First and foremost: my brother is getting married! Clayton proposed to his girlfriend/my love Kelsey this past week. Aaaaaand Kelsey asked me to be a bridesmaid! I have been waiting for this day for years. It's weird having momentous things like this happening back in the states while I am so far away and removed from it all.
Haven't updated in (more than) a week. As they say, no news is good news, I guess. Made it through my third week here, and, as our program director informed us, the 21-day mark is something of a turning point. According to sociologists, it's when the initial culture shock starts to wear off — we're used to our new situation, the new language, the new day-to-day events like eating dinner with our host families and buying tomatoes for lunch at the market (not too hard to get used to that one, in my opinion).
Everything revolves around food and mealtimes in France, which is a big change for me. Lunch is not a big thing for Americans in general, I think, but here it is an event that can last up to six hours on Sundays. So I hear, anyway. I've never gone through such an ordeal, but I've heard first-hand testimonies. Dinner is less epic, but still a time when everyone comes together, sits at the table, and "shares a moment" together. The French are big on sharing moments, especially gourmand ones. Last semester I would eat yogurt and granola in the library for dinner every night — with my piles of work to do, it was all I had time for. If I tried to explain that situation to any French person, I am fairly certain they just wouldn't be able to comprehend it. Not in a language-barrier way, but rather a culture barrier, which is waaaaay harder to cross.
We've been talking a lot about culture barriers in classes at AUCP lately. Our program director likes to chalk up all French weirdness to a difference in cultures — I beg to differ. Sometimes they are just assholes. I'm not saying that Americans aren't — there are plenty of idiots in every country — but French people like to ride a fine line between being direct and honest and just being straight-up rude. For example, when I introduced my friend Abby to my host mother, Nadia cut Abby off in the middle of her first sentence to turn to me and say, "She doesn't speak very good French, does she?"
It's been an interesting three weeks, overall. I think my French is improving. This time in France — my sixth or seventh time over here, I think — the language seems to have really clicked. This is the first time I would feel like I could say I am fluent in French, which is a pretty cool thing, since I've been studying the language for ten years now. However, I and my fellow AUCP members have been blatantly breaking our language contract and have been speaking English pretty frequently together, which is strictly verboten per program rules. Oops. I feel guilty every time I do it, if that means anything. I think we all want to improve our French, though, so the frog-tongue shall be reinstated as of tomorrow.
More specific posts coming your way. Just wanted to get a post of there for my legions of readers who were undoubtedly wracked with grief over the lack of news :) À bientôt!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
à la forêt des cèdres
Yesterday I went on my first hike with MJC Prévert, an organization here in Aix that offers classes in everything from painting to improv comedy and leads hikes in different areas throughout the region of Provence every Tuesday and Thursday. This works out perfectly for me and a few of my friends in the AUCP program, since none of us have classes on Tuesdays and this means we can get out of the city and explore our surroundings a bit. It's not too expensive, either. And with MJC Prévert, a self-proclaimed "maison des jeunes et de la culture," we figured we would meet some fellow students.
Turns out these randonnés — hikes/walks. Hard to translate, since it's suuuuch a French thing — are catered more toward the retired set. Abby, Kiely and I were the youngest ones there by decades. We also stood out because all three of us were wearing some type of athletic short while all the French retraités were in pants. French people are not, how you say, into ze working out, so as ubiquitous as the Nike running shorts might be in the U.S., it's the complete opposite here. As soon as our fellow ramblers saw us, they squinted through their prescription spectacles, tightened their hand-knitted sweaters around their waists, and clapped their arthritic hands together with glee. "Oh, nous avons des petites américaines avec nous!"
Ok, they weren't really that old.
We went to the Luberon and drove up, up, up the mountain until we were at the very top where the limestone was covered in cedar trees. It was a national forest that spanned all along the valley (I think) and we hiked along cliffs and past caves, all the while gawking at the view of the valley spread out before us. The hike was scheduled to last about three hours, and after two we stopped for a snack break. We had been told to bring water and an "en-cas," a snack, with us. I had bought a few packages of crackers filled with dried fruit and I shared them with Kiely and Abby. A snack, quoi! The French had a different idea of what constituted a snack, though, and we soon learned this as eagerly generous French woman after eagerly generous French woman came by the boulder where the three of us had decided to perch, extending tupperware containers of homemade treats.
First there were smoked almonds. Then there was coconut cake (it was a man's birthday, and after taking a slice we went and on lui a fait la bise, we kissed him once on each cheek). Then there were figs from someone's garden. Then there were dried figs stuffed with almonds. Then there was cake again. Then there was biscotti. Then there was cake AGAIN. And then there was coffee.
I drew the line after the biscotti. Kiely had to eat two pieces of my cake — since it was basically impossible to refuse to take any — I wasn't sure if she would make it back to the bus alive. Abby dissolved into hysterical laughter, probably brought on by sugar overdose, upon seeing the swarms of people descending upon us, brandishing their spécialités personelles. I tried to keep straight face and politely refused any coffee, certain that it would be the last straw. And nobody likes a projectile vomiter.
We rambled back to the bus and drove the hour back to Aix. Kiely was hungry, naturally, upon arrival, so we went to the best pizza stand in town, Pizza Capri, and bought slices. We sat on a bench in the sun along the Cours Mirabeau, lazily watching people stroll by and enjoying the tired feeling in our legs.
I'm looking forward to next week!
Turns out these randonnés — hikes/walks. Hard to translate, since it's suuuuch a French thing — are catered more toward the retired set. Abby, Kiely and I were the youngest ones there by decades. We also stood out because all three of us were wearing some type of athletic short while all the French retraités were in pants. French people are not, how you say, into ze working out, so as ubiquitous as the Nike running shorts might be in the U.S., it's the complete opposite here. As soon as our fellow ramblers saw us, they squinted through their prescription spectacles, tightened their hand-knitted sweaters around their waists, and clapped their arthritic hands together with glee. "Oh, nous avons des petites américaines avec nous!"
Ok, they weren't really that old.
We went to the Luberon and drove up, up, up the mountain until we were at the very top where the limestone was covered in cedar trees. It was a national forest that spanned all along the valley (I think) and we hiked along cliffs and past caves, all the while gawking at the view of the valley spread out before us. The hike was scheduled to last about three hours, and after two we stopped for a snack break. We had been told to bring water and an "en-cas," a snack, with us. I had bought a few packages of crackers filled with dried fruit and I shared them with Kiely and Abby. A snack, quoi! The French had a different idea of what constituted a snack, though, and we soon learned this as eagerly generous French woman after eagerly generous French woman came by the boulder where the three of us had decided to perch, extending tupperware containers of homemade treats.
First there were smoked almonds. Then there was coconut cake (it was a man's birthday, and after taking a slice we went and on lui a fait la bise, we kissed him once on each cheek). Then there were figs from someone's garden. Then there were dried figs stuffed with almonds. Then there was cake again. Then there was biscotti. Then there was cake AGAIN. And then there was coffee.
I drew the line after the biscotti. Kiely had to eat two pieces of my cake — since it was basically impossible to refuse to take any — I wasn't sure if she would make it back to the bus alive. Abby dissolved into hysterical laughter, probably brought on by sugar overdose, upon seeing the swarms of people descending upon us, brandishing their spécialités personelles. I tried to keep straight face and politely refused any coffee, certain that it would be the last straw. And nobody likes a projectile vomiter.
We rambled back to the bus and drove the hour back to Aix. Kiely was hungry, naturally, upon arrival, so we went to the best pizza stand in town, Pizza Capri, and bought slices. We sat on a bench in the sun along the Cours Mirabeau, lazily watching people stroll by and enjoying the tired feeling in our legs.
I'm looking forward to next week!
Sunday, September 12, 2010
les petites choses
Earlier this evening, while I was calmly eating my tomatoes drizzled with olive oil, my host mother told me that I seemed sad, and went on to lecture me about how la vie est belle and you have to enjoy every moment and nothing is so bad that it isn't fixable and you need to savor the little things and so on.
Out of nowhere, just like that. I think it was because I wasn't eating with enough appetite and gusto. Pff. The French!
Despite the fact that I knew what she was saying was uncalled for and not true, it still got to me a little bit. Was I sad? If I was giving that impression, it must mean something. I did have a weird day — Sundays in Europe are kind of surreal, since absolutely everything is closed — and I spent most of it in a daze that was most likely brought on by two consecutive nights of getting back to the apartment after 2 a.m. I thought it was just one odd day, but was it more than that?
After mulling it over, I realized that not only did this woman meet me a mere week ago and therefore didn't know much about my personality or character, but that, by nature, I am a calm, pensive, somewhat reserved person — traits that can easily be mistaken for sadness. My host mother, Nadia, absolutely adores talking and debating and conversing — a national quality, I've noticed — and a lot of the time I don't really have anything to say in response to her grand pronouncements on Sarkozy's politics at exactly what age adolescent boys might question their sexuality. I'm aware of the fact that she loves the sound of her own voice. Bitchy of me to say that, I know, but it's true. A lot of French people seem to enjoy putting their opinions out there but don't really care about what anyone says back. In my time spent in France, I had perfected the combined head-nod and neutral-yet-sympathetic "hmm." Works every time.
As far as la vie est belle, profitens-en! speech that Nadia gave me, it felt a bit ridiculous to be on the receiving end of it, since I was the one who had travelled across the Atlantic to spend four months in a foreign country and culture, speaking a language different from my own and making an entirely new set of friends and connections. As far as the little things go, I'm not doing too bad either. Here are little things that have given me a warm, fuzzy feeling in this past week I have spent in Aix:
1) The plane trees. They line le cours Mirabeau, they shade cafés, they dapple sun-colored buildings with shade from their fluttering leaves. Every square looks like an impressionist painting.
2) The stand by the Palais de Justice that sells candy for just five centimes per piece. You can individually choose each on from at least 50 different types and for a mere euro you have a delicious, portable treat.
3) The feeling of savagely spitting out dirty words. Putain bordel de merde! Va te faire enculer, grosse salope!
4) Drinking a Strongbow cider outside by fountain lined with candles.
5) Finding a tiny restaurant called Les Deux Soeurs, run by two Spanish sisters who do everything themselves, and eating some of the most delicious tapas.
6) Buying peaches with friends at the Tuesday morning market in la Place des Prêcheurs, and eating them for lunch in the garden of the school, juice dribbling down our chins and onto the ground.
7) Randomly discovering that I know the world for "chestnut."
8) Going to a 24-hour patîsserie at 2 in the morning and getting a still-warm Nutella cookie.
9) Finding a gorgeous autumn-colored dress at Zara and — yep — it fits perfectly.
10) Finding myself a) in France, b) in an Irish pub, and c) surrounded by French sailors yelling and singing along to "Sweet Home Alabama."
I've only been here for eight days. Tomorrow I start my classes — one of which I get to take at the Sciences Po university, since my French level qualified as high enough — on Tuesday my friends and I are going on a three-hour hike through a cedar forest in the Luberon valley. My language partner, Guillaume, wants to take me to the beach during the week. And I'll get to go to my friend Emily's house. And these are just things I have planned right now. Who knows what else will happen?
Sad, my ass.
Out of nowhere, just like that. I think it was because I wasn't eating with enough appetite and gusto. Pff. The French!
Despite the fact that I knew what she was saying was uncalled for and not true, it still got to me a little bit. Was I sad? If I was giving that impression, it must mean something. I did have a weird day — Sundays in Europe are kind of surreal, since absolutely everything is closed — and I spent most of it in a daze that was most likely brought on by two consecutive nights of getting back to the apartment after 2 a.m. I thought it was just one odd day, but was it more than that?
After mulling it over, I realized that not only did this woman meet me a mere week ago and therefore didn't know much about my personality or character, but that, by nature, I am a calm, pensive, somewhat reserved person — traits that can easily be mistaken for sadness. My host mother, Nadia, absolutely adores talking and debating and conversing — a national quality, I've noticed — and a lot of the time I don't really have anything to say in response to her grand pronouncements on Sarkozy's politics at exactly what age adolescent boys might question their sexuality. I'm aware of the fact that she loves the sound of her own voice. Bitchy of me to say that, I know, but it's true. A lot of French people seem to enjoy putting their opinions out there but don't really care about what anyone says back. In my time spent in France, I had perfected the combined head-nod and neutral-yet-sympathetic "hmm." Works every time.
As far as la vie est belle, profitens-en! speech that Nadia gave me, it felt a bit ridiculous to be on the receiving end of it, since I was the one who had travelled across the Atlantic to spend four months in a foreign country and culture, speaking a language different from my own and making an entirely new set of friends and connections. As far as the little things go, I'm not doing too bad either. Here are little things that have given me a warm, fuzzy feeling in this past week I have spent in Aix:
1) The plane trees. They line le cours Mirabeau, they shade cafés, they dapple sun-colored buildings with shade from their fluttering leaves. Every square looks like an impressionist painting.
2) The stand by the Palais de Justice that sells candy for just five centimes per piece. You can individually choose each on from at least 50 different types and for a mere euro you have a delicious, portable treat.
3) The feeling of savagely spitting out dirty words. Putain bordel de merde! Va te faire enculer, grosse salope!
4) Drinking a Strongbow cider outside by fountain lined with candles.
5) Finding a tiny restaurant called Les Deux Soeurs, run by two Spanish sisters who do everything themselves, and eating some of the most delicious tapas.
6) Buying peaches with friends at the Tuesday morning market in la Place des Prêcheurs, and eating them for lunch in the garden of the school, juice dribbling down our chins and onto the ground.
7) Randomly discovering that I know the world for "chestnut."
8) Going to a 24-hour patîsserie at 2 in the morning and getting a still-warm Nutella cookie.
9) Finding a gorgeous autumn-colored dress at Zara and — yep — it fits perfectly.
10) Finding myself a) in France, b) in an Irish pub, and c) surrounded by French sailors yelling and singing along to "Sweet Home Alabama."
I've only been here for eight days. Tomorrow I start my classes — one of which I get to take at the Sciences Po university, since my French level qualified as high enough — on Tuesday my friends and I are going on a three-hour hike through a cedar forest in the Luberon valley. My language partner, Guillaume, wants to take me to the beach during the week. And I'll get to go to my friend Emily's house. And these are just things I have planned right now. Who knows what else will happen?
Sad, my ass.
Friday, September 3, 2010
away i go
Bags are packed and sitting quietly by the door. Owlie and Losh (stuffed owl and huskie, of course) ready to go into my backpack. Host family address and phone number written on a post-it. I have all my favorite dresses, books, photos of my most-loved people, my journal, iPod, a French dictionary, and my Frye engineer boots. I'd say I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Cue the Alexi Murdoch, and away I go...
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