Midterms have arrived to cruelly remind us that yes, we are being graded for this. One down three to go.
The weather is heating up here and I think by mid May I’ll be a big fan of the mid afternoon sieste tradition here.
Over the past week or so, I’ve ventured out of Avignon. Actually, we’ve journeyed to an island that is literally a condensed version of Provence. Granted, it’s only a 2-minute ferry ride from Avignon, but it felt like the city was miles behind. We passed low stone houses with stick fences, huge orchards of pink flowered trees, and bright green grazing fields. As I predicted before I left, I got so lost and walked for so long I might as well have made it to Italy. But it was completely worth the exhaustion and blisters to take a walking tour of Provencal countryside less than a mile from the city.
Later that same weekend, Joelle took Kim and I to a market in a neighboring town. I have to confess, my favorite part of that trip was her car. Kim and I wedged ourselves in and I wished I would have stuck with yoga. Flexibility would have made having to fold myself in two easier. Then Joelle said she would “decapitater” the car. Needless to say, Kim and I were concerned. But suddenly the car’s solid roof began sliding into its trunk and we remembered, with sighs of relief, that “decapitater” applies to car tops as well as heads.
I must say passing old sandwiched-together buildings and cafes with a 360-degree view and no need to physically move was amazing and attests to my laziness. Soon we left the city behind and were surrounded by nothing but Cyprus trees, orchards, and brilliant blue sky. Once at the market, we watched in awe as Joelle nonchalantly parallel parked the car with maybe 2 inches to spare on each end.
The market itself was teeming, packed with antiques and clothes, whole roasting chickens, and dried lavender. And tourists. I bought a scarf from a woman speaking French with a heavy Scottish accent and managed to pull myself away from a collection of antiquated doorknobs. But, if I’m being honest, I think I definitely preferred speeding down the highway, face turned towards the sun and the sound of Joelle humming “La Vie en Rose” in the background.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Surviving Les Oiseaux One Fine Day at a Time
Springtime has finally visibly arrived. I no longer feel inclined to layer 3 of my old lady cardigans every morning, flowers are in bloom, and insects are beginning to obnoxiously make their presences very known.
I took advantage of the clear blue sky and dormant Mistral to take another walking tour of Avignon. My goal was to find a park I had stumbled upon a couple of days ago. I personally thought it was lost forever to the cobblestone of the city but, much to my surprise, it resurfaced. It was beautiful: bordered by what I can only classify as vines of dangling lilacs (no, I at least know that they were not grapes) and white shuttered, suntanned looking buildings. I did some writing and reading, making sure the French title of my book was clearly displayed. It was a vain attempt to trick others into believing that I was an Avignon native when In reality I had failed to find the huge Rhone river that boarders the city just hours before.
I was having a peaceful afternoon when I made an almost fatal mistake. I began to eat a sandwich. As soon as I peeled back the foil, I was surrounded by a menacing ring of pigeons. I’m more terrified of getting carried off by a gang of fearless birds then of walking anywhere in the city. The situation dissolved into a ruthless staring contest. I was fortunately victorious and so was free to continue stroll through Avignon. I saw a monk, a guy hanging out on a street drinking out of a flask, the miracle of half price store brand Nutella, and four spandex clad police officers dealing with one case of shop lifting at a grocery store. Obviously, my walks are going to be a daily ritual.
Work continues to pile up in all of my classes and I continue my struggle (with the rest of the class) to stay conscious in Society and Culture. I definitely think it’s fascinating and worthwhile to learn about, but when asked to explain aspects of American culture, no one can exactly agree. America, the salad bowl-candy dish-melting pot, is the love child of so many cultures and its citizens are spread over such a vast stretch of land that it’s almost impossible to accurately define Americans as a group. I also lost faith in the class when I realized that we were learning French social standards from a book that was published the year I was born.
But it’s still interesting to learn about, and next week I’ll drink an extra cup of coffee and give it another chance. If I’m learning anything, it’s the value of persistence and a cup of coffee.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Do You Want Frites With That?
I can’t believe that week 3 has already arrived but at the same time it feels like I’ve been in France for months, without acquiring the accompanying language skills of course. But the city no longer seems like a baffling labyrinth of shuttered windows and dog poop covered streets. Slightly graphic but very accurate, trust me.
Week 2 included actual academic obligations, hanging out at the Pailais des Papes, and political discussions with Joelle. Normally, this would be an extremely dangerous subject, especially when my contributions were in poorly constructed French. But luckily, Joelle and I are both very liberal. She said that while Catholicism is still important in France it doesn’t have the power it used to, which I’d argue is true almost everywhere. When I asked her what she knew about religion in the United States, much to my horror, she talked about the Tea Partiers. Glenn Beck and his Tea Partiers are how the world sees religion today in America. I will single handedly attempt to change this in the next couple of months. But despite my chagrin, it was still a fascinating conversation, getting to know how someone from the outside sees my culture.
Actually, I’ve seen many hints of American culture in Avignon. Universite d’Avignon’s cafeteria plays a radio station that seems to specialize in American music, especially Fireflies. If I thought I was sick of that song before I left the States…I had no idea. Kim and I went up to the gardens of the Pailais des Papes to study and there were two guys next to us listening to Ben Folds and discussing things like Twilight. American 90’s dance music videos, a McDonald’s. But I’m glad to say that I have yet to see a single Starbucks. French coffee is safe from the burnt coffee giant. I think I will start interpreting the examples of American culture that I see through the French perspective, looking for actual French music, and avoiding the temptation of the golden arches.
American Culture aside, I've gotten more practice with the famous French cheek kiss this week. I'm still incredibly awkward at it but now I can actually recognize when someone is trying to do it! And it feels very French, like carrying a baguette or wearing black and white stripes.
Classes are starting to get more substantial. The professors aren't buying our shell-shocked expressions anymore and we actually have to do work now. I think this week will be a game of catch up with many visits to French cafés in between to feed my espresso addiction. Times I’ve tripped in France: steady at 5.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Christmas in Avril
First of all, to relieve the terrible suspense, I will answer last week’s burning questions. I miraculously did not fall off of a mountain, I have found someone with a cord to fit my camera, and, while I did not instigate a strike, I did witness one.
Before leaving for the Alps, I think I saw the personification of France. It was a man wearing a dark vest with dark curly hair escaping from under his newsboy cap, a scarf flying behind him as he peddled furiously on his bicycle. He had a basket that I’m certain contained a live hen under his arm.
The next day, we left for the French Alps. My favorite part of a trip is often the traveling. I’m that person who looks out the window as if the key to happiness is hidden somewhere in the scenery. I have to say, I think the Alps looked exactly like the picture on the Ice Mountain water bottles. We were momentarily slowed down by an agricultural strike. Farmers brought their trucks and tractors to the middle of the highway, parked, and dumped a bunch of apples into the middle of the road. I must say, I love a good protest. Also, I learned that the French will put a vineyard anywhere, including the middle of the road.
Once we made it to the Alps, I was relieved to see that we had enclosed cars to take to the top rather than typical ski lift chairs that I would somehow manage to topple over. At the top, I chose to snow shoe. This activity not only showcased my natural…poise, but it also offered the opportunity to have a breathtaking view of the red roofed town below through the falling snow.
After our day of revisiting the Christmas season, we arrived to our hotel. Christophe warned us that it would be a little rough and I joked that they’d have us all sleeping in the same room. Well, I got a middle bunk and they made us surrender our shoes at the door in favor of slippers. In the dark, I managed to chose the most questionable looking pair offered. But it wasn’t really that bad at all. After singing a round of “It’s a Hard Knock Life” we all spent a pleasant evening talking, eating, and, at least for me, playing with play dough. The hotel owner paced the building with a not at all discreet blue tooth, leading me to believe he’s an operative of an under funded government agency.
We woke up to an Easter that looked more like Christmas and decided it was best to get an early start navigating the snowy cliffs with a monster sized tour bus. I must say, our driver, Patrick, is a bus-driving artist. He got us safely back to Avignon with finesse.
Times I’ve tripped in France count: (minus anything involving snow shoes): 5.
Before leaving for the Alps, I think I saw the personification of France. It was a man wearing a dark vest with dark curly hair escaping from under his newsboy cap, a scarf flying behind him as he peddled furiously on his bicycle. He had a basket that I’m certain contained a live hen under his arm.
The next day, we left for the French Alps. My favorite part of a trip is often the traveling. I’m that person who looks out the window as if the key to happiness is hidden somewhere in the scenery. I have to say, I think the Alps looked exactly like the picture on the Ice Mountain water bottles. We were momentarily slowed down by an agricultural strike. Farmers brought their trucks and tractors to the middle of the highway, parked, and dumped a bunch of apples into the middle of the road. I must say, I love a good protest. Also, I learned that the French will put a vineyard anywhere, including the middle of the road.
Once we made it to the Alps, I was relieved to see that we had enclosed cars to take to the top rather than typical ski lift chairs that I would somehow manage to topple over. At the top, I chose to snow shoe. This activity not only showcased my natural…poise, but it also offered the opportunity to have a breathtaking view of the red roofed town below through the falling snow.
After our day of revisiting the Christmas season, we arrived to our hotel. Christophe warned us that it would be a little rough and I joked that they’d have us all sleeping in the same room. Well, I got a middle bunk and they made us surrender our shoes at the door in favor of slippers. In the dark, I managed to chose the most questionable looking pair offered. But it wasn’t really that bad at all. After singing a round of “It’s a Hard Knock Life” we all spent a pleasant evening talking, eating, and, at least for me, playing with play dough. The hotel owner paced the building with a not at all discreet blue tooth, leading me to believe he’s an operative of an under funded government agency.
We woke up to an Easter that looked more like Christmas and decided it was best to get an early start navigating the snowy cliffs with a monster sized tour bus. I must say, our driver, Patrick, is a bus-driving artist. He got us safely back to Avignon with finesse.
Times I’ve tripped in France count: (minus anything involving snow shoes): 5.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Baby's Firsts
This past week has included many France firsts for me. First time at the market, first classes at l’Universite d’Avignon, first time seeing Brad Pitt dubbed in French.
On Sunday, Joelle took Kim and I to Les Halles, a bustling, indoor market. Les Halles reminded me of Toledo’s Erie Street Market, except this one was actually populated. More than populated. I, being the wide-eyed foreigner that I am, couldn’t turn without having to say “pardon-moi.” There were booths bursting with vegetables and fruits, burdened with pounds of chocolate, and buried under piles of flour-covered loaves of bread. I learned the awesome word for pineapple- annanas- and I tried to keep up as Joelle expertly navigated the booths.
After that, the time came for lunch and Joelle took a small steak and some raviolle out of the fridge, telling us to feel free to make ourselves lunch while she went to work. Clearly she underestimated how American I am, having never attempted to cook meat. Tentatively, I poured some olive oil into the pan and added the steak with a wet flop. After about ten minutes of awkwardly poking and flipping it, I judged one of my first culinary attempts to be edible, and, since I’m here to tell the tale, it was a success!
The next day, Monday, was the first day of classes. Frankly, I think we should get class credit for even surviving long enough to see the first day of classes. Unlike Ohio University, l’University d’Avignon is basically all in one building, which is nice for those directionally impaired like me, although I have managed to get lost in the building numerous times this week. Christophe is teaching my obligatory grammar class and he claims to love grammar. I’m suspicious. I also have a French literature class, taught by a lanky man who reminds me of one of those teachers in movies who motivates students to achieve things, plus he wears suits every day. So he’s okay in my book. Today we learned that “La lumiere en Provence et dans le sud rend fou.” (The light [truth, actuality] in Provence makes one crazy). So that was comforting. But actually, it’s an interesting concept and I look forward to figuring out the merit behind the proverb. I have a hunch that the Mistral is behind it all.
On Tuesday, Provence and the Mistral (a strong regional wind) were kind enough to give me a second shower on my way to class. It was a class about French Resistance during World War II and I think I’m going to love it. I’ve had a lot of interaction with American World War II veterans and it will be fascinating to learn about the war from the French perspective.
After class at dinner, my host father, Guy, asked what we had for lunch. I said a sausage sandwich (un sandwich du saucisson) and everyone immediately grinner and looked down at their plates. I can only guess what that means because I was not about to ask for an explanation, but I have to applaud their courageous efforts to hide their laughter. And, now I know that I have a knack for stumbling upon those charming phrases in any language!
I’m running out of fingers on which to count the times I’ve gotten lost so far and the only reason I get to class every day is because Kim has an actual sense of direction. But every time I get lost, I learn something new about the city and I can eventually figure out how to find my way back. That’s actually how I spent the first part of this afternoon. Alex (another Ohioan in the program) and I set out to get lost in the city and we succeeded wonderfully. It was a great way to spend the warmest day we’ve had in Provence so far.
But tomorrow, we’ll be in the French Alps. The brave people will be sledding and I’ll be trying not to fall off a mountain in my snowshoes. Speaking of, my “times I’ve tripped in France” count is holding steady at 4. Will I survive the many hazards of the French Alps? Will I find a cord to fit my camera? Will I instigate a French strike just because? Stay tuned!
On Sunday, Joelle took Kim and I to Les Halles, a bustling, indoor market. Les Halles reminded me of Toledo’s Erie Street Market, except this one was actually populated. More than populated. I, being the wide-eyed foreigner that I am, couldn’t turn without having to say “pardon-moi.” There were booths bursting with vegetables and fruits, burdened with pounds of chocolate, and buried under piles of flour-covered loaves of bread. I learned the awesome word for pineapple- annanas- and I tried to keep up as Joelle expertly navigated the booths.
After that, the time came for lunch and Joelle took a small steak and some raviolle out of the fridge, telling us to feel free to make ourselves lunch while she went to work. Clearly she underestimated how American I am, having never attempted to cook meat. Tentatively, I poured some olive oil into the pan and added the steak with a wet flop. After about ten minutes of awkwardly poking and flipping it, I judged one of my first culinary attempts to be edible, and, since I’m here to tell the tale, it was a success!
The next day, Monday, was the first day of classes. Frankly, I think we should get class credit for even surviving long enough to see the first day of classes. Unlike Ohio University, l’University d’Avignon is basically all in one building, which is nice for those directionally impaired like me, although I have managed to get lost in the building numerous times this week. Christophe is teaching my obligatory grammar class and he claims to love grammar. I’m suspicious. I also have a French literature class, taught by a lanky man who reminds me of one of those teachers in movies who motivates students to achieve things, plus he wears suits every day. So he’s okay in my book. Today we learned that “La lumiere en Provence et dans le sud rend fou.” (The light [truth, actuality] in Provence makes one crazy). So that was comforting. But actually, it’s an interesting concept and I look forward to figuring out the merit behind the proverb. I have a hunch that the Mistral is behind it all.
On Tuesday, Provence and the Mistral (a strong regional wind) were kind enough to give me a second shower on my way to class. It was a class about French Resistance during World War II and I think I’m going to love it. I’ve had a lot of interaction with American World War II veterans and it will be fascinating to learn about the war from the French perspective.
After class at dinner, my host father, Guy, asked what we had for lunch. I said a sausage sandwich (un sandwich du saucisson) and everyone immediately grinner and looked down at their plates. I can only guess what that means because I was not about to ask for an explanation, but I have to applaud their courageous efforts to hide their laughter. And, now I know that I have a knack for stumbling upon those charming phrases in any language!
I’m running out of fingers on which to count the times I’ve gotten lost so far and the only reason I get to class every day is because Kim has an actual sense of direction. But every time I get lost, I learn something new about the city and I can eventually figure out how to find my way back. That’s actually how I spent the first part of this afternoon. Alex (another Ohioan in the program) and I set out to get lost in the city and we succeeded wonderfully. It was a great way to spend the warmest day we’ve had in Provence so far.
But tomorrow, we’ll be in the French Alps. The brave people will be sledding and I’ll be trying not to fall off a mountain in my snowshoes. Speaking of, my “times I’ve tripped in France” count is holding steady at 4. Will I survive the many hazards of the French Alps? Will I find a cord to fit my camera? Will I instigate a French strike just because? Stay tuned!
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