Toute Seule

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

Things I Still Need

- blanket
- pillow

- lamp

- dish towels

- cushions

- THE ABILITY TO SPEAK FRENCH

This, here, is a picture of my map:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God bless them.

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

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

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

Detours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Personne n'a pas un clue

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!