowing images of Picasso’s paintings flashing across the walls and ground in a spinning spectacle set to music. As cheesy as it sounds, it WAS living art. One could become part of a painting: you could lay in the flashing colorful images, lean against them, and be completely surrounded by these oversized masterpieces. It was one of the coolest places I have ever been. The concept was very creative, and truly artistic. I am just disappointed that my camera died before I got to capture the show on film. As nerdy as it sounds, the show was moving, I stood in awe as I watched the paintings circle around me and thought to myself how talented Picasso really was. His paintings, although some are a little strange, were brilliant. He was an artist after all. I guess you could say I had one of those deep moments of reflection while sitting on a bench, watching the images float by as I listened to the booming soundtrack. I suddenly felt inspired to take up painting myself, or find my own creative passion or muse. I was disappointed when it was time to leave, and vowed to return someday.
Our pit stop on the way back to Avignon was a little village called St. Remy de Provence, a place famous for its chocolates. Our stop at the Joel Durand Chocolatier to taste exotic eats which came in flavors such as Vanilla, Provence, Honey, Salted butter and crème, Coffee, Earl Grey, Orange, Violet, Honey, Lavender, Orange, and Mint was worth getting rained on. It was magnificent! After taste testing, I stood in line to buy some of the gourmet goodies. Sadly, Rachel and I were served last, and by the time we were finished, everyone had already headed back to the bus. I am just going to blame my fatigue and lack of caffeine that day for not remembering how on earth to get back. We wandered around the streets for awhile, and assuming we had an idea where we were going, we took a wrong turn and ended up in some shady back alley parking lot, only to end up caught in the rain without an umbrella. It was pouring cats and dogs! Soaked to the bone, and freezing, we traced our steps backward (more like ran), until we got a call from an (so we thought) angry Christophe wondering where the heck we were…everyone was waiting for us. We felt even worse when we got on the bus, and after a round of applause for our lack of direction, discovered that Christophe’s girlfriend Katie was in the hospital. He had been waiting on us, so he could leave and go see her. I felt horrible as the bus pulled into the Avignon hospital, as he rushed to get out. He didn’t act mad at us, just worried more like. I hope she is okay.
After sitting in my wet clothes for quite some time, I was thrilled to get home and change,. Walking into an empty house, Kristina and I greeted Paul. Instead of sticking to my original plan of running upstairs to change and sleep, we ended up staying downstairs to watch French MTV and VH1 for an hour or two. It was funny to see that the same songs in the US are just as popular (if not more popular) here. We saw Enrique Iglesias music videos five times in the period of an hour, and Beyonce was all over every channel! I even figured out the names of the two French songs I fell in love with at the discotheque the other night: Discobitch’s (classy name, right?) “C'est beau la bourgeoisie” and Helmut Fritz’s “Ca m’enerve.” Soo catchy! I decided that love French music...well, some of it. After talking, we invited Paul out with us that night to Red Sky and Red Zone, our two usual go-to places, with our friends.
Well, the discotheque was interesting…some creepy French boy followed me around the room for a while, but thankfully, Jenny (our student assistant) was there to save me! Just when I thought I was safe, I got another creepy stalker! They sure are persistent overseas! I had to wander around the room like five times, trying to lose the one, before he finally gave up and left. It was really weird. Also, another thing: sorry to be rude and stereotypical, but French people need to wear more deodorant when they go out dancing; the place smelled like BO last night. Usually it’s not that bad, but last night in particular was quite ripe if I do say so myself. In all, it was another good night full of dancing and laughs (aside from the creepy weirdness and another bizarre/frightening happening which shall remain unmentioned). Tomorrow we have an Easter feast at noon with our host family and their friends. Get ready for Easter in France….XX
The town was gorgeous: little sweets shops, endless cafes, and boutiques lined the cobblestone streets. The chateau ruins were really tucked away in the hills like something out of a storybook, and climbing the steep stairs, while fighting the chilly wind, was worth the hike once one reached the top. Although overcast, the view was breathtaking: miles of lush vineyards and little villages dotted the hilly countryside. It was like something out of a postcard; but at the same time, this was of those places that’s beauty is hard to capture on film. After two hours of free time, there was a trebuchet demonstration, which Brad, John, Adam, Kelby, and Meghan volunteered for without hesitation. It was so funny to watch them try to turn the wheels of the Middle Age contraption, only to tire themselves out before lowering the bar to launch the rocks sky-high. Good show indeed.
After the longest ten minute walk in the rain, we arrived at the Cathedral d’Images. Not knowing what on Earth I was about to see, I walked into the massive building, assuming I was probably about to take a tour of some old church. I was pleasantly surprised when I approached a massive, modern cave-like structure tucked inside a hill. Yet, I had no idea what to expect as I walked into the Picasso exhibit. I was delighted to be greeted by enormous, glowing images of Picasso’s paintings flashing across the walls and ground in a spinning spectacle set to music. As cheesy as it sounds, it WAS living art. One could become part of a painting: you could lay in the flashing colorful images, lean against them, and be completely surrounded by these oversized masterpieces. It was one of the coolest places I have ever been. The concept was very creative, and truly artistic. I am just disappointed that my camera died before I got to capture the show on film. As nerdy as it sounds, the show was moving, I stood in awe as I watched the paintings circle around me and thought to myself how talented Picasso really was. His paintings, although some are a little strange, were brilliant. He was an artist after all. I guess you could say I had one of those deep moments of reflection while sitting on a bench, watching the images float by as I listened to the booming soundtrack. I suddenly felt inspired to take up painting myself, or find my own creative passion or muse. I was disappointed when it was time to leave, and vowed to return someday.
Our pit stop on the way back to Avignon was a little village called St. Remy de Provence, a place famous for its chocolates. Our stop at the Joel Durand Chocolatier to taste exotic eats which came in flavors such as Vanilla, Provence, Honey, Salted butter and crème, Coffee, Earl Grey, Orange, Violet, Honey, Lavender, Orange, and Mint was worth getting rained on. It was magnificent! After taste testing, I stood in line to buy some of the gourmet goodies. Sadly, Rachel and I were served last, and by the time we were finished, everyone had already headed back to the bus. I am just going to blame my fatigue and lack of caffeine that day for not remembering how on earth to get back. We wandered around the streets for awhile, and assuming we had an idea where we were going, we took a wrong turn and ended up in some shady back alley parking lot, only to end up caught in the rain without an umbrella. It was pouring cats and dogs! Soaked to the bone, and freezing, we traced our steps backward (more like ran), until we got a call from an (so we thought) angry Christophe wondering where the heck we were…everyone was waiting for us. We felt even worse when we got on the bus, and after a round of applause for our lack of direction, discovered that Christophe’s girlfriend Katie was in the hospital. He had been waiting on us, so he could leave and go see her. I felt horrible as the bus pulled into the Avignon hospital, as he rushed to get out. He didn’t act mad at us, just worried more like. I hope she is okay.
After sitting in my wet clothes for quite some time, I was thrilled to get home and change,. Walking into an empty house, Kristina and I greeted Paul. Instead of sticking to my original plan of running upstairs to change and sleep, we ended up staying downstairs to watch French MTV and VH1 for an hour or two. It was funny to see that the same songs in the US are just as popular (if not more popular) here. We saw Enrique Iglesias music videos five times in the period of an hour, and Beyonce was all over every channel! I even figured out the names of the two French songs I fell in love with at the discotheque the other night: Discobitch’s (classy name, right?) “C'est beau la bourgeoisie” and Helmut Fritz’s “Ca m’enerve.” Soo catchy! I decided that love French music...well, some of it. After talking, we invited Paul out with us that night to Red Sky and Red Zone, our two usual go-to places, with our friends.
Well, the discotheque was interesting…some creepy French boy followed me around the room for a while, but thankfully, Jenny (our student assistant) was there to save me! Just when I thought I was safe, I got another creepy stalker! They sure are persistent overseas! I had to wander around the room like five times, trying to lose the one, before he finally gave up and left. It was really weird. Also, another thing: sorry to be rude and stereotypical, but French people need to wear more deodorant when they go out dancing; the place smelled like BO last night. Usually it’s not that bad, but last night in particular was quite ripe if I do say so myself. In all, it was another good night full of dancing and laughs (aside from the creepy weirdness and another bizarre/frightening happening which shall remain unmentioned). Tomorrow we have an Easter feast at noon with our host family and their friends. Get ready for Easter in France….XX
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Humor in Hunger
April 10, 2009
Okay, so I have noticed a pattern. Dinner has progressively gotten later and later every night. The originally decided hour of 8:00 (which is late in and of itself), turned into 8:15, which turned into 8:30, which turned into 8:45, which lead to 9:10, and tonight ended up being 9:35. This seems like eons away from the time we have our traditional afternoon “goûter” after school each day. (Three o’clock is the hour set aside in France for a sweet snack.) Used to the American 5 or 6 o’clock dinner on the dot, Kristina and I are famished by an hour normally set aside for evening snacks. Sitting upstairs in our room, pacing, wondering when on earth the Morviellez were going to yell, “À table!” up the stairs while flipping our obnoxious buzzing light, we planned our mode of attack.
Realizing that is was 8:45, and we hadn’t heard hide no hair of the parents or the clanking of pots and pans, I decided to make my way downstairs, and pretend to have to use the restroom (in other words, hint that we were hungry). I turned on the buzzing light and meandered my way through the kitchen toward the bathroom, only to find Madame rummaging through the cupboards…and nothing cooking. Hmmm. Tempted to shout “Are we ever going to eat around here??” I restrained myself and instead asked in a nonchalant way that hinted I was wondering when the heck we were going to eat, “Diner ce soir??” She replied while rummaging through the pantry, “Je cherche quelque chose.” (I’m looking for something). Oh mon Dieu! To which I replied, forcing a smile, “C’est d’accord, si le dîner est plus simple ce soir.” (It’s okay if dinner is simpler tonight). I hoped that she got the hint that I didn’t care what we had, I just wanted something edible and quick. Well, at 9:30 we were finally called down to the table, and for some reason, Kristina and I found this hysterical. We were so slap happy from our hunger and irritation that we found everything funny. The dinner was a measly one dish: first thing we found funny, and the second thing we thought was funny was that when we looked beneath our seats, the cochon d’inde (guinea pig) named Zephyr was walking around on the floor. We both started laughing hysterically as the family stared at us, wondering what in the world was so unusual about a guinea pig being beneath one’s feet at dinner. Monsieur explained to us that he needed to exercise, because he was getting too fat (for some reason the family thought the appropriate time for him to do this was during dinner).
Sometimes you just have to laugh at frustrating situations instead of getting angry; it makes life a whole lot more enjoyable, which explains how Kristina and I found humor in hunger. I am happy to report that dinner the next night was at 9:00. Still late, but better. I still don’t understand how French people eat dinner so late every night, but I am trying to be open to another lifestyle. Thankfully, I and my stomach are beginning to adjust just fine.
Okay, so I have noticed a pattern. Dinner has progressively gotten later and later every night. The originally decided hour of 8:00 (which is late in and of itself), turned into 8:15, which turned into 8:30, which turned into 8:45, which lead to 9:10, and tonight ended up being 9:35. This seems like eons away from the time we have our traditional afternoon “goûter” after school each day. (Three o’clock is the hour set aside in France for a sweet snack.) Used to the American 5 or 6 o’clock dinner on the dot, Kristina and I are famished by an hour normally set aside for evening snacks. Sitting upstairs in our room, pacing, wondering when on earth the Morviellez were going to yell, “À table!” up the stairs while flipping our obnoxious buzzing light, we planned our mode of attack.
Realizing that is was 8:45, and we hadn’t heard hide no hair of the parents or the clanking of pots and pans, I decided to make my way downstairs, and pretend to have to use the restroom (in other words, hint that we were hungry). I turned on the buzzing light and meandered my way through the kitchen toward the bathroom, only to find Madame rummaging through the cupboards…and nothing cooking. Hmmm. Tempted to shout “Are we ever going to eat around here??” I restrained myself and instead asked in a nonchalant way that hinted I was wondering when the heck we were going to eat, “Diner ce soir??” She replied while rummaging through the pantry, “Je cherche quelque chose.” (I’m looking for something). Oh mon Dieu! To which I replied, forcing a smile, “C’est d’accord, si le dîner est plus simple ce soir.” (It’s okay if dinner is simpler tonight). I hoped that she got the hint that I didn’t care what we had, I just wanted something edible and quick. Well, at 9:30 we were finally called down to the table, and for some reason, Kristina and I found this hysterical. We were so slap happy from our hunger and irritation that we found everything funny. The dinner was a measly one dish: first thing we found funny, and the second thing we thought was funny was that when we looked beneath our seats, the cochon d’inde (guinea pig) named Zephyr was walking around on the floor. We both started laughing hysterically as the family stared at us, wondering what in the world was so unusual about a guinea pig being beneath one’s feet at dinner. Monsieur explained to us that he needed to exercise, because he was getting too fat (for some reason the family thought the appropriate time for him to do this was during dinner).
Sometimes you just have to laugh at frustrating situations instead of getting angry; it makes life a whole lot more enjoyable, which explains how Kristina and I found humor in hunger. I am happy to report that dinner the next night was at 9:00. Still late, but better. I still don’t understand how French people eat dinner so late every night, but I am trying to be open to another lifestyle. Thankfully, I and my stomach are beginning to adjust just fine.
