5h15 France time
I’ve been bad about blogging. I’ll try to be better, as I am now on my first French break. Ah, the French and their vacations. This vacation is, for my primary school and primary schools across France, that of “Toussaint,” or All Saints’ Day. (These are public schools, mind you. France remains très catholique.) It lasts all the way until the 5th of November! My other working friends are jealous.
Last Friday, a week and a couple of days ago, I was taking the bus home from school when a French guy informed me that I needed to get off of the bus two stops early because of some “protests.” I understood exactly what he said, but I didn’t see how protests were related to me getting off the bus, especially when there were people getting onto it. So this guy turned to the bus driver and said, “She didn’t understand.” “She didn’t understand?” “No.” Then a whole slew of people began to say, “Il faut descendre! You have to get off!” So I left, still totally confused. Now I think that those people who were entering the bus were going the other direction. Anyway, I began the trek home and noticed there were no buses on the street like usual, so I stopped to talk to a policeman. I asked him what was going on, and he said that farmers from the region were holding an enormous protest over the exploitation (I think) of their products, like milk. They didn’t appreciate that sellers of their products were making such a profit. So I continued to my apartment and had the wonderful luck of walking right through the strike! I was ecstatic and I stuck out like a sore thumb as I grinned at all of the confused French farmers. They all wore shirts that paraded their cause and carried signs that said, “Sarkozy! Does agriculture have to pay the price?” (I have not met a single French person who likes Sarko, by the way.) They were just standing about peaceably, talking to one another, though apparently (if I understood correctly) they later built a barricade in front of the prefecture. I missed the action! (Strikes and protests are a big part of the French way of life, and barricading things and setting them on fire is also quite popular here.)
Then on that Friday I went to a festival in Limoges called “Les petits ventres” – the little stomachs, literally. Two of my friends and I wandered around these streets sampling spice cakes (pretty good), boudin (blood sausage; I wasn’t too fond), chocolate moelleux (amaaazzing), quiche with veal (gross), and apple cider. This last thing was all right, but I have to say, I think that the French screw it up a little bit. “Cidre” is always alcoholic and is not as apple-y as cider in the U.S., so I don’t prefer it. But there you have it: a French food festival. My friend Mei tried to ask for what she thought were mushrooms, but when she found out they were six euros, she left. I asked the man standing next to me what they were, and he revealed that Mei had tried to buy some sheep testicles. Yum. There were musicians at the festival, a sort of guitarist and a saxophonist, which was an entertaining combination. They were wonderful, I thought, and I was dancing in the street a bit. They really seemed to enjoy that; everyone else just walked by. The French don’t… they don’t really look. They don’t make eye contact. At least, not that I’ve seen. And I realize I stick out because I can’t help but smile and look at all kinds of things.
After the festival, I attended my first (and only, so far) rehearsal with the anarchist/revolutionary choir whose members I had met the weekend before. We met up in this big building, a warehouse of sorts, that did have a heater but didn’t feel heated. Then, when most of the people had gathered, one of the men got us started on warming up exercises. We warmed up forever, and then we finally we moved on to the music. The music, it turns out, was not notated; we only had the text written down, and veteran members of the choir sang the tunes at us newcomers until we figured it out. It was not like any choir I’ve been in before, but it was really enjoyable. Then after the rehearsal, all of the choir members sat down for dinner. Everyone had brought something for a sort of potluck (I had brought some cider from the festival) and we all served each other and talked politics and exchanged names. One of the women there was teaching another girl to play accordion, so the two of them played away at their respective accordions until the experienced player broke out the drinking songs. That was pretty fantastic; all of the French people knew these hilarious, bouncy little songs and they just sang away. Then my girlfriends and I helped with clean-up and we went home.
On Saturday, I made my trip to Bordeaux with my Romanian friends, Alexandru and Andreea. It was actually a terrible decision on my part, because I was still (still!) sick. I felt fatigued and headache-y and was leaking snot like a faucet, but I decided to go anyway. I’m glad I did, because Bordeaux was just beautiful! It’s much bigger than Limoges and it’s full of life and gorgeous sites. When we arrived, Alexandru pressed for us to go to a sort of carnival that was happening in the city center. I wasn’t interested at first because I figured we could see a carnival anywhere, but when we entered the site I was dazzled. There were rides going on right next to nineteenth century sculptures (a hilarious juxtaposition), and the food booths all sold crèpes and “barbe à papa” (Papa’s beard, or cotton candy). I helped myself to an enormous thing of cotton candy, twice the size of my head, while Alexandru went for a crazy ride that would surely have made Andreea and me incredibly nauseous.
After we left the carnival, the three of us went to see the river, some fountains (one was dyed pink and had pink sashes around the naked female statues that adorned it for Breast Cancer Awareness month), too many shoe stores, and a number of enormous monuments. Andreea pushed for us to attend a service at the Cathedral of Saint-André, a massive church in the city center, without realizing what a Mass is like (or how long it is). It was pretty entertaining for me to make the comparison between church at home and in France, and I got to see how French cantors operate. After we left the church, we went to a bar and drank coffee and hot chocolate. I think by this point I had a fever (oops), but we kept on anyway and went to sit at the river’s edge while night set in. It was such a fantastic view, what with all the lights and bridges and buildings, and the city was still so alive even as it got to be ten or eleven at night. (Limoges pretty much falls asleep by nine o’clock.) We took pictures around town, stopped into a wine shop to see the exorbitant prices for wine and run away (Bordeaux is most known for its wine), and saw sushi menus outside of restaurants advertising “foie gras sushi.” Disgusting. I laughed so hard. At about 11:30 or so we went on home, and I passed the heck out for the entire three and a half hour trip.
Last Friday, a week and a couple of days ago, I was taking the bus home from school when a French guy informed me that I needed to get off of the bus two stops early because of some “protests.” I understood exactly what he said, but I didn’t see how protests were related to me getting off the bus, especially when there were people getting onto it. So this guy turned to the bus driver and said, “She didn’t understand.” “She didn’t understand?” “No.” Then a whole slew of people began to say, “Il faut descendre! You have to get off!” So I left, still totally confused. Now I think that those people who were entering the bus were going the other direction. Anyway, I began the trek home and noticed there were no buses on the street like usual, so I stopped to talk to a policeman. I asked him what was going on, and he said that farmers from the region were holding an enormous protest over the exploitation (I think) of their products, like milk. They didn’t appreciate that sellers of their products were making such a profit. So I continued to my apartment and had the wonderful luck of walking right through the strike! I was ecstatic and I stuck out like a sore thumb as I grinned at all of the confused French farmers. They all wore shirts that paraded their cause and carried signs that said, “Sarkozy! Does agriculture have to pay the price?” (I have not met a single French person who likes Sarko, by the way.) They were just standing about peaceably, talking to one another, though apparently (if I understood correctly) they later built a barricade in front of the prefecture. I missed the action! (Strikes and protests are a big part of the French way of life, and barricading things and setting them on fire is also quite popular here.)
Then on that Friday I went to a festival in Limoges called “Les petits ventres” – the little stomachs, literally. Two of my friends and I wandered around these streets sampling spice cakes (pretty good), boudin (blood sausage; I wasn’t too fond), chocolate moelleux (amaaazzing), quiche with veal (gross), and apple cider. This last thing was all right, but I have to say, I think that the French screw it up a little bit. “Cidre” is always alcoholic and is not as apple-y as cider in the U.S., so I don’t prefer it. But there you have it: a French food festival. My friend Mei tried to ask for what she thought were mushrooms, but when she found out they were six euros, she left. I asked the man standing next to me what they were, and he revealed that Mei had tried to buy some sheep testicles. Yum. There were musicians at the festival, a sort of guitarist and a saxophonist, which was an entertaining combination. They were wonderful, I thought, and I was dancing in the street a bit. They really seemed to enjoy that; everyone else just walked by. The French don’t… they don’t really look. They don’t make eye contact. At least, not that I’ve seen. And I realize I stick out because I can’t help but smile and look at all kinds of things.
After the festival, I attended my first (and only, so far) rehearsal with the anarchist/revolutionary choir whose members I had met the weekend before. We met up in this big building, a warehouse of sorts, that did have a heater but didn’t feel heated. Then, when most of the people had gathered, one of the men got us started on warming up exercises. We warmed up forever, and then we finally we moved on to the music. The music, it turns out, was not notated; we only had the text written down, and veteran members of the choir sang the tunes at us newcomers until we figured it out. It was not like any choir I’ve been in before, but it was really enjoyable. Then after the rehearsal, all of the choir members sat down for dinner. Everyone had brought something for a sort of potluck (I had brought some cider from the festival) and we all served each other and talked politics and exchanged names. One of the women there was teaching another girl to play accordion, so the two of them played away at their respective accordions until the experienced player broke out the drinking songs. That was pretty fantastic; all of the French people knew these hilarious, bouncy little songs and they just sang away. Then my girlfriends and I helped with clean-up and we went home.
On Saturday, I made my trip to Bordeaux with my Romanian friends, Alexandru and Andreea. It was actually a terrible decision on my part, because I was still (still!) sick. I felt fatigued and headache-y and was leaking snot like a faucet, but I decided to go anyway. I’m glad I did, because Bordeaux was just beautiful! It’s much bigger than Limoges and it’s full of life and gorgeous sites. When we arrived, Alexandru pressed for us to go to a sort of carnival that was happening in the city center. I wasn’t interested at first because I figured we could see a carnival anywhere, but when we entered the site I was dazzled. There were rides going on right next to nineteenth century sculptures (a hilarious juxtaposition), and the food booths all sold crèpes and “barbe à papa” (Papa’s beard, or cotton candy). I helped myself to an enormous thing of cotton candy, twice the size of my head, while Alexandru went for a crazy ride that would surely have made Andreea and me incredibly nauseous.
After we left the carnival, the three of us went to see the river, some fountains (one was dyed pink and had pink sashes around the naked female statues that adorned it for Breast Cancer Awareness month), too many shoe stores, and a number of enormous monuments. Andreea pushed for us to attend a service at the Cathedral of Saint-André, a massive church in the city center, without realizing what a Mass is like (or how long it is). It was pretty entertaining for me to make the comparison between church at home and in France, and I got to see how French cantors operate. After we left the church, we went to a bar and drank coffee and hot chocolate. I think by this point I had a fever (oops), but we kept on anyway and went to sit at the river’s edge while night set in. It was such a fantastic view, what with all the lights and bridges and buildings, and the city was still so alive even as it got to be ten or eleven at night. (Limoges pretty much falls asleep by nine o’clock.) We took pictures around town, stopped into a wine shop to see the exorbitant prices for wine and run away (Bordeaux is most known for its wine), and saw sushi menus outside of restaurants advertising “foie gras sushi.” Disgusting. I laughed so hard. At about 11:30 or so we went on home, and I passed the heck out for the entire three and a half hour trip.
Andreea, Alexandru, and me in front of La Cathédrale Saint-André
Me playing around in the "Miroir d'eau," a reflective fountain-type-thing in the city center
Barbe à Papa
The carnival at BordeauxThis past week I got to experience a number of things, notably a visit to the Limoges porcelain museum and a European dinner party with Paula, Andreea, and Alexandru last night. After our visit to the museum (which was full of exquisite things and free to enter), Paula and I provided the food for the big dinner; we ate gnocchi, pizza, salad, grapes, baguette, cheese… it was delicious, and we all got to sit and talk and be friendly. It seems that meals often last an eternity in Europe. After we had finished, some friends of Andreea’s from Lebanon showed up and talked with us in French. (Someone tell Lisa!) They were fun and chatty, and they were really complimentary of my French and of Paula’s accent when she spoke English. We discussed, of course, cultural differences, and I realized that foreigners in France become awfully nationalistic and defensive of their own countries. These two guys talked forever about how Beirut was better than Paris and about how Lebanese women are the most beautiful women in the world. Alexandru and Andreea are always talking about how beautiful Romania is and defending it from stereotypes, and Paula does the same for Scotland. I have to admit that I’m not terribly defensive of the U.S., but at the same time I appreciate what’s good about it and realize that for me, a U.S. citizen, life is quite a bit easier back at home. (Not that I don’t like the challenges I come across here.) Paula says that being abroad just makes you aware of what you like and don’t like about your home country, as it makes you understand better what you do and don’t like about the country in which you’re staying.
This morning, Paula, Alexandru, and I headed to a public pool in the older part of the city for a swim. When we tried to enter the pool room, Alexandru was stopped by a lifeguard and asked to change out of his Bermuda shorts into a “slip de bain.” At the public pool here in Limoges, men are required to wear speedos! Paula and I had a field day, and poor Alexandru had to buy a new swimsuit. After we went to the pool, the three of us went around the enormous Cathedral of Saint-Etienne and checked out the Botanical Gardens. They’re not very garden-y at this time of year, but they’re still beautiful, complete with stone walls and architecture that’s hundreds of years old. This part always astounds me- the medieval architecture that one sees everywhere in France. Cobblestone streets and buildings that date back more than 200 years always remind me of how weird it is that I’m here. I love it. And you know, this is commonplace for so many of the people I’ve met here! Europeans all have castles in their backyards. It’s not fair.
Things have been going pretty well at the schools where I’m teaching, and I’m still trying to figure out how to get my kids to behave so that their teachers will be happy. The other day, I confiscated my first item! The ten and eleven-year-olds can be a bit of a handful. My class of six-year-olds is absolutely adorable, though; the kids are excitable, but they love that I can name them all, and the other day three of them came up to me to give me a kiss. Another one asked if he could braid my hair instead of telling me his favorite color. They’re so, so sweet.
A requirement to wear speedos would not fly here in America. Keep telling your stories! I really enjoy hearing about the people you meet and their cultures. I think I have a very comfortable life in the United States, but I guess I never had very explicit American pride because we consider ourselves the center of the universe already. I don't know.
ReplyDeleteWell, I didn't hear about that protest coming up on NPR. The way Vienna shut down for Corpus Christi I can believe your mini-break from school. It's definately not unbelieveable if you think about how many administrative days teachers have off a month here.
ReplyDeleteKeep writing & stay healthy!
what did you have to confiscate??
ReplyDelete