What People Do For Fun In France

Last weekend, I decided it was high time I started looking into some of the cultural events Lyon has to offer. One of the things I complain about most in Chapel Hill, the town where I attend college, is that there isn’t enough to do. So I went and found me what seemed like a respectable cultural event in one of the weekly bulletins. It was called “Portes Ouvertes” and was essentially an opening of a bunch of art galleries on one particular street. It seemed like there was going to be some sort of show, but I failed to look into the details of this as I was distracted by the promise of a 50m long metallic snake. I was dead set on seeing that snake!

Then came the difficult part- finding someone to go with. I couldn’t get a hold of one of my friends, and another’s parents were in town for the weekend, so she was busy doing things with them. Then I got a hold of my friend Kathleen and she said she would like to go. Thirty minutes later she got back to me and said she had something else that she’d forgotten all about. Just as the dreaded words toute seule began to creep through my head, I managed to get in touch with another friend from orientation, who, with a bit of a reservation, agreed to go.

Getting there was, of course, no easy feat. I walked the opposite direction to meet my friend, thinking we would take the metro. But when we met up, she said she wanted to walk because she didn’t have a metro pass. It wasn’t that far away, but the streets were PACKED. I still don’t know if there was a particular event or if this is simply a typical Saturday in Lyon. Regardless, we had to basically shuffle our way down Rue de la Republique and this rendered both of us quite cranky. It didn’t help that my friend was simultaneously searching for the ever elusive toilettes. We were truly on the verge of calling it quits when the street presented itself before us. Now all I could think was how embarrassed I would be if this was a disappointment.

I don’t really know how I can begin to describe what we saw as we approached the top of the steep, cobblestone street. I will say first that I heard something akin to chanting. The chanting was coming from a group of people assembled in two lines, moving very slowly forward. They’re clothes were pointedly eccentric- costumes, almost. One guy was wearing a road cone for a hat. Other articles that stick out in memory are red ear muffs, pink and black striped knee socks, a silver jump suit, hot pants and a navy blue vest with nothing under it (on a man). How I wish I’d had my camera! I could have killed myself for forgetting it. As per usual, everyone else seemed to find the passing event perfectly normal while I stood their wide-eyed and baffled. But I was also delighted, fascinated. I felt as though I’d stumbled upon some sort of religious ceremony. My friend was not quite as impressed. In fact, she seemed downright disgusted, which made me feel like something of a heathen greedily devouring every aspect of an (undoubtedly) Dionysian celebration. She left after about ten minutes, when it became clear that I was going nowhere. But how could I be compelled to leave? The whole thing was just too damned bizarre to pass up. The best way I can think to describe it was modern dance meets eastern religion chanting routine. The group assembled and re-assembled in different forms, singing, chanting, and occasionally just running around aimlessly. It was a little eerie at times, and particularly surreal in the context of a usually quaint and pleasant cobblestone street. It seemed impossible that normal day-to-day life was going on one street down. Yes, indeed, it felt a bit like I’d stepped into another world entirely.

When they were finished dancing, they proceeded to play music. I’d been so absorbed by the show that I’d failed to even notice that there was an array of instruments waiting patiently by the side of the street. Later I found out this group is called The Very Big Experimental Toubifri Orchestra.

All in all, it was an extremely intense and exhilarating show that left me, a mere spectator, exhausted. I can’t imagine how the amount of energy it takes to perform a show like that, but I’m glad there are people who have what it takes. Another interesting thing about the performers was that there was really no homogeneity among them- all different ages, ethnicities etc. I wonder- is this their full time work? I can’t help but think eccentrics like this have to be among the world’s most content people. Doesn’t everyone secretly have a desire to wear a ridiculous outfit and go dancing in the street? Or not? Perhaps this blog is getting a tad too confessional…dammit!

At any rate, it was the perfect antidote to all the stringent and ridiculous bureaucracy (I have lovingly renamed it bureaucrap) that I and everyone I know has been dealing with lately. It’s hard to imagine any of those people ever applying for social security or standing in a long line at the bank (though of course, they must do these things). Odd as it is, the show really put all of these hassles I’ve been dealing with in perspective. If all else fails, I can always become a vagabond, run away and join the The Very Big Experimental Toubifri Orchestra I don’t have ear muffs but I do have a fabulous red wig.

A Random Thought

The grocery store chain here in Lyon is called "Casino"- this confuses me greatly as it seems to imply that you're taking a gamble every time you walk in. Maybe you'll find some good food.
That doesn't seem like a good marketing strategy, but hey, maybe they're trying to convince people that grocery shopping is really much more glamorous and fun then it actually is.

Where I'm from, the popular grocery store is called "Safeway"-- seems like a quite a difference in mentality.

...I'm full of crap.

More substantial blogging to come soon- tales of street dancing and rants about bureaucracy!

À la radio

I finally went out and bought a radio today. The cheapest that I could find, since France has already rendered my broke. This, I think, will keep my exposure to French constant which is especially useful on days like today, when I spend a lot of time alone and therefore don't get much practice speaking (though I suppose I could always try speaking to myself in French, eh?) On that note, I must say that the radio makes my apartment feel a little less lonely. Is that sad?

Sad or not, I was rather charmed by the simplicity of this model and its retro look...until I got home, looked at the instructions, and realized that I had been the victim of...what would one call it...nostalgia marketing?? I had in fact, bought an "Oldy" Radio.
















Kitschy marketing aside, there's something very comforting about the simplicity of listening to the radio. I think the internet has conditioned me to want to read, write, listen and what have you simultaneously- sometimes it's nice to just be still. It seems that France in general kind of discourages multi-tasking. Take their shopping system for example. Try to multitask (à la...no, I cannot bring myself to write the name of that wretched store) and one is severely punished. You go to the boulangerie for your bread, the charcuterie for your meat and cheese, the pharmacie for your...health items? the tabac for your anti-health items (I don't go to the tabac!) the patisserie for your sweet tooth, the...you get the point. Though I like this in theory, it's a bit hard to adjust to in practice. The American in me really just wants a place where I can go and get it all done with.

Well anyway, as I was doing my dishes tonight (after a truly balanced meal of a baguette and brie cheese) a George Harrison song came on the radio. Now go ahead and accuse me of solipsism, but I couldn't help but notice how much it evoked my experience with France.

"I Got My Mind Set On You"

I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you

But it's gonna take money
A whole lotta spending money
It's gonne take plenty of money
To do it right child

It's gonna take time
A whole lot of precious time
It's gonna take patience and time, ummm
To do it, to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it,
To do it right child

I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you
I got my mind set on you

And this time I know it's for real
The feelings that I feel
I know if I put my mind to it
I know that I really can do it

I got my mind set on you
Set on you
I got my mind set on you
Set on you

I've also started to carry around a little notebook. Every time I think of
a word I don't know, I write it down to look up later. Or conversely, every time
I read a French word I don't know, I write that down too. I imagine myself to look
quite mysterious and enigmatic, just spontaneously whipping out this notebook and
scribbling in it. Perhaps people think I am a travel writer of sorts. Maybe I should
try doing it in restaurants and see if it gets me better service :-p

The latest thing I added to my list was good insults for creepy-ass dudes. Woohoo, eh?
But it is necessary. The weather has warmed up significantly and consequently, I
wore a mini-skirt today. With the exception of being the recipient of some
uncomfortably long gazes, I didn't have any problems. That is, until late this
afternoon when some guy came up and mumbled something to me. I couldn't understand
him at first, but when I asked him to repeat what he'd said, I made out the
"les cuisses" (thighs) and I knew it was time to bolt. But I didn't know what to say
and instead just let out a disgusted guffaw. "Tu comprends?" he asked. "Oui, je
comprend" I said in a distinctly annoyed tone. Of course, I probably shouldn't
have said anything at all. Funny how even in sketchy situations like that, I
still want to prove that my French is good!

Next time I might whip out one of these:

Trou du Cul- Asshole

Va te faire enculer- bugger off

Va te faire enculer, trou de cul!

I had another creepy encounter the other night, with a group of kind-of-older men I passed while
walking down the banks of the Rhone river. Sometimes here, I feel so solitary that
I feel like I might strike up a conversation with a squirrel if given the chance.
so when they started talking to me, I talked back even though I knew better. It was
after all, only 8pm or so, and there were lots of people around to help me if the
situation got weird. Plus, I love opportunities to practice speaking in French. They
just asked me if I had rolling papers. Of course, I didn't, but then they immediately
realized I was foreign and started asking me questions. It all seemed harmless enough
until one of them smiled and said tu es jolie (you are pretty). In situations like
these, the subjunctive really comes in handy.

Uhh, il faut que je parte maintenant. Au revoir monsieur!

I walked off somewhat quickly, chastising myself for being stupid enough to
talk to them, when I began to hear footsteps behind me. I wondered if it was
one of them and finally had to turn around to check. Sure enough, Mr. tu es jolie
is walking behind me and asking if he can speak with me for a minute. Needless
to say, I told him No, he absolutely Could Not parle avec moi. Luckily, he took the
"hint."

What did he think I was? A prostitute?

Jesus.

On a happier note, I would like everyone to know that I have brought the infamous
red wig to Lyon.


My friends and I had a little wine, chocolate
and cheese soirée before our official orientation
soirée, at my place. I must say I quite enjoyed
playing the hostess. They laughed at me (rightly)
for having a book called "The Treasury of French
Love"- it's basically this book of famous gushy
love poems with english translations. Like my
radio, it was just so darn kitschy I couldn't
resist buying it.

Perhaps if I wear the wig around Lyon, it will
ward off some of the leacherous men?




It is Friday night, and I am blogging. I tell myself that all this alone time in a
foreign city is really poetic. But maybe it's just how it feels, which is...lonely.

Only time will tell.

Vous Comprenez Le Système?

Yesterday, I decided it was time to do something about the fact that I've gotten sorely behind on current events since coming to France, so I stopped by the newstand near my residence to buy a copy of "Le Monde."

The guy working there told me that he was out of Le Mondes, and I was wondering what would be a good alternative when suddenly he asked the dreaded question vous-êtes americain? Obviously I don't sound like a native when I open my mouth, but on a good day, people will ask me if I'm from England. But this man seemed very pleased when I said oui. He explained to me that he had been trying to learn English for three years. Then he pulled out an English textbook from below the counter and started showing me the exercises. He started talking about his "devoirs" (homework) and through some miscommunication, I thought he was asking me to do his homework in exchange for a free newspaper. That seemed pretty sketchy, and a lot of work for a newspaper so I started thinking of a polite way to get out of it. Finally, I said:

Oui Monsieur, mais, si je fais tes devoirs, tu n'apprends jamais anglais! (Yes sir, but if I do you're homework, you'll never learn English!)

But apparently that was not what he wanted. Apparently, he wasn't taking classes anymore, and was looking for ways to keep practicing his English. The deal, essentially, was that if I spoke English with him for five minutes or so, I could get a free newspaper. Vous comprenez le système? he asked.

Though I have a sneaking suspicion that Mahoumad is more interested in speaking with jeune filles than learning English, the whole thing seemed innocent enough. And it was good practice for me, too, since I had to explain a lot of things to him in French. We talked mostly about where I was from and the geography of Les Etats-Unis. When I told him I was from Colorado he said "I went a film" and so I taught him the verb "to see" and thought about how cracked-out it is that our past tense for it is "saw." He saw an old film about Colorado. Yes, I said, we have a word for that --Western-- avec les cowboys. Then he asked me if there was still gold in the mountains and I said I didn't think so, but peut-être. It was fun, and I got a free copy of Libération.

I thought it might be a good idea to put some pictures up:



Here's a nice view of the city- a picture I took from the terrace of my youth hostel in Vieux Lyon. Unfortunately, it was dark so you can't see the city very well.









The Sâone.













A fountain in Place de Terraux .

Puppet theater is apparently quite popular in Lyon.













Saw this written on the wall of a public restroom. How true!

The banks of the Sâone.





























The Rhône.

Toute Seule

Every now and then, the A Quadrant of my brain kicks into high gear (probably my body’s way of preserving itself) and I start to make lists. This is the one I made today.

Things I Still Need

- blanket
- pillow

- lamp

- dish towels

- cushions

- THE ABILITY TO SPEAK FRENCH

This, here, is a picture of my map:

No, I didn’t put it through the paper shredder, just abused the hell out of it. I seem to have a penchant for walking in the opposite direction of wherever I need to go, and, I might note, not realizing it for a good ten blocks. The up side to my stupidity is that I often run into some bizarre and interesting things. Like the other day near Hotel de Ville, for example. I’m so direction impaired that just coming out a different exit of a metro station will disorient me considerably. That’s what I did at my usual Cordeliers stop and somehow ended up near Hotel de Ville. As I rounded a corner, I heard a lot of screaming and shouting. Then what should I see but a crowd of young people, gathered around- well, I’m not sure what it’s called exactly- but it was a fountain that ran a path on the ground- sort of like a man-made river. Naturally I had to see what all the fuss was about. I’m not sure how to begin to describe what I saw- essentially a young (teenage-ish) girl and boy were racing through the fountain thing. A bit weird, right? Well get this- they were wearing DIAPERS over their pants. I kid you not. Soppy, saggy diapers. I knew that this was something I absolutely needed to inquire into, but with something like that- I mean- where do you even start? So I just stood and watched the kids take turns racing, cringeing the whole time at the precariousness of it all (one girl actually fell!) Finally, I turned to the boy next to me and said: “Uhh, connais-tu qu’est que c’est ici?” (Do you know what this is here?) and he explained to me that it was a tradition at the lycees (high school) for the first-year students. A sort of initiation. My god! As if the first day of high school wasn’t scary enough! But the funny thing was that they all seemed to be having a riot. Oh, French people.

In a lot of ways, the diaper-initiation kind of reflects the way I personally feel coming to France. Stick with me here, I promise this is going to make sense. Although I haven’t found Lyon to be at all as “froid” (cold) as other say it is, I can’t exactly say that France is a welcoming country. You’ve got to prove yourself, earn people’s confidence. Every day I feel like I’m playing a game and picking up the rules as I go along. Riding the bus, shopping, eating in a café- all of these things feel like little initiations. And believe me, they are about as terrifying (and sometimes embarrassing) as running through the fountain with a diaper on. But instead of wearing a diaper, I’m wearing an American accent and a lost look on my face.

The other, I did something truly scary- I went and ate diner in a brasserie all alone. Toute seule- they French call it. As far as I know, they don’t have a more delicate term for it, like “by myself.” Vous êtes toute seule, Mademoiselle? the waiter asked me. Oui Monsieur, je suis toute seule, I replied, with a wan, weary smile. It had been a long week with orientation courses and getting settled in. Since we had class the next day, everybody had planned on staying in. But it was Friday, and I wanted to do something to celebrate the end of a hard week. So I went to Vieux-Lyon, because really, I find it to be the most pleasant and relaxing place in the whole city.

The waiter then asked me if I wanted to sit outside. I hesitated, thinking it might get dark and then I wouldn’t be able to read the book I’d brought. Then he said I could sit outside and watch all the beau garçons who were walking by. His directness caught me off guard and I laughed out loud. A waiter in the states would never say that, but then, perhaps their’s a reasons “French” sounds so much like “frank.”

The meal was lovely. A big ham and swiss cheese salad with nuts and creamy dressing, followed by a ham and cheese crepe. Throw in a basket of bread and a demi-pot of pink wine and I was one satisfied girl (for the record, a demi-pot is the equivalent of two glasse, for anyone who thinks France has turned me into an alcoholic!) I dined as the sun set and felt myself grow progressively tipsy and happy. So tipsy and happy, in fact, that I actually had the audacity to converse with the waiters after my meal. Excusez-moi, j’ai un petit question. To which they all jokingly replied oh oui, mon numero de telephone? Je sais. It was definitely NOT their numero de telephone I sought, considering they were all in their 30’s at least. The restaurant’s name was “Le Petit Glouton,” and I was wondering if “glouton” meant “glutton,” since “the little glutton” would be a rather funny name for a restaurant. A simple question, but the Maitre-D went into a long explantion of the word’s etymology, which, thanks to the wine and my fatigue, I only half understood. They also asked if I had Italian ancestry. I must say, they French always have cracked out ideas about that. When I was in Paris a couple of years ago, a man asked if I was japonais- because my eyes are slightly almond-shaped (they’re BLUE, for goodness sake!) But they explained it was because of my roman nose. I definitely have English and Irish ancestors and even some French and German descendance (apparently my lineage has been traced back to Charlemagne, but who knows?) This however, was a new thought: is it possible that I’m somehow related to the Romans who colonized Lyon so very long ago? It’s a nice thought.

At times like these, being in France is like a wonderful little dream. Oh how quickly it can turn into a nightmare! Ladies and gentleman, I now present to you my biggest horror story to date. I’m pretty much agnostic, but that doesn’t stop me from sometimes envisioning what heaven and hell might be like. I got an idea of what heaven must be like two years ago when I visited the gardens of Versaille. Today, I got more than an idea of what hell is like. I know for sure. Hell is a place called Carrefour.

Americans, think of Wal-Mart. Now think of a Walmart where all the signs are in French, you must have a 1 euro coin to use a shopping cart that, by the way, is extrememly difficult to navigate. Put about twice as many customers in, clutter up the aisles a bit, and you have Carrefour. Again, it was like playing a game. A horrible, horrible game called “just you try to get down this aisle!” The best was when I discovered the groceries were on another level. You go up a little escalator-like ramp, with your cart. When I got to the top my cart got a bit jammed and instinctively I cried out “OH MY GOD!” but the people behind me kindly helped me over the hump. The whole thing reminded me of a ski-lift, on which the right timing is crucial for a smooth landing. But none of this is at all traumatizing in comparison to what came next. Buying my things. As soon as I begin to put my items on the conveyor belt the clerk starts speaking to me in rapid french. It’s loud despite the fact that I ask her to repeat three times, I still have no clue what she’s saying. Somehow, things proceed. I pay for my items and then she’s suddenly asking me for 10 euros. Eh? I don’t get it, but I also realize it’s the same country where you pay for public toilets, so with resignation, I hand over the money. Then suddenly, I’m being directed towards a counter and being handed a slip. Quoi??? The man at the counter ignores me for a couple of minutes, then looks up and starts to ask for my telephone number and address. I’m so confused I feel like pulling my hair out. Is this another component of the French bureacracy? For a moment, I truly thought you had to register to buy groceries in the country. I was so distressed and could feel my French slipping away amidst what I will lovingly refer to as the Carrefour Cacaphony. I couldn’t understand what the man was telling me. Then, I couldn’t help it, I felt the tears welling up. I was sick of the struggle. All I wanted to do was buy some things. When the guy asked me what floor I lived on, I just snapped. “POURQUOI EST-CE QUE C’EST NECESSAIRE??!!” and, oh god I cringe to recount it, folks- burst into tears. All the stress, the hassle, the struggle of my first week in Lyon culminated into that moment, where I was standing in the middle Carrefour, practically choking on my own tears.

It was necessary, apparently, because I had told the woman that I wanted my groceries delivered.

You can imagine how embarassed I was to be crying in public, but I couldn’t manage to stop myself, and this made it difficult to explain to the managers that I hadn’t understood the lady and that I didn’t want my groceries delivered. Somehow, I got my money back and was kindly escorted to the elevator.

How do people who speak NO French ever make it here?

One of the managers was pretty nice. He said about the clerks “ils ne parlent anglais et ils n’ont pas la patience.” In my frazzled state, I really thought he said they have no passions and I thought that was a bit bizarre indeed. I got off the elevator wondering what having passions had to do with their ability to help me, then realized I was nowhere near the taxi station. LUCKILY, a couple of kind ladies detected my distress. They saw all my bags and gave me a ride to the taxi station.

God bless them.

That’s the thing about France- every rude person is counterbalanced by one (or two) unbelievably nice ones. A couple of days ago I received my very first faire la bise from an Algerian girl who lives in my residence. We had just met in the elevator, but she told me to drop by her room any time and was just so warm and friendly. Yesterday, I received my deuzieme faire la bise from a spanish girl who stopped and asked me for directions as I was walking to the metro station. Somehow, I actually knew how to direct her to where she was going, and since it was the same direction as me, we ended up having a conversation. She said her english was pénible and I realized that's exactly the word I've been searching for to describe my French. However, she said that she liked speaking French and would be happy to practice with me any time. Quelle chance! Unfortunately, my American telephone is really starting to hinder my social life. Must be fixed.

Last night, I also had my first dinner party with my some new friends from orientation. I brought the cheese and the dessert. We've gotten to the point where we're almost always speaking in French to each other, so it's great practice and not stressful because we're all learning. We were, however, greatly amused when it soon became evident that everyone had bought their food at "Petit Casino"

All in all, I think things are going to be okay. As long as I continue to meet people who have passions.

Detours

First off, computers are amazing. My internet browser is suddenly, and magically, in French. This is a little disorienting, to be sure, but since everything else in my life is disorienting...well, you see the continuity. Disorientation is about the only consistent thing in my life right now. And how, exactly, is the city of Lyon? Comment ca va?

I. Love. It. Oui, J'adore cette ville.

Perhaps I'm just experiencing this "honeymoon" they talk about at study abroad orientations- the initial infatuation followed by homesickness. Perhaps. But if this is a fling, I'm going to enjoy it for all it's worth. None of this is to say that being here hasn't come with it's share of struggles- it has- but the beauty of the city makes bearable. An example: my feet are sore but that's okay because it's from walking on cobblestone streets.

Okay, okay. I'll try to keep the gushing to a minimum and get on with the hard facts. I'm moved in. FINALLY! Staying in a youth hostel was an adventure indeed- the place had a terrace with a gorgeous view of the city and was in Vieux Lyon (Old Lyon) the most quaint, and in my opinion, beautiful part of the city. It's a hilly area and the hostel was on top of a hill, so...lots of exercise. The first day I stayed in Vieux Lyon, content to wander around by myself. It is comprised of very narrow cobblestone streets, lined with cafes, boulangeries, patisseries, corbeilles and all other tihngs French. I went to a newstand and bought a copy of "Le Monde." Was tempted to buy one of the interesting looking literary journals but they were 10 Euros, so I decided to treat myself to one when my French improves. That shop was an interesting experience indeed. I saw a book called: "Maigrir: C'est tout dans la tete." (Lose Weight? It's all in your head) which I think dispells the myth that French women manage to somehow stay magically thin while eating mass quantities of pain au chocolat ;-) Unless it's a book promoting good body image- along the lines of "You only THINK you need to lose weight"-- which would be nice, but somehow I doubt it. The French also have their share of trashy magazines. From what I can tell, "Isa" is the French version of cosmo (discreet clues like LE SEXE! on the cover) I'm sure after at least one stressful week this year I will go and buy an "Isa" under the pretense that I'm just practicing my French.

There is food everywhere here! I've been eating bread non-stop and am starting to feel really bloated. At first it was heavenly but now my body is starting to rebel. It's dying for some whole grains and fruits and veggies. I want to get out the grocery store soon so that I can buy some food to cook. Well, and i need cooking utensils. The only items in my fridge right now are brie and fromage de chevre. Mmmm...cheese.

Right now, I"m sitting in my WINDOW SEAT typing this. Yes, I have a window seat. Une chaise de fenetre? Something tells me that's not the word. But while this might strike y'all as a bit of a banal remark, you must understand that I have been pining for a window seat since I was a little girl and now, unexpectedly, I have one! It makes the fact that my main lamp only works half the time and my "shower" a mere cord with a shower head tolerable. My room's not too small. My bed is...well, iet's just say I'm glad I'm not fat. But just having my own place is like the equivalent of a 5-start hotel experience for me- a luxury almost incomprehensible. I can't imagine what it will feel like once I get some ugh...blankets and pillows :-D

But I don't want to like my "apartment" too much, and the reason is simple: the more I'm outside, the more city I see. Though being at the hostel was very incovenient and uncomfortable, I'm ultimately glad for it because it forced me to go out and see the city. And the city is full of crazy surprises. One in particular...my first day- Saturday- in the evening- I was sitting innocently on the steps of a cathedral in one of Vieux Lyon's open sqaures. There are several cafes in this square, and in general, things were lively. Well, I'm journaling along and minding my own business when about twenty or so men come into the square (they were in their mid-late twenties or thirties, I think). One of them is wearing a bee costume. I think this is odd, but I'm not about to try to investigate with my shotty French, so I just shrug it off as another one of the many bizzareries one sees in a French day (laetitia, I could take over your podcast [Laetitia is a lady who does a podcast called "one thing in a french day"-- how about 90?]) But then, soudain, this bee is buzzing about me and speaking to me in French that I don't understand. All I can make out are the words "marriage" and "chanson." Next he's signalling for me to stand up. His friends are all sitting at the cafe tables on the other side of the square, looking at us expectantly. I stand up. He takes my notebook and holds it in front of him, then begins to sing a song. I don't understand the song either, but I understand that he is gesturing to a rather...inappropriate place on his body, and then that he is shaking his butt and gesturing for me to do the same. To make it even more bizarre, his friends are singing along with him and the whole square is watching. I don't know how I'm supposed to react: act offended? or play along? I try to guage it by the audience's reaction, but they all look as bemused as me. So I try to play it safe by keeping the bemused/shocked expression on my face. Finally he finishes, thanks me, and goes back to his friends. I look at the people around me- they're all grinning but I have no idea what to say. I don't want to say "qu'est-ce que c'est?" and look like an idiot, so I just shake my head and sit down. Then the bee is back! With a cup in hand. "Le citre" he says. "Sans alcool." It sure doesn't taste like it. "Desolee, Monsieur, mais ma francais n'est pas bon. Je ne comprend pas." And he says: "Desolee, mais je ne parle pas anglais." So we just sort of sit there and drink our cidre and smirk at each other. Then he leaves. Then a nice couple sitting next to me finally takes pity on my and explains. Apparently in France, they have a tradition called, I think: "enterrer la vie de jeune fil" or something such (bury the life of a young boy literally, but basically a burial of childhood). It's sort of their version of the bachelor party, where the night before his wedding, a groom must essentially make an ass of himself, usually by wearing some elaborate costume and subjecting himself to public humiliation. Yes, I was the victim of the "enterrer la vie de jeune fil"- and an unknowing one at that! I stood in a square with a guy in a bee costume, confusedly grinning while he sang to everyone "my dick is so hard it's hitting my stomach." C'EST VRAI! OH lala!

Afterwards, they wanted pictures of me standing on the cafe tables with the Monseiur Abeille (Mr. Bee) I wish I had one myself, but instead, all I have is that cider mug, which I considered a hard-earned souvenir.

There's more to come, but this has gotten awfully long. Expect a "Part Deux" soon!