French Bliss?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Random Thought

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

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

...I'm full of crap.

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

À la radio

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

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
















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

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

"I Got My Mind Set On You"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next time I might whip out one of these:

Trou du Cul- Asshole

Va te faire enculer- bugger off

Va te faire enculer, trou de cul!

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

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

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

What did he think I was? A prostitute?

Jesus.

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


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

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




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

Only time will tell.

Vous Comprenez Le Système?

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

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

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

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

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

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



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









The Sâone.













A fountain in Place de Terraux .

Puppet theater is apparently quite popular in Lyon.













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

The banks of the Sâone.





























The Rhône.