Miss Direction in Lyon

My France Hurts

2008-03-21T02:55:00.000-07:00

Last night, as I was getting ready to go out, my host-mom was putting her daughters to bed. Among the typical good night wishes bonne nuit, bisous, chouchou and requests for lights to be left on and bibrons to be made, something strange emerged.

Kid: J'ai mal au ventre (my stomach hurts)

Mom: Eh oui, j'ai mal à la France

Kid: J'ai mal à la Russie!

Mom: J'ai mal aux saussissons!

It was the first time I'd heard, or at least caught onto, something ressembling the kind of idiotic inside jokes that families make-- jokes bred, I think, by a need to relieve the stress of living amongst one another hour after hour with a healthy does of loony. I don't intend this entry to be some sort of 'everyone smiles in the same language' kind of crap. Well, actually, maybe I do.

Anyone out there...anyone?

2008-03-15T08:36:00.000-07:00

So I clearly haven't been so diligent about updating my blog these days, and I'm not certain people are still reading it-- so if you ARE reading it, please leave a comment letting me know! Otherwise, I will assume that my blog has become the virtual equivalent of talking to a wall, or worse, an imaginary group of friends.

Let me say that my recent absence is not for lack of things to write about. Life in Lyon is as challenging, absurd, thought-provoking as always. I just haven't had connection to the internet on my own computer. From now on, I'm going to try to take a different approach-- to just write short but frequent entries rather than these long, ruminative, probably tedious pondering on life as an ex-pat. That is, of course, if anyone is still reading in the first place.

And what could demonstrate my newfound conversion to brevity better than...a list?

Signs that I’ve been living in France for awhile

1) If possible, I try to cater my shopping so that the cashiers won’t have to give me any large amount of change.

2) No matter how warm it is, my neck feels cold and naked without a scarf.

3) I can easily go 24 hours without the internet.

4) I cannot go 24 hours without cheese.

5) I have lots of difficulty typing on English keyboards.

6) I think that 1 euro (i.e. $1.50) is a reasonable, even cheap, price to pay for a can of coke.

7) The idea of exerting any energy whatsoever on Sunday, besides maybe for cooking a good meal, disgusts me.

8) Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni have replaced Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as the couple of interest in my mind

9) I no longer 'think' of plans, I 'propose' them. I tell people I am 'in accord' with them and I say things like 'I'll call at her' and 'I got myself up'

10) I barely notice when service is slow, and when it's fast I treat the server like my best friend.

11) Upon looking at the ‘tall’ starbucks latte I’ve ordered I think ‘my god, that’s huge ! there’s no way I’ll ever finish it all !’

And ONE sign that you can take the girl out of America but you can’t take the America out of the girl ;

Despite my doubts, I still finish the latte. And want more.

Ve-love

So, after months and months of avoiding Lyon’s bike system out of fear, laziness, and a lack of sufficient funds for the deposit, I finally got my act together and purchased a Velov card. Now my only regret is that I didn’t do this earlier. Much earlier.

Now, for those who are unacquainted with the concept of such a system (i.e. non-europeans) I will give a quick run-down of how it works. The Velov is essentially a bike rental system available to anyone with a French bank account. To use it, you purchase a Velov card (just 1 euro for a whole week) and pick up a bike at one of the various stations positioned around the city. Afterwards, all you need to do is drop it off at another one. It’s all machine operated and very efficient, except of course, when the bikes are faulty (which is often). The practical benefits are bien evident – it’s cheap, good exercise, and environmentally friendly.

But what pleases me the most about the Velov is the feeling of swiftness you get whizzing around on it from point A to point B. It’s as though I’m suddenly seeing Lyon through new eyes—those of a well adjusted local and not a confused foreigner. On the bike, I can easily glide past the numerous street solicitors as well as the standard creeps without having to exchange a word. A strange feeling of control is attained.

(warning : feeling not attained on a Sunday afternoon in the Parc de la Tete d’Or whilst put-putting through the masses—all cardiovascular benefits will be negated by the blood boiling rage you will feel for the folks that walk slower than snails).

French Friends??

As of two or three weeks ago, I had basically resigned myself to never having any French friends. I figured it was a pity, but tant pis. Until then, I had met a fair number of Frenchies, but the language barrier just rendered it too difficult for me to make any sort of real connection. It was always the same, really-- we'd be introduced, make small talk which would eventually fizzle due to my inability to understand or just a plain lack of things in common. None of them ever showed interest in extending our friendship beyond the occasional party or casual chatting at school.

It was okay, I thought, because I was practicing with my family. And it wasn't like I was hanging out with a bunch of Americans.

The sort of fantasy I'd always had, and I think it is one shared by countless exchange students, was for some very fun, friendly French students to introduce themselves to me, show interest in me, where I'm from and why I'm here, compliment my French, but coyly correct my mistakes, and then, most importantly of all, ask me to hang out with them.

After six months in Lyon, I'd written this off as a laughable pipe dream. But friends, it has actually happened!

And so here I am (or was) sitting in a bar, the only exchange student among a group of French girls and boys, straining to follow the trail of their banter over the blaring music, whilst self-consciously sipping the prim little glass of white wine they teased me for having ordered (I was in the mood for it!)

And here I am (or was) walking down the streets of Lyon with them at 1am as they speak in English and I speak in French (practice all around!)

And here I am, greeting one of them with a bisous before we go to take a coffee at an outdoor cafe.

And I figure, even if nothing comes of this, I'll at least have these moments to remember when I look back on my year in France.

Happy Saint Valentin!

2008-02-14T03:27:00.000-08:00

Note: I wrote this two weeks ago but have only now gotten around to posting it. Enjoy!

This morning was no different from a typical morning— as usual my alarm went off and I continued telling myself I would « get up in five minutes, like, for real this time. » Of course, this resulted in me having hurry like hell (I regret all the money I have spent on make-up, as I never have time to put in on anyway). I was dashing into the metro station, whipping out my wallet in which my precious tecely monthly pass is stowed, only to get an annoying surprise : the doors would not open. Why ? Because my card had in fact, expired. Yes indeed, it was now February.

Once I ‘d gotten over my annoyance with both the transportation system and myself, for forgetting, and once I’d reluctantly purchased a croissant to get change to buy a metro ticket, it dawned on me that the beginning of February is pretty significant, inasmuch as it marks the halfway point of my ten month stay in France. It’s difficult to grasp the fact that I’m now ‘over the hump’ you might say- that from this point on my time in France will start to feel, more and more, as though it’s dwindling away. On the other hand, I can’t believe I’m only halfway through it—after all that has happened, the struggles, the friendships, the crazy encounters, the culture shock— it’s hard to believe I’ve lived through all that, and was, the whole time…just getting started.

Luckily, to keep life from getting banal, I’ve got a whole new set of challenges facing me. I have taken on the job of being a « jeune fill au pair » for two French girls. Yes, I now live with a French family. A very French family. As in—they say things like « c’est la vie » eat stinky cheese like it’s going out of style and have the collected works of Victor Hugo proudly displayed on their living room bookshelf. I just went to check on the girls a minute ago, actually, and the older one was teaching the younger one about your basic three dimensional shapes. I was never aware that you could cover this subject using French cheese packaging for examples, but it is all the sudden completely clear. The wedge of camembert, the cylinder of chevre ! What’s next – a field trip to the epicerie ?

It’s odd the way speaking a different language proves to be not only mentally, but actually physically tiring. As of late, I have found myself exhausted in addition to having an suspicious penchant for sleeping nine, ten hours straight. Despite this, I have not for one second found myself wishing to be back in my old apartment. Now, as opposed to last semester, I am learning new words and phrases on a daily basis. The first words I utter each day are French ones (and unlike before, they’re not just un cafe creme, s’il vous plait). At last it feels like I’m getting the immersion experience I came here for. And my mattress, in addition to being twice the size of my old one, doesn’t cost me a dime.

The girls are aged 8 and 11, so my job consists mostly in mitigating their squabbles and transporting them to and from their various activities. Sometimes it’s very easy and I feel like I’m barely working. I unload the dishwasher while they do their homework, bring ‘em a glass of water, make a joke or two—whatever. Even being authoritative hasn’t proved to be too much of a challenge despite my dodgy French. And yet, it’s challenging in a different way. The kind of challenge presented by sitting around a dinner table with a family that isn’t your own, and not quite understanding what they’re all chuckling over, whilst trying to conceal that fact (the smiling and chuckling along strategy stops working at the point where they turn to you and ask « tu comprends ? ») The kind of challenge presented by the constant feeling that you may commit some horrific cultural faux pas (or rather, a grosse betise) any minute. The kind of challenge that comes from having your own language bottled up inside you all day. Save some text messages, I haven’t spoken English all day, and now, writing this, I am amazed at how reflexively I edit my sentences- how intuitive my sense for what sounds and doesn’t sound good really is. Hah, well, or at least how intuitive it feels- god knows, it wouldn’t hurt to edit my blog entires a little more.

But I wasn’t quite correct in equating not speaking English to the suppression of words- it’s bigger than that. It’s the suppression of personality that can get to you. And the contrast between who I am with this family (somewhat daft, bashful but bubbly, goofy au pair) and who I really am (a wee bit of a sarcastic bitch) couldn’t be more apparent than when I have friends over. Speaking to them in English, I suddenly become concious of, and infinitely grateful for, the ability to express my thoughts, subtle nuances and all. But it feels weird being able to do so in a place where I normally can’t.

Never being able to say exactly what I want to is frustrating, and yet, I can’t imagine going back to a world where I always could- though I know I inevitably will. Wrestling with the monster that is French syntax has become such an integral part of my life that I think I’d feel strangely restless without the struggle. Bored, too, not being able to construct phrases like « les filles, je ne veux pas sois mechant, mais ma patience n’est pas…grande…comme les montagnes » (Girls, I don’t want to be mean, but my patience isn’t…big…like mountains).

The language is also starting to grow on me, much like a somewhat dopey, awkward boy. Repellant at first (seemed impossible) then ever-so-slightly charming until one day, I realized as I was sitting in class, that I was actually taking pleasure in listening to the lecture- not for the subject matter, but for that sort of hushed elegance you rarely find in English. That’s right- hit me with those liasons ! Bizarre, but I was listening to it in almost the same way I listen to music- appreciating its sonority, anticipating all the dips and bends in the cadence. Though I always hoped I’d be able eventually speak French, I never fathomed a day would come when I’d actually take pleasure in it. And though there are times (many) when I feel like I’m progressing at a snail’s pace, when I think back to where I was a year ago, or hell, even five months ago, I’m pretty baffled.

Luckily I’ve got the girls to keep me from getting too full of myself. When I make a mistake, instead of being coyly corrected, I am given a harsh reprimanding by my eight year old girl. That is- when I’m still coherent. When she raises one eyebrow, screws up her nose and cocks her head to the side, I know I’ve ceased to make any sense at all. But the miscommunications can be pretty funny. On our first day together, she asked me to « devine » (guess) who was taking her to the ski bus tomorrow. In return, I asked her who this « Devine » character was. Now Devine has become a somewhat mythical figure, popping up in imaginary games and jokes.

She also told me had learned two phrases in English from her old au pair, a girl from New Zealand who spoke barely any French when she first arrived. They were : Oh my goodness ! and Shutup !

I have to say, after two weeks of being this kid’s au pair, I understand why. Perfectly.

And here is some French that she has taught me.

« Ca pu ! » (that stinks ! referring to my bedroom where the garbage can had gone a little too long without emptying)

« J’ai mal au ventre » (I’ve got a stomach ache--her excuse every night for not sleeping)

« Est-ce que tu crains si je fais ca » (are you ticklish ?)

« J’ai honte » (Literally « I have shame » but I think this is how the French say « I’m embarrased » considering she said this after she insisted on pushing her doll’s stroller to McDonalds, then had to face the reality of doing so).

« J'ai pete"-- I farted

Okay, so nothing that’s going to be particularly helpful when it comes to analyzing Proust, but I’m glad to know it.

Et bien sur, je suis tombee malade...

Because we are in the thick of winter, and because I spend several hours a week around kids, it was somewhat inevitable that I would get sick. It started with a little congestion and a cough, but when I got my first ear ache I knew it was time to call a doctor. Naturally, my host mom was only too eager to supply me with her doctor’s number, as me being bed-ridden would make life around the house significantly more inconvenient. So I called and got an appointment for the next day- 5pm. When I told my host mom this, she nodded, then reflected for a minute and said « let’s see if we can get you in in the morning instead, otherwise you’ll be really sick . » In addition, she bought me some pills and gave me a silk bandanna to wear around my neck in the evening (apparently keeping your neck warm makes your throat less sore). Now, I’ve always been of the « grind your teeth and stick it » persuasion when it comes to illness. Unless I’m in physical pain (like the earache) I consider it a bother to go the doctor. I suspected this attitude was very un-French and my suspicions were confirmed. The next morning I went to the doctor. Luckily, I understood everything she was saying, including ‘take off your shirt and hang it up on the hook, please.’ Suspicion number 2 confirmed—French doctors love to get your naked.

The appointment was all very painless, however—just the usual stuff. The painful part came afterwards, in first, the 32 euros (cash only !) I had to hand over to the doctor, and then, the 33 euros worth of medication that she prescribed me. As it was, I barely felt ill, yet this lady sure as hell felt differently. I needed, apparently, 10 days of anitbiotics, a decongestent, cough syrup, nasal spray, and just in case my senses hadn’t been sufficiently numbed- painkillers.

Clearly this is not a place where New Age medicin or ‘natural’ healing has taken off. But since the average lifespan of a French woman is 84 years, I don’t feel I can critique their approach. I mean, imagine what the lifespan would be if they didn’t smoke ?! I have to admit also, that I got quite excited about taking all these drugs once they were in my hands (please nobody take that quote out of context). I somehow imagined them doing something miraculous—give me boundless energy, happiness, life…

Reality : I felt much the same, a bit more tired, actually and a bit sick to my stomach. So yes, I started to actually feel worse. But this is only day 2, so we’ll see.

Later that day, I told the eight year old about all the medicine I’d been prescribed and she asked me who paid for it. I told her that I had, but that the government would (thank god) be re-imbursing me every penny. Then she asked the classic and very intelligent one word question that children are known to ask : pourquoi ? (why ?)

Before I could open my mouth, the eleven year old jumped in. She apparently, had this all sussed out.

Because it’s not your fault if you get sick.

It isn’t like I haven’t heard this argument before, but every time I hear it, I’m amazed by it’s simplicity and truth. What followed, however, demonstrates the kind of thinking that has become familiar to me as ‘typically French.’

C’est la faute de l’etat. (It’s the government’s fault).

She went on to explain how certain governmental policies could lead to illness (precocious 11 year old, I know). Pollution, for example, a general lack of cleanliness etc. Impressed as I was by her reasoning skills, I couldn’t help but sense that she was reciting something that she had been told over, by parents, teachers, television, newspapers. It amazed me because never in my life have I blamed the state for getting ill. If I’ve blamed anyone, it’s been myself—I assume I haven’t been taking care of myself properly, that I haven’t been conscientious enough of my germ-infested environment, that I haven’t dressed warmly enough etc. And though I was baffled by Appolline’s unwavering certainly that the government was to be blamed for our illnesses, I realized later that it was just as unwavering as my previous assumption that it wasn’t. Such is the radical difference between us socialists and capitalists, I suppose.

And that I suppose, is why I see passing the blame on to something else as typically French. I have to admit, I get a little fed up with the way they always seem to turn and point their finger at the government when things are not to their liking—all the strikes seem like a political manifestation of the passive-aggressive silent treatment- a tactic of avoidance rather than confrontation. But I should probably shutup. After all, they live until 84! That means, no matter, what, they’ll be getting the last word.

One big serving of cracked out (i.e. exam folly)

2007-12-16T16:03:00.000-08:00

Woohoo ! I am officially en vacances ! It’s the first time in my life I’ve gotten to properly celebrate that fact and decompress- usually I go straight from frantic essay writing to frantic packing before rushing to the airport and barely catching the connecting flight home. Not this year. Now is my chance to indulge in the pleasures of sleeping in till 1pm, downloading Christmas music, and spending immoral amounts of time on personal grooming. Considering that I barely survived the last two weeks of school- I feel entitled.

The last two weeks of school…I think the gaping hole in my blog speaks for itself.

I’d prefer to forget the whole thing entirely, but I’ll recount a few memories that may haunt me forever.

- self-medicating with a large pack of « super-acide » gummy worms to the point of being teary-eyed and sure that I had not only given myself a cavity, but also burnt off every single one of taste buds for good.

- Stepping crusty-eyed out of my residence at 3pm one day with the resolve to motivate myself to start the five page paper I needed to write in a single night with an overpriced starbucks, before bumping into two girls I knew. The conversation went something like this :

Me : How are you ?

Them : Oh good, how are you ?

Me : Ughhh. Okay. I’m just going to get some coffee and start working on this paper. I have so much work…

Them : Awww.

Me : Meh.

Them : I haven’t had that much, actually—

-- no, me neither.

Me : …

Them : I’m sure it’ll be different next semester

-- OH yeah, definitely, it will all even out in the end.

Me :…Yeah, well. You know.

Them : So, where do you want to go shopping ?

--- Oh, mmm, I’d really like to get a bagel first.

--- Oh yeah !

--- And then maybe go to that vintage shop by Hotel de Ville

--- Oh okay ! Well what shall we do first—the vintage shop, or the bagel ?

Me : Bagels….

- Making the 35 minute trek to campus (no metro pass for me this month) for my 8 :30 am class after having been awake all night writing about power dynamics in « Le Mariage de Figaro » moody emo music wailing through my headphones and realizing that in my paper, I had forgotten to include the all-important problematique.

- Getting strange, slightly disgusted looks from the girl sitting next to me in 18th century littérature when I continued to fall asleep, then jolt awake.

- Deciding that, instead of taking serious notes for the last lecture of « European Cultural Movements » I was going to entertain my friend Ben with drawings of Jean-Paul Sartre swimming among various sea creatures. This resulted in the two of us falling into a helpless and poorly-concealed fit of giggles that lasted 10 minutes and left us teary eyes and barely able to breathe. It was cathartic.

- Saying « fuck all » to library policy and sneaking a baguette sandwich in as I rushed to finish my essay on Baroque art- leaving a mass of bread crumbs behind me. There library- that’s what you get for being crappy and not having any comfortable couches to sleep on or cubicles to surreptitiously eat in !

- Looking in the mirror when I got home after not having slept for over 40 hours and detecting a brand new greenish tint to my face.

- Chatting online to a friend as I was pulling an all-nighter

Her : How are you ?

Me : you know that scene in the simpsons, where apu has a flashback to working in the quickie mart for three days straight ? that’s how i am.

- Crying. A lot.

A more organized and generally better person would have organized her time so as to avoid all of this pain and melodrama. Alas, I’m only human. Excruciatingly human.

It wasn’t all bad, though. To start, I turned 21 (rather anticlimactic in France, but birthdays are always nice). And my friends Chloe and Jenn came to visit me from Montpelier. They brought me some amazing gifts (treasures from the 1 euro store- a Jafar key ring and chocolate eggs with plastic animals inside) and we had fun seeing what we could of the Fete de Lumieres (more on this hype later). It was nice to have guests, as it sometimes gets a little lonely and dull in my apartment. For my birthday, I had a joint party with my friend Zoe who’s turning 21 soon. Our attempts at Mexican cuisine were a little dogdy, but I think most people were just happy to be getting free food. And naturally, I stayed sober. So sober that I told a French lad who spoke perfect English with a British accent and would not let on how he’d learned to speak so well, that I too was French and had learned English from working at Disneyland over the summer. Fortunately, he found this funny.

I have found in life that bragging of any sort tends to bite you in the ass later on, and this theory was well demonstrated with the recent Fete de Lumieres. The Fete de Lumieres is the main festival in Lyon- in which the entire city is decorated with various light displays. Quite awhile back, I realized that it was going to fall on my birthday, and so whenever anyone mentioned it, I annoyingly chirped, in english or french, « Oh, you know- that’s the time of my birthday ! » After years of birthdays spent slaving away studying for a final exam or writing a paper, I was overjoyed to see that I would, quite obviously, be celebrating my 21st in style.

Now for the reality of the Fete de Lumieres : clenching my teeth as I tried, tried to move through the thousands of seemingly aimless amblers that filled the streets of Lyon, clutching my purse so as to protect myself from the rumored pickpocketers, far far far from being able to appreciate anything going on around me and apologizing to my two friends who had come up expecting something resembling good ol’ Christmas festivities for the disappointing nature of what Lyon considers its pride and joy.

The pinnacle of this enchanting experience was Place de Terraux—wherein we found thousands of people crammed around a rotating globe of sorts, glowing all different sorts of colors. I thought surely I must have been missing something. We trudged home freezing, tired, and disillusioned.

According to one of their travel guides, the Lyonnaise have a complex about their city paling in comparison to Paris. At times like this, I can see why.

I think there are some really neat displays to be found at the Fete de Lumieres- it’s just a matter of knowing where to go and when to go there. I really believe this. All the same, I firmly maintain that the very point of a festival is defeated when you have to PLAN how you will see it, then waddle your way through a slew of grumpy pedestrians to get where you want to go. Thumbs down, Fete de Lumieres. Thumbs down.

As the semester comes to an end, I can’t help but reflect on my life here- the surreality of having already completed a semester, of being half-way done academically. I can’t say whether or not Lyon has lived up to my expectations, because I hardly knew what the expect coming here. I recall having a few comically unrealistic visions of dining in fancy restaurants with dashing French men whilst discussing- in prefect French- the philosophical underpinnings of Camus novels (okay, maybe that’s a hyperbolic amalgamation of my various expectations, but you get the point). I guess being twenty years old didn’t do much to put me above this sort of fairy-tale thinking. How quickly one learns !

Maybe some people get this sort of fairy-tale experience. I certainly don’t know any of them, nor do I want to. They can go on leading their pristine lives and leave the rest of us to giggle at the wrong times and blunder our merry way along.

I don't lie

2007-12-02T12:28:00.000-08:00

...and I'm not crazy, either. Here is veritable proof of the street musicians. Too bad I didn't catch them asking me for money, but that might have taken away the magic, just a tad...

A Love Letter

2007-11-30T13:56:00.000-08:00

To the gals next door,

Listen- I've been drunk a time or two in my life- so you can't say I "just don't get it." I understand that inebriation can spawn the desire to dance, to sing, to hide Camembert cheese under a friends notebook (it happened, I was the victim) . What I cannot understand is it spawning the desire to SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS. Repeatedly? Out the window? Before falling into piles of giggles. I've witnessed the slumber parties of my 10 year old sister, and I can tell you that her and her friends conduct themselves with more maturity than you do. You can't use the excuse of this being a one-time occurance either. Perhaps you don't realize it, but this is what you do every time you have one of your little dorm-parties. I'm usually out on Friday and Saturday nights, but whenever I'm in- it's probably because I want to sleep or study. Thank you for making that impossible.

But what now? Dead silence? I guess the hate vibes have sealed your mouths shut.

Just a little note, ladies: the next time you have one of your scream-a-thons I am going to invite all of my friends over spontaneously to stand in my room and make kookaburra noises with me for as long as it takes you to get the point. Chances are, some of you are Australian. Consider this a lil' reminder of home :-D

What I am really trying to say, ladies (the condescension is so thick it can hardly get down my throat) is that while you may be in France to scream, I actually came here with the intention of learning the language. Which sometimes involves writing long papers on boring subjects- like death in Baroque art. It is very annoying to hear you having so much fun, while I sit here slaving away at the computer.

So shut up already!

Mardi Noir

2007-11-20T03:17:00.000-08:00

The French are protesting. What are they protesting? From what I can gather: everything. Officially, it's reduced wages, reduced employment benefits, pension etc. (specifically for public transport workers) and the privatization of universities. But out in the streets, it seems that everyone has taken Mardi Noir (Black Tuesday) as an opportunity to voice their discontent. People are out there (literally right out there, I was just among them and now I can hear them ranting and chanting and stomping about) with signs asking for better employment, better wages, less homelessness etc. Students representing their universities and lycees, non-profit organizations, old people, young people, babies being pushed along in strollers (you truly get initiated to this sort of thing early in France).

But while there is a definite sense of determination in the air, an undeniable atmosphere of passion, you also get the sense that this is quite normal for them. Nobody looks like they're having the same adrenaline rush I had when I marched in front of the Capital to protest the war in Iraq. But maybe that's just an outsider's perspective- who's to say? If there could possibly be such a thing as a "calm" protest, this would be it. Two mom's strolling their babies side-by-side and appearing to be talking about the weather. Little kids meandering on the sides with a treat from the bakery in hand- not looking scared, or fascinated, or excited- as I imagine my little siblings would if there were to suddenly be a protest in the streets of our neighborhood (the only thing I can imagine Castle Pines North residents protesting is the demolition of Starbucks).

One can say all they want about the French lacking ambition, but it's a hard point to sell when you see how consistently they get off their butts and voice their discontent with a current policy.
People here might not work as much- (I do in fact, feel that most work too little)- but, in my view, their lack of enslavement to the rat race is just what allows them to be so politically aware, to follow what the government is doing and to stop it before it's too late. Protesting seems to have gone out of style in America, though complaining sure hasn't. Even if you think that the complaints of the French are petty (and at times they can seem so- do they really need to retire at 50?) you have to admire them for having the gumption, and courage, to actually do something about it.

All that said, it the truth of the matter is that the French economy isn't doing so hot and that seems to be a reality people here aren't willing to face. If retiring with a full pension at 50 seems too good to be true, it's because it probably is. While I feel that that negotiations with the people are in order, I doubt very strongly that the government can realistically give the French all that they're asking for without wreaking more havoc on the economy. The economy seems to be to France what the environment is to America: an issue whose existence people tend to ignore, or deny because it doesn't effect their generation directly.

They seem to at least have the maturity of thought to protest the issues and not the man-in-charge- aka, Sarkozy. Rather than throwing all the blame on the President- as we tend to do- these protests recognize that it's the government rather than just one man who is behind all these changes and that therefore, the government is who they should be targeting. Unlike the protest I attended in the U.S. , there weren't any inflatable devil-Sarkozys or even, as I saw anti-sarko signs. But that could also have something to do with the fact that it's so early in his term and they know that- complain or not- he's going to be around awhile.

Oh, and despite my strong belief in affordable education, I can't help but roll my eyes a little at the rampant fear that college costs might rise from a whopping...200 euros a year! That's how much I spend on BOOKS alone in the U.S.

On a semi-related note, I feel that I'm already developing somewhat of a city-dweller edge. I was just shopping at the mall yesterday when I realized how hostile my thoughts were- toward the shopkeepers and the other patrons. Just as though I was ready for someone to reprimand me, for one of those suspicious-eyed guards to accuse me of trying to shoplift. What is with having a security guard in a damn parfumerie, huh? Especially one that stares so relentlessly at you that you start to feel you actually are a thief. I'M JUST TRYING TO BUY A DAMN CONCEALER STICK! And in the midst of all this tension, this inner-grumbling, I began to understand why everyone here is a bit chilly-mannered, a bit sour-faced. They've lived in the city's combative atmosphere for years. I'm just hoping that I can somehow avoid coming back to America a jaded and bitter person, who, while having gained a fashion sense, has lost a good portion of her humanity. I hope that I can retain some of the good things city-life has given me- boldness, assertiveness, je m'en fous-ness, and lose the edginess, which would come off as especially absurd and arrogant in the oh-so-congenial Chapel Hill (which in retrospect, seems unfathomably friendly).

Oh, but they're not all bad-- for my Dad at least- who came to visit this weekend. We were stopped on the sidewalk walking back to my apartment by a lady, who, seeing that we had suitcases, said (in english) "where are you from? welcome to our city!" I am still bitter about never getting such a warm welcome. But I wanted to Lyon to make a good impression on my Dad, which I think it for the most part did, despite the multiple instances of things working according to French "logic." I told him about my grammar teacher Madame Meunier's favorite saying: "C'est pas logique!" (for when you get an answer wrong) and it became the catch phrase of his visit. You have to use use a SECRET CODE for the elevator in one building at your hotel but not another? C'est pas logique! The women at the Salon de The continue to serve the customers at the counter while you wait to order your coffee? C'est pas logique! The grocery stores close down at lunch, just when you need food the most? C'est pas logique!

C'est la France. C'est pas logique.

It was a weekend of un-thinkable luxuries- taxis, and three course meals, hot wine bought from street vendors and spontaneous chocolat chaudes in cafes. Moreover, I now have high speed internet and a cabinet bursting with groceries. SWEET HEAVEN! That's not to say we didn't
suffer a little- it was brutally, bitterly cold. Nevertheless, we did a respectable amount of sight-seeing- The presqu'ile and Vieux Lyon, taking the funicular up to Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere- which I discovered is much more splendid when you're not dizzy and dehydrated from walking all the way up to it. We also saw the ancient gallo-roman ruins and the amphitheater (built in 15BC) which was spectacular and just really surreal. Despite the cold, we were lucky enough to have lots of sunshine so it worked out alright. Our original plan was to go to the Parc de la Tete d'Or afterwards, but once we sat down and had a coffee, the extent of our tiredness sank in and we concluded we were more up for a film. So we walked all the way to the Pathe at Bellecour to see if there were any American/British films playing with just French subtitles. Unfortunately, there weren't, so we just had our own cinema experience watching clips of the Colbert report on Comedy Central in my apartment for the next hour or so.

On Saturday we had a traditional French dinner, but on Sunday we opted for a Thai restaurant in Vieux Lyon. We were the only customers there, but instead of that being awkward it was actually very relaxed and pleasant. The food was great too. I couldn't help but giggle- however, when the owners popped in a soundtrack upon our arrival that began with a pan-flute version of "The Sound of Silence"- a soundtrack that had commenced its third rotation by the time we finally left. It was just too goofy- and perfect.

So alas, it's back to the world of independent city girl-ism. No Christmas in the U.S. for me. Sad, because I could really stand to stretch out on the couch and play with my dog and talk to my family and eat home-cooked meals. But at $2000 + that's a luxury I just can't afford. And anyway, I'm quite excited about the ex-pat collaboration Elizabeth and I are having in Paris, which will undoubtedly be magical. This year I actually have more Christmas spirit than ever and I think it's the excitement of experiencing the holidays somewhere new. With ex-pat Thanksgiving dinners, advent parties and the fete de lumieres, I think it will be one of my most
exciting holiday seasons yet.

True Diligence

2007-11-16T03:14:00.000-08:00

Who would think that, at 11am on a Friday morning, it would be difficult to find a seat in the school library? Shouldn't everyone be in bed- sleeping, hungover??

That's not even the most baffling part. The baffling part is that the students, rather than having their lap-tops open to "Facebook" or "Perez Hilton" appear to be...working. Truly working. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. Not even during exam period at Chapel Hill. The hunched over, absorbed, papers-spread-out-around-you kind of working. Now wait, that's a lie. I see two girls with their lap-tops open.

They're exchange students.

I'm a good student, but I've never been "studious." In truth, I've never felt the need to study intensely in anything except for science and math, and that's because I'm horrendously bad at them. I do my homework, but "studying" is reserved only for big, important tests. Even then, my version of "cracking open the books" is a pitifully literal one. I crack them open and that's about it. A study session for me usually involves frequent e-mail checking, coffee refills, my ipod, and chatting online. So far, it's worked for me.

And I think as far as American students go, I'm in the average- pretty good range in terms of my habits. Even at UNC- one of the most highly ranked public universities in the country- the libraries are filled with students sleeping, eating, murmuring on their cell phone. Almost no one is sans laptop, and you can frequently hear music drifting from headphones. I don't doubt that all of the students have the intention to work- otherwise they wouldn't be there- it's only that they've all found excellent diversions to it. I'd estimate, frankly, that only 20% of the students are being truly "productive."

My question is: Are the French really more diligent, or have they simply not yet discovered the treasure trove of procrastination mechanisms modern technology offers? Or is it simply that the concept of multi-tasking is a bit foreign to them? I said before that the whole culture seems structured around doing one thing at a time. You have, for example, different stores for different needs. You don't eat on the go. You don't have your cell phone attached to your head. The irony is: in eschewing the temptation to multi-task, these students are, in all likelihood, being a thousand times more productive than any facebooking American student.

It's not a new idea, of course, but I'm beginning to think I'd be a lot more productive and a lot less stressed if I modeled in the French in focusing all my energy and attention on one thing at a time. For all of the inefficiency in this country- I have to say- in this area, I think they've got it right on.

But I feel that I'm somewhat stuck in my multi-procrastinating ways. The idea of writing a paper without some seriously sugar-loaded snack and a friend's electronic presence at hand seems nearly impossible. That said, when you take into account shotty internet connection and the fact that grocery stores close at 7:30pm- I just might have too.

Music Music, Everywhere!

2007-11-12T06:18:00.000-08:00

After a night of insomnia (always happens to me on Saturdays for some reason) I was having myself a nice Sunday morning lie-in. Nestled up in my covers, barely conscious, the sweet sound of trumpets wafted into my dreams. Slowly, I began to wake up and realize that the trumpets were not a byproduct of my dreams, but real trumpets. I lay in bed for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what was going on and also trying to muster up the energy to sit up and look out the window. When I finally did, I indeed saw three elderly beret-wearing men tottering down my street, trumpets in tow. We made eye contact and I smiled to show that I was charmed, rather than annoyed by their (supposedly spontaneous) production.

Now I find myself wondering if didn’t just dream that whole thing up. It all seemed so surreal. Or perhaps I was so delirious with sleep deprivation that I was actually hallucinating. What makes me think I might have been a little delirious is that I remember thinking the music was absolutely gorgeous, and that it sounded like an orchestra rather than just three guys.

There you go, France has officially rendered me crazy.

This has been a rather quiet weekend. On Saturday, I went to a « Salon des livres » in Bellecour. It was only a euro and, bibliophile that I am, I quite enjoyed just being in the presence of piles and piles of pretty books. The ones that delighted me the most were the children’s books, such as « Mademoiselle Princess ne veut pas manger » (Miss Princess doesn’t want to eat). But of course, I’m always a little uneasy in a market setting- afraid I’ll be solicited if I show too much interest. Add the fact that it’ll soon become evident that I’m foreign and it makes for a bit of an awkward situation. That said, when I was spoken to by a woman trying to sell a literary magazine, I found that I understood everything that she said and furthermore, was able to carry on a coherent conversation with her. Doesn’t sound like much, but I don’t think I would have been able to do it when I first arrived here.

I hope it’s not all in my imagination that my French is improving. Just lately I’ve begun to catch myself comprehending a lot more of what’s being spoken around me. Sure, I don’t get every single word, but I’m not as lost as I used to be. It’s odd, because I think I’m actually speaking less French than when I first got here, but just in the past week or so, it’s like something has begun to click. My sentences are still flawed, but it’s no longer a headache to put them together.

The other day, I went for a babysitting job interview. The mother spoke to me very quickly and the atmosphere was a bit chaotic- far from ideal. Paradoxically, the pressure seemed to actually be conducive to my French. I didn’t have time to think, my subconscious knowledge took over, and as a result I heard myself speaking more fluently than I thought I was capable of.

But what’s most encouraging, and more than that, satisfying, is the comprehension part. It makes a world of difference, psychologically, to understand what is being said around me. I feel less isolated, less vulnerable, and of course, less foreign. And that’s one of the reasons I’m really glad I decided to stay here a year rather than just a semester. It would suck to finally get the hang of things, only to turn around and go home ! Studying abroad is a funny dance of constantly taking two steps forward, one step back- meaning- progress is slow. I thought I’d finally gotten the hang of crazy store hours only to walk all the way to Carrefour on Sunday only to find out it was most definitely closed.

One thing I still don’t understand : why is the mall open on Sunday if none of the stores are ? People, what are you DOING ? I really wanted to approach one of the several aimlessly wandering persons and ask just that.

But my French is about to really be put to the test- literally. Assesments are fast approaching. Sure, I might be able to understand the people in the street, but does that mean I can write an eight page paper on the theme of death in baroque painting ?? Or give an extemporaneous presentation on the poetry of Stéphane Mallarmé ? I’m more than a little apprehensive.

Luckily this place is quirky enough to counterbalance the anxiety. If ever there were men who made instruments out of vegetables and played them in public in the US of A, I might be able to deal with academic stress much better.

No kidding, who would think you could turn a carrot into a flute or a radish into a harmonica ? Only a man named Pascal Gayaud, who has seemingly made a full time vocation of it.

http://www.arbre-a-musique.fr/catalog/images/livres_CD/LICD-LUG-02GF.jpg

But to take a little detour back to the babysitting interview-- it seems that my life will be changing yet again next semester. No, I'm not leaving France (they haven't pushed me out yet). Instead, I'm going to be moving out of my apartment and in with a French family. Essentially, I get a free room and board in their apartment, plus a monthly salary, in exchange for part-time babysitting. The weekends are free, and I still get my school vacations, so I'll still be able to travel. The family is really nice, two school-age girls and two adorable kittens. Moreover, the location couldn't be better- right in the heart of the city. I'm really excited about this, as I think it'll do a world of good for my French. It also just seems like more of an authentic way to live in France. Maybe, too, I'll even be able to afford such luxuries as going out to eat, instead of living on cereal and spaghetti!

It's been wonderful having my own space, and I'm certainly going to miss blasting my music and cooking in my underwear. At the same time, that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to learn French, to learn French culture, to travel. I gave the whole thing some thought and decided, ultimately, that the benefits outweigh the drawbacks.

So I move in January. Until then, I'll be busy with schoolwork, and planning my Christmas vacation, which will involve going to Paris and hopefully touring the Loire Valley.

I also opened a flicker account, if anyone wants to see what I'm up to these days.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16979015@N08/

I've only just gotten around to my daily coffee and am going to use that for being unable to conjure up a witty parting line. Peace?

Oh, Those Frogs!

2007-11-05T09:23:00.000-08:00

France is a country whose citizens have attracted more stubborn stereotypes than any other in Europe. Arrogant, rude, bolshy, bureaucratic, sexist, chauvinistic, super chic and stylish are among many tags- true or not- attached to the supposedly garlic-eating, beret-wearing French.

The statement above is an excerpt from "europe on a shoestring" describing the culture of France. Amusing how the author gives a laundry list of negative traits, then refuses to take a stance-- that seems to be a strong indication that he/she feels all the stereotypes are true, but doesn't want to say so for fear of offending anyone. So, you might ask me, what are they really like, these French people?

The truth is: I still don't know. And I ponder the question every single day as I walk alongside them in the street, as I sit across from them on the metro, as I shuffle past one in the supermarket to buy bread. The problem, of course, is that half the time I can't understand what they're saying to me, or they can't understand what I'm saying to them. It basically comes down to this- I don't really know them, and I'm starting to wonder if I ever will.

Being a foreigner changes the way you think. You find yourself generalizing the behavior of individuals. As a result, every person you interact with is unfairly put in the position of representing his/her country. This is what I tend to do at least. If someone's rude to me in the U.S.- I think it's because they're rude. If someone is rude to me in France, I think it's because, well...they're French. And because the French do have so many negative stereotypes attached to them, they're already at a bit of a disadvantage. I'm ultra-perceptive to any bit of rudeness or laziness that the people here display because deep down, I'm sort of expecting it.

Given all this, it's impossible to make an objective judgment. I cannot tell to what extent my anxiety and insecurity about being a foreigner taints my view of the French, and I have to wonder if I would feel this way anywhere. Is it just a natural byproduct of culture shock, this hostile feeling that creeps up on me from time to time?

When you think about it, it's absurd to truly believe that a nation of people can think, act, live in a particular and similar way. And yet, stereotypes have to have at least an inkling of truth behind them- it's only that that truth is exaggerated and distorted. When I think about the stereotypes of Americans- shallow, materialistic, friendly but superficial, ambitious, fame-obsessed- I can't deny that I find them to be largely true. I can imagine a foreigner coming to the U.S. with all of these preconceived notions and finding confirmation of them everywhere they look. Then again, I would also hope that they would be pleasantly surprised to find that America is full of deep, genuine, and interesting individuals also-- because I know that it is. If this is true about America, I have to remind myself that it is also true about France.

But the fact is, and I'm beginning to realize and come to terms with it, I'll never see France the way a French person sees it. Okay, maybe if I decided to stay here for the rest of my life. Maybe. But now matter how settled I become, I'll always be l'etranger. And that's okay. I think everyone should be at least once in their lives.

Nothing will make you a patriot faster than being an ex-pat. If coming here has taught me anything, it's that France isn't perfect and America isn't so bad. Both have their problems. Both have their strengths.

I want to like the French. I really do. But they can make it mighty difficult. Here's how I feel about some of the aforementioned stereotypes.

Arrogant: In what sense? There is something ineffably arrogant about the pout they all wear. It's a bit intimidating. So are they're "super-chic" clothes. Is it so much that the French are arrogant, or that they just have that air of sophistication and self-possessedness about them that makes us think they are? Smiling is generally not a French past-time, and I think there is something quite humble looking about a smile-- something gracious and well, goofy. Conclusion: they might look arrogant, but in reality, they're probably much less fixated on success and fame as us Americans, trying to impress the world with our unnaturally white teeth.

Rude: They don't have much patience, that's for sure. And I don't appreciate the ones that just walk away from me without even bothering to say "thank you nonetheless" if I can't give them directions. On this one, I'd say that, in the world of customer service the French are DEFINITELY ruder than Americans. And the problem is that as students, this is the domain we spend most of our time dealing in. But the people outside of the domain I have always found to be very kind and thoughtful, even moreso than Americans sometimes.

Bolshy: This basically meaning pushy, I have to give a very definitive yes. The French are people who know what they want and are determined to get it. Unlike Americans who are almost obsessed with compromise, the French are unafraid to be particular and express it. I've found this with moms and their babysitting hours, teachers, and store clerks who demand exact change. This can be annoying- very- but at least they're upfront, eh? Probably leads to less resentment and passive-aggressive behavior between people in the end.

Bureaucratic: *walks into a secluded corner and laughs the hysterical laugher-of-the-damed*

YES.

Sexist: I can't tell you how many bitch-sessions I've had with my friends over the creepy behavior of French men. Despite the fact that the "Mother of Modern Feminism" Simone de Beauvoir, was herself French, it seems that this country hasn't lost it's latin influence in this domain. You know, the idea that women are objects put on this earth for men to feast their eyes upon. It's paradoxical in conjunction with the fact that, politically, France is fairly progressive in the realm of gender politics. Unlike America, reproductive rights aren't an "issue"- they're a guarantee. And if you do have a baby, child care is a lot easier to come by. Segolene Royal's formidable campaign demonstrated the country's support of female politicians. My only conclusion is that the people in politics are generally progressive-minded, but somehow, the rest of the country isn't.

Chauvinistic: As much as Americans are berated for this quality, the French have it, too. The only thing is that theirs seems a bit more justified, in light of the fact that they've got centuries of history and culture- a heritage that makes our mere 400 something years seem a little, well...dinky. It's only a speculations, but I'd guess that some of it has to do with that some of the "pride" stems from a desire to re-assert France's specialness in a world where it's strengths- litterature, art, philosophy- are no longer as highly valued. A world where countries like America- with plentiful economic and military might- but not as rich of a culture- tend to come out on top. Maybe that's why they won't accept my American Express card ANYWHERE in this city!

Super-chic and stylish- They are pretty fashionable. Men and women alike look like they've really put some thought into what they're wearing. I'd never want to go out in a hoodie and sneakers here. But I don't really miss being able to do that. I've found that a nice scarf and a pair of heels are just the sort of confidence boost one needs when braving the streets of a foreign city.
The downside is that the malls are crazy! I'll really be tempted to slap the next French person who accuses Americans of being materialistic. The best way I can think to describe an average day in a French mall...is like Christmas Eve in an American mall. The Christmas Eve of the Last Christmas Ever.

Once again, the mere act of writing this has proved illuminating. I'm not ready to give up on the French yet, and after all this contemplation, I feel that I may just be starting to understand them. A little.

French Bliss?

2007-10-23T02:57:00.000-07:00

What do I remember of high school mathematics? Not a whole damn lot, that’s for sure. I never had enough audacity to raise my hand and ask “so, what exactly is the point of learning how to do a geometrical proof?” but I was always silently cheering for those who did. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only lessons that stayed with me were the ones that seemed at least half-way applicable to real life. One of them being that when dividing, no matter how close to zero you get, you will never quite reach it. This bit of common sense immediately struck me as analogous to a lot of things in life- the pursuit of happiness for example. Everything is perfect sauf...

Installer is a verb I just recently learned and one that I have begun to use with great frequency. It means: to settle in. C’est difficile d’installer ici. Je ne suis pas encore installer. Ce fait longtemps d’installer. ( It’s difficult to settle in here. I’m not settled in yet. It takes a long time to settle in). Now however, I am beginning to have certain moments where I really do feel- may I- -installed- in this city (thank you). I’ll be walking down the foliage lined streets with a scarf around my neck and a fresh croissant in hand- breathing in the crisp autumn air and enjoying the view of the glistening Rhone river. At these times, it’s as though I’m heading straight towards the ever elusive Zero of French Bliss. And this is when I will trip.

If not trip, then think that I’ve forgotten to turn my stove off (I never have, but I have a preternatural paranoia about burning down my apartment). Or otherwise, realize that I have forgotten to do something essential involving paperwork. Or whatever. The fact is- I have not had one boring day since I’ve been in France. And I should love this, right? In part, I do. On the other hand, I just want life to be predictable every now and then. Predictability can be boring, but it also puts you at ease. It allows you to sleep, to relax, to pay attention in class without thinking of the 35 million things you must do afterwards. I feel as though I must be really bad at this installation business, because after seven weeks in France, I still spend most of my time running errands. Each one seems to bring me a little closer to installation, but not quite. Actually, that’s not true. Some things I will accomplish only to discover out that they open the door to a milieu of further obligations. It’s so frustrating!

Luckily, I have a great group of friends. Friends who seem to find it more endearing than creepy when I break down in tears while trying to host a small evening gathering. Friends to drink coffee with at 8:30 am after our professor has yet again failed to turn up for our 8am class. Friends to go to McDonalds with when the internet isn’t working, and to get slowly enraged with when it fails to work at McDonalds, too. Friends with which I can share bottles of wine, wedges of cheese, notes from class, and crazy stories concerning the trials and tribulations of life in France. At the risk of sounding sentimental, I don’t know what I’d do without them.

My goal now, is to branch out a little, to get to know the people who live here. I finally got around to texting Elena, the Spanish girl who I met on the way to the metro station. We just had coffee together today—so great! Though she speaks very good French, she understands the difficulties of being a foreigner because she’s only lived here for a year, and didn’t know much French beforehand. Talking to her is just a really fun, non-intimidating way to learn the language- and that’s what I’m looking for.

I love the fact that all the exchange students bond while they’re here- there’s something almost poignant about the fact that we’re all on this same mission, struggling together. But I don’t want to only be friends with exhange students because it has an odd way of isolating you from authentic French life, of making the whole study abroad experience feel like an extended vacation rather than simply…life.

It is difficult, of course, when you’ve got severely compromised linguistic skills. You have to find people who are patient, and sometimes it feels like nobody here is. Especially when I wake up to a symphony of cars honking their horns on the street next to my residence—not exactly serene. Or when people shove past you to get onto the train. Or when the boulangere sighs loudly as you rummage through your purse to find those ever elusive centiemes that seem to be in surplus when you don’t need them and in hiding when you do. It’s hard not to let these sort of things slowly eat away at your morale, your resolve to succeed. But Elena was kind enough to teach me a very good phrase. Je m’en fous. What does it mean? Essentially: I don’t give a damn.

Go ahead and giggle when I mix up my tenses, or can’t find the button to open the tram doors, or ask you to repeat something . Je m’en fous.

But I fear that my tone here is bordering on defiant, caustic even. It doesn’t convey all the giddy pleasure that living here gives me, such as:

- walks through the Parc de la Tete d’Or

- or alternatively, feeding geese at the Parc de la Tete d’or, and watching little kids chase the geese, then proceeding to chase my friend who insisted that he didn’t “mind being chased” only to scream STOP STOP! when a group of us put that statement to test

- taking a boat down the Rhone river to a modern art exhibit (la Biennale)

- making droll comments about the general non-sensicality of the art exhibit with my friend

- dancing on a boat with friends (some of whom go all out on the dance floor)

- dinner parties—need I say more?

- Cramming lots of people into my little studio apartment for spontaneous parties that involve unofficial karaoke to Madonna

- Those moments in class when I really get what the teacher is talking about (okay, so that was a not-so-well-disguised attempt to counterbalance all the references to partying…but it’s true!)

Il parrait que ce pays m’avoir changé. Je pense toujours maintenant de les choses que je veux faire, les endroits que je veux voyager, les nouveaux choses que je veux apprendre. Pourquoi est-ce que c’est le cas? Je ne sais pas, mais quand-même, c’est très bon. Il parrait que ce change de la vie avoir ouvrit mes yeux des nouveaux possibilities. Il m’avoir montré qui je suis et ce que je veux vraiment. C’est fascinée, ce change. Je suis tellement heureause que j’ai decidé de ne rester pas à Chapel Hill. Bien sûr, Chapel Hill me manque- quelquefois plus que les autres. La semaine dernière, je ne pouvait cesser de la penser. Ohlala- le yogurt pump, les arbres, l’union des étudiants ou l’internet marche TRES TRES BIEN! Mais maintenant, je n’ai auncun désir d’y revenir. Ce me rend heureause parce que j’avais peur que je resterais comme ça pour la reste de ma visite. Mais c’était simplement une période, je peut voir maintenant. Et j’ai fini avec cette période là.

It seems this country has changed me. I’m always thinking now of the things I want to do, the places I want to travel, the new things I want to learn. Why is this so? I don’t know, but all the same it’s very good. It seems that this change in my life has opened my eyes to new possibilities. It has shown me who I am and what I really want. It’s fascinating, this change. I’m so happy that I decided not to stay in Chapel Hill. Of course, I miss Chapel Hill, sometimes more than others. Last week I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ohlala- yogurt pump, the trees, the student union where the internet works VERY VERY WELL! But now, I don't have any desire to return there. This makes me happy because I was afraid that I would feel like that for the rest of my stay. But it was simply a phase, I can see now. And I’m finished with that phase.

As always, please excuse the cheesiness. And the bad French.

L'écrivain en repos

2007-10-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

For no apparent reason other than that I had Microsoft Word open today, I started looking through old files. It started with my interest being piqued by a document labeled “BAD redaction”—which turned out to be an essay I’d written for French class my freshman year of college, which included sentences like Je pense qu’ils sont interessant et j’aime leur parler. Il serait bon pour mon francais aussi. When at last, my mixed reaction of laughing and wretching came to an end, I proceeded to my writing folder to re-read some of my little old stories. Some, I realized, were frankly bad. Others I thought to be decent. But regardless, I couldn’t shake the feeling of how impossible writing seemed. It’s a feeling I get whenever I’ve slacked off and have stopped writing for awhile- that the Sisyphean boulder has indeed tumbled and I must start again from square one.

Of course, I didn’t expect to be writing as much here, especially for the first few weeks when I barely have time to shower. Then again, writing has a strange way of keeping me sane when my life is filled with one petty technicality after another. It feels lofty, even if I’m just twiddling my pen and staring at a blank page. But where does one find the time? This is always the question.

At least I gots my blog!

And speaking of which, I think it’s high time I wrote an entry with real substance. It’s just hard, because I have no idea where to start. I did however, write a long, detailed letter to my friend the other day, and would like to share some snippets here. Some of them don’t *entirely* make sense out of context, but that’s the fun!

I cannot begin to describe the chaos of the school system here. Whereas you have already finished mid-terms, I am not even officially registered in my courses. The classes are posted on the walls, and if there are any changes, they just post those on notes and hope you’ll find them. The course descriptions are found in a totally different area of the school. The syllabi are non-existent. The concept of “online registration” is so far out of these people’s realm of thinking, it’s laughable. There is ONE computer lab in the entire school, which is filled with mega-size computers that look like they belong in a historical museum, or your great-uncle’s toolshed. I walked into it with my friend Kat, from London, who immediately gasped, “Well, this isn’t PRIMITIVE!” Needless to say, we garnered some dirty looks.

But here’s one other crucial difference. The classes are actually…good!

And thank god! If after all that they were bad, I’d have to kill myself. But I find all of them really interesting. It’s definitely a struggle, since of course I find concentrating hard even in English, not to mention French. That’s compounded by the fact that my schedule is bizarre and I have classes, no joke, from 12-8pm on Thursday with just a half hour break. One is english but STILL. Luckily, I have Monday off. Everyone I know has been forced into this sort of insanity at least once a week due to the disorganized nature of the French system. I sort of had to choose between good classes or a good schedule, and I opted for the good classes. They’re not even smart enough to make sure there’s always a ten minute break in between classes. Thus I have a class that ends at 2 followed by one that begins a…2. What?But that’s always how it is…shit makes no sense because everyone’s too busy enjoying life to look into the details.

~~~~~~~~~~

So I’m supposed to be doing another presentation on Wednesday, on any subject I want. Got any suggestions. My German friend, Kathrin, cheekishly suggested that I do one on how much I love George Bush. You aren’t going to believe it, but there is a boy in my class from Georgia. He has THE WORST accent I have ever heard. I mean, he can’t even make his “h’s” silent. It’s shudder-worthy. What was his presentation on? “Le Sud Profond” of course! I. Am. Not. Joking. Sub-title “Les Vrai Etats-Unis”—a fifteen minute powerpoint glorifying the confederate flag and rednecks. I almost choked on the irony. At times like these, and others, such as when the other American boy in my surrealism class write things like “Salvador Dali-Lama” on his laptop in 72 point font, it becomes astoundingly obvious why the French hate us.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Today my friend told me that in Germany they tell children their eyes will turn square if they watch too much television, and then their heads. So I asked, “what next? You’ll grow an antaenna?” and she was like “yes, like a teletubby!”

~~~~~~~~~~

God, as if flirting wasn’t hard enough in English- think about what it’s like in a language you barely know.

~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve never really understood the art of banter but let me tell you, between the drinks and the gay and the cracked out, I was MASTERING that shit!

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning I had a 10:40 train to catch to Montpellier. I woke up feeling nauseated, and texted Kat asking if she was alive. She and I had drunkenly attempted to bike to the party, on the same bike, which of course had led to us falling off after about two minutes and stealing a ride on the metro instead.

Me: R u alive?

Kat: Juste.

Needless to say, I just barely caught my train and looked, felt and smelled terrible. For a few days, my hot water wasn’t functioning, so I didn’t take a shower for about 4 days straight, which is really nasty when you’ve danced in a smoky, crowded bar and walked all over the damn city. But I’m not complaining. Life’s exciting and as the Germans (apparently) say “you can sleep when you’re old.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Then there was Montpellier, where I saw the beach and my friend Chloe and another girl from my school, Jen who is a comparative litterature major also. We drank wine by a fountain and went to an Australian club to pee. Just as we were about to leave, “Smells like teen spirit” came on and we decided we had to stay at least for that. We saw a few guys doing air guitar, which somehow inspired us to do air violin, flute, clarinet, trombone and piano and because we were drunk, we almost died laughing at our own (very apparent) hilarity, though I’m not sure if the french boys were as amused.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Last weekend, everything seemed to be going wrong and I just started crying as I was walking down the street. And then I thought I was going to be spending the night alone, but I ended up with eight people in my apartment. Eight hungry people who I was trying to feed with the resources in my little kitchenette. We called it a “depression era theme dinner.” I am about the clumsiest host on the planet and of course, actually dropping mousse and splattering it all over my legs at one point. But then we watched a film,a comedy of errors about a French exchange student called “l’auberge espagnol” and it was just what I and everyone else needed.

So that’s that. As a parting note, I would like to take this opportunity to inform the world that I have met a cute French boy. His name is Henri and we communicate very well. Why? Because he’s three years old! This babysitting job is like no other and I am delighted to say that I have now heard, for real, the phrase je fait du mal uttered from the lips of a child. I’m supposed to teach him English, but it’s hard not to get carried away speaking French to him, since it’s such good practice for me, too. Honestly, I have as much fun playing with this kid as I do on any date- making madelaines, flying toy aeroplanes- sometimes it’s nice to just get away from all the hassles of life and be a kid again.

But now, alas, it’s back to the daily grind.

So many events, so little internet

2007-10-01T05:49:00.000-07:00

I am so content, it's not even funny. I have found the cafe of my dreams, a place called Raconte moi la terre. It's a fair trade cafe on top of a travel bookstore. Not only does it have free, and more importantly, functioning WIFI, it has peanut butter! I am not too pleased that I just payed 2euros for an ounce of coffee (what is UP with that? i'm all for moderation but really) but nonetheless, this means that I will soon be able to sit down and write a real entry before I forget all these crazy things that have been happening to me. For now, I will just offer this little rant I wrote the other day, about McDonald's.

Something very bad has happened- my internet has ceased to work. Entirely. I can now only get access in McDonalds. I go there every day now, sometimes twice a day. You may think that’s because I’m an internet addict. That’s partly true, but it’s mostly because I also have yet to get my French SIM card working, thus the internet is my primary mode of communication.

I just realized that that first paragraph was written rather tersely, reflecting all too well my sense of withdrawal.

As much as the French like to make fun of McDonalds as the emblem of shitty American cuisine, they sure don’t seem to mind it! At lunch time the place is packed and it’s definitely not just foreigners. If my ears are working correctly (and here, I can never be certain they are) I do believe that the voices humming around me as I crouch over my laptop are those of native speakers. But while the country has more or less succumed to the golden arches, it still won’t let its language anywhere near atrocities such as chicken nuggets. And there is no way in hell it is calling those yellow plastic squares we put on our hamburgers “fromage.” I can’t say I blame them, myself feeling that McDonald’s is terrible on many levels. I can understand this sort of reticence in a country where good food isn’t just valued, but practically held sacred. The French won’t go so far as to reject McDonald’s entirely, so long as one remembers that the food is absolutely not French.

All the same, it makes ordering quite awkward for an American gal such as myself. Do I really need to pronounce Chicken McNuggets in a French accent? I tried this the other day and ended up sounding like a drunk Scottish person. Another challenge was keeping a straight face while asking for a Croque McDo. All the while, I’m feeling as though the people there must think I’m some nostalgic American, ungrateful and ignorant about France’s great cuisine. I want to say je suis ici uniquement pour le WIFI but that will probably just pique, rather than placate, their suspicions. Moreover, I’d be insulting them. You can’t win! Really though, I have to say that McDonald’s is about the one place I can count on for friendly service. And even if it makes me a terrible person, I do kinda like those fries…

What People Do For Fun In France

2007-09-24T02:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T13:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-09-11T07:55:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-05T07:11:00.000-07:00

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!

Personne n'a pas un clue

2007-08-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

Bienvenue à l'Université Jean Moulin 3! Let us take your money, and proceed to not be of one iota of help to you. It's quite simple- you give up $500 and we do what you could have just as easily done by yourself- reserve a room in a student residence hall. By no means do we give you any information, advice or help. If you ask us for help, we will either a) ignore you or b) giggle at your bad French. We are in our offices a good number of hours during the week, but that doesn't mean we have time to send you the slightest bit of the most basic information. You'll just have to go figure that out for yourself, I'm afraid! On our extremely confusing and poorly designed website, you idiot. So orientation is a week away and we haven't told you where the location is? Suck it up! This is a test of your fortuity, see? The FIRST of many tests. And if you fail, well, you're just not equipped for our wonderful ecole.

Aren't blogs supposed to start on a positive note?

Ah well, the time-tested truth prevails: there really and truly is no such thing as free lunch. You can go and have the awesome experience of studying in a foreign country rich in culture, history, replete with natural and architectural beauty...yes yes yes. This is what you think when you decide to study abroad-- oh, how wonderful! Who WOULDN'T study abroad?? But what you don't think about are the less glamorous aspects- the infinite list of tedious procedures you must go through before you can even board the plane, not to mention that infinite list of tedious procedures that ensue. You don't think about the bureaucracy, the long-distance phone calls to be made in the middle of the night, the hidden expenses, the nauseating nervousness, the endless worry that if you do one thing wrong, you might end up homeless, in jail, dead on the street (okay, only neurotics such as myself contemplate these possibilities, and yes, I have contemplated them...reading my insurance policy was no comfort "if client should die, we will pay for her body to be shipped back the U.S.)

Fortunately, I've had some previous experience with ex-patriation. I lived in Australia from age 8-13. Yes, they speak English there, and yes, I was under the care of my family. But it's something. I know what it's like to be homesick beyond all belief. I know what it's like to make an ass of yourself because you don't understand a culture. I know what it's like to be stigmatized because you're American. And I'd like that the whole thing ultimately left me with thicker skin. That's right, bitches, I don't take no crap from nobody! *tries, awkwardly, to do finger-snapping thing* But seriously, I've pretty much accepted that people are going to laugh at me and maybe even be cold to me because my sentences are usually along the lines of "I needing help to search for the street at the city." Such is life.

At the risk of sounding a bit...Pollyanna (and that's another thing to remember in France, not to carry around a big, dumb American smile) I really do believe a sense of humor can get you through, if not everything, a whole lot. And that's kind of what this blog is for. To take all the inevitable awkward, embarrassing experiences and transform them into something that holds entertainment value. Who knows, maybe one day I'll write a book about all this and make enough money to...return to France?

Now, it might be exciting for you to see just what this place I'm visiting looks like. I have found a couple of AWESOME photoblogs. Maybe they're just capturing the nice parts of the city, but regardless, I like what I see. From what I can tell Lyon is a beautiful place- a bit industrial- but historical, quaint in several areas annnnd just a little bit quirky, methinks.

http://cmonoeil.canalblog.com/

Some of the pictures are a bit random (I have no idea what "goodbye" is about) but the person is religious about posting every day, even if it means just a picture of his/her cats)

http://www.lyondailyphotoblog.com

Also, if you have Google Earth, you can look at that. There are lots of photos of the city on there, too. And of course, I'll be posting some of my own soon.

Well folks, I've got packing to do. Stay tuned for my adventures in most-probably-sketchy auberge de jeunesses (youth hostel). Yeahhh!