I've said it before, and I'm saying it again, France is not an organized country. There are seven different offices, all located at different corners of any given city who are managed by thirteen and a half civil servants who may or may not have shared information and their sole purpose is hand out a pamphlet that is not at any of the offices.
This is what the French bureaucracy is like.
I spent forty minutes standing in line to get into the information office so that I could learn that the schedule for Les Arts Plastiques was posted in the next building, not on the board in hall with the rest of the department information.
Ce comme ca, ma vie francais.
Mais c'est pas mal.
C'est l'inverse, c'est incroyable!
While in Caen, I made my peace with the french way, I decided it was afair trade: organization for relaxation, automatic smiles for genuine politeness. I like it here, despite the differences.
What to tell?
Since the last post, so many things have happened.
Last weekend, I went to Le Mont St. Michel, which was incredible. It is this old monastery on an almost-island about an hour north of Rennes. When the tide is in, the entire thing is surrounded by water, with a sort of dike buit up to alow car access, but when I was there, it was surrounded by what looked like a quarter mile of sand. The "mountain"(it is quite small for a mountain) rises up out of miles of flat farmland, circled from top to bottom with a labrynth of old buildings and cottages and shops, and on the top, rests the abbey. It's enourmous! And it loks just like a castle should, with a golden sculpture of The Archangel Micheal looking down from the point of an emerald spier. The abbey itself is quite wonderful and also very labrynth-like. The original building was built during the roman empire, small in comparison and rectangular and "roman." In the centuries that followed, the monastery continued to expand and the building was added on to, creating a sort of outward spiral of architectural history. The outermost walls are kind of "typical castle" (if there really is such a thing as a typical castle) but as one continues in, there is a shift, to the same sort of clean-lined architecture that I saw at the abbies in Caen, further on there is a shift towards the gothic stye, all grandure and gargoyles, which is amazing. And at the very center (I think, i started getting turned around) there is a gieant room with something like eight or ten roman collumns supporting the ceiling, I also feel like this might have led to some sort of crypt, but I don't know.
The town around the abbey was also quite lovely, though definitely a tourist trap. I would love to return in the off-season to be able to do a bit more exploring.
Since then, classes have started, and since I am an exchange student, I don't really register for anything for the first couple of weeks, which is a good idea, in theory, because it means that I'd have the opportunity to see if a class would or wouldn't work for me. The downside is that if I took two weeks to choose a course, I'd have missed the first two classes and started out behind. It's also a bit rough, because nobody seems to have told the professors that this is how the exchange students do things, because we are constantly being told that classes are full or that we need to be registered in the department. As it were, I'm a stress monkey, and pretty much built a set schedule a week ago. It's kind of frustrating, but I made it through.
I think that a couple of my classes will be truly enjoyable, and two are going to be incredibly difficult, simply because the professor (the same for both classes) speaks very quickly and doesn't write anything on the board. My notes are abismal. Lots of question marks lots of half-sentances. Countless errors in spelling and grammer.
Ah well, none of that matters really, becasue I think I've made friends!
Friends who aren't american!
A german girl and a spanish girl, both doing the same sort of mixing of Les Arts Plastiques and Les Arts de Spectacles that I am, both very nice, very creative, and very fun to talk to, despite the fact that none of our french is great (I feel at times, like mine is the least great, but I blame geographic distance. They each share a border, it's like cheating.)
Tonight we went to a free concert of a groupe Bretagne, which was quite wonderful. It was an accordion player, a bass guitar, the contra-bass and a drummer playing swing music and jazz. Amazing.
Music always makes me feel better about things anyway, but the fact that it was music, combined with friends made it even better.
Keep your fingers crossed, for me. Good friends are hard to come by.
Really, it was just so good to be speaking french without the option of english. At one point I accidentally spoke english and got laughed at when I'm sure my jaw dropped, and I started apologizing, but I am so happy to finally feel like I am using the language, albeit badly.
Woo, and Hurrah.
C'est tout. Je suis fatigue.
Au revoir, mes cheres.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
My New Place
I've been bad, and busy and haven't been keeping up with this.
I suck at communication.
Get used to it.
But seriously, I'm in Rennes now and have been since last friday. This go around, the transit was much less scary, mush less time-consuming and, sorry to say, there are no pigeon analyses. I took the tram from the University of Caen to the train station, bought a sandwich (a vegetarian sandwich!) and felt actually full and happy with what I was full on for the first time in two weeks. It was glorious. Then I took the train to Le Mans, which, just for the record, is just as far away from Caen as Rennes is, only it's to the south, not the west. There I had to get off of my train and hop onto a TGV (the super-highspeed train) to Rennes. I was kinda upset that I would have to take a three hour train ride to get to a city that was only an hour and half away, but what can you do? Such is the curse of public transport.
The TGV was much more comfortable than than the normal train and it was a great way to get a look at the countryside....
Actually, it was a terrible way.
Everything was going by so fast that my head hurt trying to process it, which is, I suppose, the reason that people on trains are always reading or napping or doing something that doesn't involve looking out the window. But I've never been willing to miss anything, so I suffered the headache and watched the fields and trees and villages fly by.
Just as a heads up, I may have to live in France,
like forever.
It's beautiful, and there's something so wonderfully different about it's agricultural areas. The cows are huge, and fat and the color of cream and the fields are always surrounded by trees, and nothing looks over grazed or scruffy or commercial. I want an old stone farmhouse near an old village with cobblestone streets. I will have a small garden, a well, and an ivy growing up the walls.
That is my heaven.
Well, my heaven would involve the town also having an artistic community, a bookstore, living statues and a circus that would never leave town, but that is besides the point.
Ok, back on track:
When I got to the train station in Rennes, I was met by Marie, a student who studied last year in the US. She got me onto campus and helped me check into the room, made sure that all of the paperwork was done (which means she had to get after some people in french, because the administration in this country is less than organized nor is it motivated) and made sure I didn't have any questions. It was so great. So much different from Caen, where they gave me directions on how to take the tram from the station to the university and then looked at me like I was stupid when I came to check in.
I think that were I not with ISEP, Rennes would be much the same, but because my program is under different organization, I am being very well taken care of. My coordinator is a really sweet, really concerned man named François, who it seems, will bend over backwards to make sure that we are comfortable, informed and cared for.
It's very nice.
I got moved in, settled and met some of the other exchange students. There are four other girls here with ISEP from the US and we all live in the same building, so I've got a bit of a safety network. I've also met just about every italian on the campus, since one of the girls, Laura, grew up in Italy and speaks italian fluently. They are quite a fun bunch, even though I don't understand most of what they are saying. It's strange, I'm sure, to see us all together is bizarre, since there are three greek girls who are in the same group as well. At any given moment, italian, greek, english and french are being spoken, all at the same time, switching back and forth and translating for one another.
On saturday, we al took the train to St. Malo, a corsair town, north of Rennes and on the beach. A corsair, I guess, was a licensed pirate, and the centre ville is surrounded by a high stone wall with a path traversing the top, so we walked around the city along this wall and then followed a steep flight of stone stairs down to the beach.
The beaches in Britanny are so much more impressive than those of Normandy, with their rock cliffs and rugged islands. A number of the islands spotting the bay had old fortresses built on them and every viable surface was covered with tall grass and flowers.
Truly incredible.
As for Rennes:
I Love It!
In the study abroad guides, they warn about the honeymoon effect, in which one is completey floored and excited and in love with their surroundings for the first couple of days/weeks/months, a feeling which then gives way to irritation at all of the differences. I think I did it backwards. I was very nonplussed for the most part while in Paris and Caen, pretty cranky and very irritated, but boy oh boy, I am Honeymooning now.
Sometimes Rennes reminds me of Seattle, but I think that's the university, which is full of many artsy-fartsy, punk-ish, scene kids among the other students. Mostly, it is just incredible.
It is a "cultural center" which means that there are so many different kinds of people and activities, and art at every turn. There are about four Indian restaurants in one district, kebab shops all over, a huge mahgreban population and so much art. Seriosly, ART
I was wandering about yesterday, near the parliment and in this amazing square, in front of this beautifully, enormous, ornate building, called Palce de la Marie, there is a showing of 40 of Steve McCurry's photographs blown up to about 4x5 feet and standing in a circle. (Steve McCurry is the photograher who took the picture of the green-eyed afghan girl for National Geographic) They were incredeble and perfect and heartbreaking, the square was as silent as a graveyard and into the square echoed the voice of a performer down the street who was singing operatic melodies while playing along on his classical guitar. There, in the middle of this amazing city, I cried for the people in the photographs and for the music and for the sheer force of all of this beauty, all in one moment.
I eventually pulled myself away, gave the singer a few coins and continued with my day.
But wow
Now I'm on my way to a party that's being held for the foreign students.
Ciao all, Much Love.
www.magnumphotos.com/stevemccurry
I suck at communication.
Get used to it.
But seriously, I'm in Rennes now and have been since last friday. This go around, the transit was much less scary, mush less time-consuming and, sorry to say, there are no pigeon analyses. I took the tram from the University of Caen to the train station, bought a sandwich (a vegetarian sandwich!) and felt actually full and happy with what I was full on for the first time in two weeks. It was glorious. Then I took the train to Le Mans, which, just for the record, is just as far away from Caen as Rennes is, only it's to the south, not the west. There I had to get off of my train and hop onto a TGV (the super-highspeed train) to Rennes. I was kinda upset that I would have to take a three hour train ride to get to a city that was only an hour and half away, but what can you do? Such is the curse of public transport.
The TGV was much more comfortable than than the normal train and it was a great way to get a look at the countryside....
Actually, it was a terrible way.
Everything was going by so fast that my head hurt trying to process it, which is, I suppose, the reason that people on trains are always reading or napping or doing something that doesn't involve looking out the window. But I've never been willing to miss anything, so I suffered the headache and watched the fields and trees and villages fly by.
Just as a heads up, I may have to live in France,
like forever.
It's beautiful, and there's something so wonderfully different about it's agricultural areas. The cows are huge, and fat and the color of cream and the fields are always surrounded by trees, and nothing looks over grazed or scruffy or commercial. I want an old stone farmhouse near an old village with cobblestone streets. I will have a small garden, a well, and an ivy growing up the walls.
That is my heaven.
Well, my heaven would involve the town also having an artistic community, a bookstore, living statues and a circus that would never leave town, but that is besides the point.
Ok, back on track:
When I got to the train station in Rennes, I was met by Marie, a student who studied last year in the US. She got me onto campus and helped me check into the room, made sure that all of the paperwork was done (which means she had to get after some people in french, because the administration in this country is less than organized nor is it motivated) and made sure I didn't have any questions. It was so great. So much different from Caen, where they gave me directions on how to take the tram from the station to the university and then looked at me like I was stupid when I came to check in.
I think that were I not with ISEP, Rennes would be much the same, but because my program is under different organization, I am being very well taken care of. My coordinator is a really sweet, really concerned man named François, who it seems, will bend over backwards to make sure that we are comfortable, informed and cared for.
It's very nice.
I got moved in, settled and met some of the other exchange students. There are four other girls here with ISEP from the US and we all live in the same building, so I've got a bit of a safety network. I've also met just about every italian on the campus, since one of the girls, Laura, grew up in Italy and speaks italian fluently. They are quite a fun bunch, even though I don't understand most of what they are saying. It's strange, I'm sure, to see us all together is bizarre, since there are three greek girls who are in the same group as well. At any given moment, italian, greek, english and french are being spoken, all at the same time, switching back and forth and translating for one another.
On saturday, we al took the train to St. Malo, a corsair town, north of Rennes and on the beach. A corsair, I guess, was a licensed pirate, and the centre ville is surrounded by a high stone wall with a path traversing the top, so we walked around the city along this wall and then followed a steep flight of stone stairs down to the beach.
The beaches in Britanny are so much more impressive than those of Normandy, with their rock cliffs and rugged islands. A number of the islands spotting the bay had old fortresses built on them and every viable surface was covered with tall grass and flowers.
Truly incredible.
As for Rennes:
I Love It!
In the study abroad guides, they warn about the honeymoon effect, in which one is completey floored and excited and in love with their surroundings for the first couple of days/weeks/months, a feeling which then gives way to irritation at all of the differences. I think I did it backwards. I was very nonplussed for the most part while in Paris and Caen, pretty cranky and very irritated, but boy oh boy, I am Honeymooning now.
Sometimes Rennes reminds me of Seattle, but I think that's the university, which is full of many artsy-fartsy, punk-ish, scene kids among the other students. Mostly, it is just incredible.
It is a "cultural center" which means that there are so many different kinds of people and activities, and art at every turn. There are about four Indian restaurants in one district, kebab shops all over, a huge mahgreban population and so much art. Seriosly, ART
I was wandering about yesterday, near the parliment and in this amazing square, in front of this beautifully, enormous, ornate building, called Palce de la Marie, there is a showing of 40 of Steve McCurry's photographs blown up to about 4x5 feet and standing in a circle. (Steve McCurry is the photograher who took the picture of the green-eyed afghan girl for National Geographic) They were incredeble and perfect and heartbreaking, the square was as silent as a graveyard and into the square echoed the voice of a performer down the street who was singing operatic melodies while playing along on his classical guitar. There, in the middle of this amazing city, I cried for the people in the photographs and for the music and for the sheer force of all of this beauty, all in one moment.
I eventually pulled myself away, gave the singer a few coins and continued with my day.
But wow
Now I'm on my way to a party that's being held for the foreign students.
Ciao all, Much Love.
www.magnumphotos.com/stevemccurry
Monday, September 10, 2007
A Lesson in History
9/7
Went to two Abbies today. L'Abbaye aux Dames, built by Mathilde, the wife of William the Conquerer, and L'Abbaye aux Hommes, built by the man himself. They are both incredibly beautiful, though William's is much larger and more elaborate. There will be picture's. I promise. Really pretty pictures.
A bit of history, before I get busy and forget it all.
As I was wondering through L'Abbaye aux Hommes, the curator, I guess you could call him, asked me if I'd like to know some of the history, he told me in french, so I missed some of the details, but here goes:
The abbies were built because William and Mathilde wanted to get married, but as they were first cousins, the pope refused to approve the marraige. By building the abbies for the church, I suppose the couple had payed their dues, and the marriage was recognized.
Mathilde's abbey was finished first (in the 9th century) and William's had been started, but construction was interrupted as he launched the crusades against England.
Here's where I got a bit lost, because the man started talking about relics and throwing around names, but I think that King Harold(?) was ruling in England and wasn't a Saxon, but was perhaps in some way related to William? He may have had a relic that William wanted, which was the reason for the crusade? I'll have to look it up someday. Either which way, William won the war, became King of England, now known as William the Conquerer and the n went back to France with all kinds of new money. I guess he didn't know what to do with all of his money, so he started adding onto the unfinished Abbey. He must have gotten a bit carried away, because it is ENORMOUS and elaborate!
It's also interesting, because a great deal of it was rebuilt in the 17th and 18th century, and the man explained the progress in architecture -the roman arch, versus the "normande arche" (three supports crossing in the center) and then a structuraly superior arch (two supports crossing in the center with one straight support beside it) with which one of the sections was rebuilt, allowing for bigger windows and therefor, more light.
Neat neat.
I couldn't tell you what any of the things are called, because although I was understanding what he was talking about, since he was directing me along with a laser-pointer, I didn't know most of the words he was saying and couldn't repeat them to save my life.
I'm still kind of floating around like a happy little fairy, seeing these buildings that are as good as castles in my mind. It all seems so surreal.
The architecture in Caen is incredible anyway, because quite a few buildings survived the war.
Again. Pictures.
9/8
Black shells of mussels lay strewn across the sand, paving the way
- as the tessera of a mosaic -
Washed to shore like so much shrapnel by the waves, rolling gently inward,
Ever inward.
Erasing footprints and history alike, with a soft, imploring persistence,
Treading softly across the beaches
As the blood-red roses of Normandy look on.
I took the bus to the beach today with my friend Marie, from sweden, which was a good time.
There's a quote that I like, by Isak Dinesen (I don't know who he is)
"The cure for anything is salt water- sweat, tears or the sea."
It is so true. After spending the afternoon picking up seashells, walking across the sand and sitting on a bench, simply watching the other ocean-goers, I don't think I could think any better about France. A ridiculous thing to say, since Marie and I spent a good lot of the time laughing about the goings-on.
First things first, it WAS NOT a nude beach, though that would have been very french. Second things...second? It WAS NOT too cold to swim in. Would I have known this, I would be telling you a story about how I went swimming today as a Ferry came in to dock. It was way warmer than Oregon, and we all know that that cold water and rainy sky has never stopped me.
It was, however, a french beach, which did contain a number of topless women, too many men in speedos, and some very cute, very stylish french children. (They're so adorable, and I think a big part of that is not only because they are better dressed, but that I can't understand the bratty things that they're saying.) It's a sort of small tourist stop and a local lounge-about area, which seems so strange to me, because when I hear, "The beach at Normandy," "grab the towel and sunblock!" is not the first thing that pops into my mind.
On one hand it makes sense to not treat the beach like a cemetery -there are small little memorials and dedications at nearly every entrance to the water, and the more I walk around, the more it becomes clear that France WAS the battleground; I walk past an old bombed-out cathedral to get to the shops in centre ville, but it seems so strange that in a place where hundreds of men died in the span of several hours, families are gathered around to play in the sand and splash around in the water.
Yet more things to adjust to. hmmm...
9/9
Today was Sunday, and you know what that means?
No, of course not.
It means Street Market! It's so huge and crowded and wonderful and I love being able to buy a weeks worth of fruit and vegetables for three euro seventy and come out of the transaction with a bag of garden-grown carrots and apples alongside the grocery-store variety peaches and oranges. I eat A LOT of fresh fruit; I don't know if I'm really doing the "french thing."
I made it out of market without buying any bread, since I ate what I had leftover from yesterday before going. This means that I was not walking through market with a baguette in one hand, pulling off little pieces to nibble with the other as I gazed at all of the merchandise. That is the "french thing." The "french thing" is puzzling to me, because as far as can tell, it means that people eat at least half a baguette every morning, then go and drink an espresso, then have lunch where they will eat more bread with whatever they've ordered and probably quite a lot of cheese, then they drink wine. Every boulangerie sells chocolate bread and apple tarts alongside the baguettes and there are at least four chocolattieres within a seven block radius. The "french thing" would have me ballooning into extreme obesity, no matter how far I walked or how much I smoked, another thing that I just don't get about this country. They aren't even subtle about how bad it is for you. Instead of a surgeon general's warning, every pack say "fumer tue" "smoking kills," and yet every third person, young or old, fashionable or sketchy or beautiful is puffing on a cigarette! Wow. How the whole country isn't fat and dead I will never understand.
Ok. Sorry for the tangent. Back to the market:
Also today, for some reason (I think it's because Marie and I were together and as she said, the two tallest people in france. I, by myself, can feign french-ness if I don't open my mouth, but Marie is very swedish and the two of us as a pair must scream "tourist.") the first three or four vendors addressed us in english after the initial "bonjour" The next vendor spoke english before we'd even said a word! Later, as we were eating lunch at an italian restaurant, the waiter spoke to us in half english, half french, as if we could never follow without words like "order," or "finished?" We greeted the waiter and ordered in french, I asked if there was meat in the tortellini in french, but we conversed in english. That was what got us.
It's frustrating, because even though I might not be able to respond very well, I can, for the most part, understand what people are saying. If I don't understand someone, I've gotten really good at "repetez-vous, s'il vous plait." and in those situations, people have been really kind about slowing down their speech and using, perhaps, simpler words, but it is discouraging to have someone simply look at me or listen to the first thing I say and decide that I am too stupid to possibly comprehend what they have to tell me.
Bah!
Just wait 'til I'm fluent. Then I'll show those linguistic Nazi's!
HAaaaa...?
As a quick side-note, I am actually enjoying this whole washing-my-clothes-in-the-sink business, it's nice to not have to worry about doing huge loads of laundry, or not being able to wear something because it's dirty and I don't have enough money to go to the laundry mat every week. When I get to Rennes, I'm investing in some serious hand lotion, but past that, it is way better than my old system of wearing and re-wearing clothes to avoid the dreaded visit to the laundry mat. And then losing like four hours to waiting for the wash and then waiting for the dryer and then sorting and then folding and then putting away. Also, my dorm, which is otherwise, not super, has a small french balcony and a big window which swings open, so I have two great places to hang things to dry.
Vive la Vie Etudiant!
9/10
I get really scared sometimes that this will just become school for me, life for me. That I'll fall into the same bad habits and boring routines that I always do.
Other times I look out my window and think, holy shit, that's a castle! Outside my window!
I can't believe that I'm here.
It still doesn't feel real. Like a real place. I feel, not so much like a tourist as a mistake, someone who stumbled accidentally into some cheesy movie or modern fairy tale or cliche fashion add.
France IS NOT A REAL PLACE.
Nobody really eats a casual dinner at cute tables on cobblestone streets with lights strung from tree to tree.
Nobody says "I want to buy some chocolate bread at the boulangerie across from the tram, let's cut through the chateau."
A torched car never becomes a conversation piece.
C'est bizzarre, cette monde.
Je ne peus le comprendre.
Went to two Abbies today. L'Abbaye aux Dames, built by Mathilde, the wife of William the Conquerer, and L'Abbaye aux Hommes, built by the man himself. They are both incredibly beautiful, though William's is much larger and more elaborate. There will be picture's. I promise. Really pretty pictures.
A bit of history, before I get busy and forget it all.
As I was wondering through L'Abbaye aux Hommes, the curator, I guess you could call him, asked me if I'd like to know some of the history, he told me in french, so I missed some of the details, but here goes:
The abbies were built because William and Mathilde wanted to get married, but as they were first cousins, the pope refused to approve the marraige. By building the abbies for the church, I suppose the couple had payed their dues, and the marriage was recognized.
Mathilde's abbey was finished first (in the 9th century) and William's had been started, but construction was interrupted as he launched the crusades against England.
Here's where I got a bit lost, because the man started talking about relics and throwing around names, but I think that King Harold(?) was ruling in England and wasn't a Saxon, but was perhaps in some way related to William? He may have had a relic that William wanted, which was the reason for the crusade? I'll have to look it up someday. Either which way, William won the war, became King of England, now known as William the Conquerer and the n went back to France with all kinds of new money. I guess he didn't know what to do with all of his money, so he started adding onto the unfinished Abbey. He must have gotten a bit carried away, because it is ENORMOUS and elaborate!
It's also interesting, because a great deal of it was rebuilt in the 17th and 18th century, and the man explained the progress in architecture -the roman arch, versus the "normande arche" (three supports crossing in the center) and then a structuraly superior arch (two supports crossing in the center with one straight support beside it) with which one of the sections was rebuilt, allowing for bigger windows and therefor, more light.
Neat neat.
I couldn't tell you what any of the things are called, because although I was understanding what he was talking about, since he was directing me along with a laser-pointer, I didn't know most of the words he was saying and couldn't repeat them to save my life.
I'm still kind of floating around like a happy little fairy, seeing these buildings that are as good as castles in my mind. It all seems so surreal.
The architecture in Caen is incredible anyway, because quite a few buildings survived the war.
Again. Pictures.
9/8
Black shells of mussels lay strewn across the sand, paving the way
- as the tessera of a mosaic -
Washed to shore like so much shrapnel by the waves, rolling gently inward,
Ever inward.
Erasing footprints and history alike, with a soft, imploring persistence,
Treading softly across the beaches
As the blood-red roses of Normandy look on.
I took the bus to the beach today with my friend Marie, from sweden, which was a good time.
There's a quote that I like, by Isak Dinesen (I don't know who he is)
"The cure for anything is salt water- sweat, tears or the sea."
It is so true. After spending the afternoon picking up seashells, walking across the sand and sitting on a bench, simply watching the other ocean-goers, I don't think I could think any better about France. A ridiculous thing to say, since Marie and I spent a good lot of the time laughing about the goings-on.
First things first, it WAS NOT a nude beach, though that would have been very french. Second things...second? It WAS NOT too cold to swim in. Would I have known this, I would be telling you a story about how I went swimming today as a Ferry came in to dock. It was way warmer than Oregon, and we all know that that cold water and rainy sky has never stopped me.
It was, however, a french beach, which did contain a number of topless women, too many men in speedos, and some very cute, very stylish french children. (They're so adorable, and I think a big part of that is not only because they are better dressed, but that I can't understand the bratty things that they're saying.) It's a sort of small tourist stop and a local lounge-about area, which seems so strange to me, because when I hear, "The beach at Normandy," "grab the towel and sunblock!" is not the first thing that pops into my mind.
On one hand it makes sense to not treat the beach like a cemetery -there are small little memorials and dedications at nearly every entrance to the water, and the more I walk around, the more it becomes clear that France WAS the battleground; I walk past an old bombed-out cathedral to get to the shops in centre ville, but it seems so strange that in a place where hundreds of men died in the span of several hours, families are gathered around to play in the sand and splash around in the water.
Yet more things to adjust to. hmmm...
9/9
Today was Sunday, and you know what that means?
No, of course not.
It means Street Market! It's so huge and crowded and wonderful and I love being able to buy a weeks worth of fruit and vegetables for three euro seventy and come out of the transaction with a bag of garden-grown carrots and apples alongside the grocery-store variety peaches and oranges. I eat A LOT of fresh fruit; I don't know if I'm really doing the "french thing."
I made it out of market without buying any bread, since I ate what I had leftover from yesterday before going. This means that I was not walking through market with a baguette in one hand, pulling off little pieces to nibble with the other as I gazed at all of the merchandise. That is the "french thing." The "french thing" is puzzling to me, because as far as can tell, it means that people eat at least half a baguette every morning, then go and drink an espresso, then have lunch where they will eat more bread with whatever they've ordered and probably quite a lot of cheese, then they drink wine. Every boulangerie sells chocolate bread and apple tarts alongside the baguettes and there are at least four chocolattieres within a seven block radius. The "french thing" would have me ballooning into extreme obesity, no matter how far I walked or how much I smoked, another thing that I just don't get about this country. They aren't even subtle about how bad it is for you. Instead of a surgeon general's warning, every pack say "fumer tue" "smoking kills," and yet every third person, young or old, fashionable or sketchy or beautiful is puffing on a cigarette! Wow. How the whole country isn't fat and dead I will never understand.
Ok. Sorry for the tangent. Back to the market:
Also today, for some reason (I think it's because Marie and I were together and as she said, the two tallest people in france. I, by myself, can feign french-ness if I don't open my mouth, but Marie is very swedish and the two of us as a pair must scream "tourist.") the first three or four vendors addressed us in english after the initial "bonjour" The next vendor spoke english before we'd even said a word! Later, as we were eating lunch at an italian restaurant, the waiter spoke to us in half english, half french, as if we could never follow without words like "order," or "finished?" We greeted the waiter and ordered in french, I asked if there was meat in the tortellini in french, but we conversed in english. That was what got us.
It's frustrating, because even though I might not be able to respond very well, I can, for the most part, understand what people are saying. If I don't understand someone, I've gotten really good at "repetez-vous, s'il vous plait." and in those situations, people have been really kind about slowing down their speech and using, perhaps, simpler words, but it is discouraging to have someone simply look at me or listen to the first thing I say and decide that I am too stupid to possibly comprehend what they have to tell me.
Bah!
Just wait 'til I'm fluent. Then I'll show those linguistic Nazi's!
HAaaaa...?
As a quick side-note, I am actually enjoying this whole washing-my-clothes-in-the-sink business, it's nice to not have to worry about doing huge loads of laundry, or not being able to wear something because it's dirty and I don't have enough money to go to the laundry mat every week. When I get to Rennes, I'm investing in some serious hand lotion, but past that, it is way better than my old system of wearing and re-wearing clothes to avoid the dreaded visit to the laundry mat. And then losing like four hours to waiting for the wash and then waiting for the dryer and then sorting and then folding and then putting away. Also, my dorm, which is otherwise, not super, has a small french balcony and a big window which swings open, so I have two great places to hang things to dry.
Vive la Vie Etudiant!
9/10
I get really scared sometimes that this will just become school for me, life for me. That I'll fall into the same bad habits and boring routines that I always do.
Other times I look out my window and think, holy shit, that's a castle! Outside my window!
I can't believe that I'm here.
It still doesn't feel real. Like a real place. I feel, not so much like a tourist as a mistake, someone who stumbled accidentally into some cheesy movie or modern fairy tale or cliche fashion add.
France IS NOT A REAL PLACE.
Nobody really eats a casual dinner at cute tables on cobblestone streets with lights strung from tree to tree.
Nobody says "I want to buy some chocolate bread at the boulangerie across from the tram, let's cut through the chateau."
A torched car never becomes a conversation piece.
C'est bizzarre, cette monde.
Je ne peus le comprendre.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
I've Gone So Far East, I'm West
8/30
I am not so convinced after seven hours in the air that the atlantic ocean actually exists...We have been floating for miles and miles above landscapes of white. Cloud mountains, cloud valleys; there has been karst topography, drumlins, rolling hills, sweeping plains and sharp canyons, but I see no blue. If someone were to tell me that our captain had missed a turn somewhere and that we were flying over the north pole, I'd probably Believe them.
Reaching France was like flying over a great patchwork quilt of the strangest sort. Browns, greens and golden yellows meeting at odd angles, coming to sharp points or fat trapezoids, embroidered here and there by the relief of grand farm houses and the trees surrounding chateaus.
I'm sure you'll be happy to know that I arrived in Paris safe and sound and completely exhausted. I was going to try and find the train into town so I could hop on the metro and then walk a coupe of blocks to my hotel, but I was too tired to think and there were no clear directions to an sort of train station other than the TGV, so I payed nearly forty euro to take a taxi to the front door of my hotel. This was almost as much as I paid for two nights at the hotel (which says something about both the taxi and the hotel) but it was worth every penny to not have to drag my suitcases. Also, all the Taxis Parisen are mercedes...! It was super plush! My cab driver was also the nicest old man ever; he spoke to me in french and politely pretended like my answers were grammatically correct and easy to understand, but more than that, while I was in the lobby of the hotel fussing with my bags several minutes after he had dropped me off, he returned and said "did you forget something in your taxi?" and then held up my ipod, which must have fallen out of my bag in the shuffle!
Seriously, nicest man ever!
I've got to start being more careful though, I think that that incident used up any reserved good karma that I may have had stored up.
My hotel is very small and very cheap, but the people here are nice, very understanding when I'm not sure what they're asking me and very good at english when I start to look hopeless. I am on a small street in the 11th district, which as far as I can tell, is not the nicest place in the world for a lost american tourist. While the main street running near the hotel is pretty mixed, it became very clear as I stepped onto a side street that this is a mahgreban neighborhood; most people here are north african and it's not uncommon to hear arabic spoken in the little shops. I was going to go for a walk this evening and decided two things.
1: There is not much to see in this neighborhood and I am too tired to deal with the metro right now and,
2: I should not be wandering around unfamiliar streets at night, by myself, in all of my white glory.
It's kind of discouraging, because if I walk fast and keep to myself, I am french in their eyes, but the second I say more than two words, I become a foreigner and not worth the trouble of talking to. It's a bit lonely and I am a bit cranky about the whole situation, but perhaps some sleep will change that.
Tomorrow I want to go back to this enormous old cemetery near the hotel and take some pictures and then perhaps I will take the metro, or walk into one of the other districts. I need to go to a tourist trap, just so I don't feel like such a linguistic blemish, and also to get an actual map of paris as opposed to this terrible, partial, map quest thing that I had printed out for the hotel.
8/31
Yesterday, everything seemed so unbelievable unwelcoming. Today as I write this from the steps of the Paris Opera, everything just seems unbelievable.
This city is so surreal.
The buildings are so enormous and ornately designed that it's difficult to imagine a time when this was standard architecture. It's hard to find the words and even pictures can do this place no justice.
9/1
Another nice little moment today. I was dragging both m carry-on bag and my gi-nourmous suitcase along, having already managed to make it down the street from my hotel, down the stairs to the metro and all the way to the stop for the train station, I needed only to make it up one last flight of stairs. I started to adjust my luggage in order to get a better grip when this man who, by all appearances, seemed to be a bum took hold of the handle of the big bag and said something incomprehensible in deep, gravely french and started up the stairs as I followed. Perhaps he intended to steal the bag but decide upon actually seeing how heavy it was, that it wasn't worth the trouble, or perhaps he wasn't expecting me to keep pace with him as he headed up the stairs, but I'd like to think that he was just one more parisian going against the stereotype.
also
I have decided something about Paris:
The pigeons here Never Poop.
Impossible, you say, I have spent enough time staring at the floors and walls while waiting for trains to notice a distinct lack of bird splat, especially in face of the alarming number of the winged rodents.
Also, after too much time spent sitting in the train station, I feel that I have become somewhat of an expert on the fauna of the Saint-Lazare.
Read on:
1. The Plain Grey Pigeon (ratbirdicus-typicus) is the garden-variety city bird, with uniform colouring of a light grey, smooth layer of feathers which gives way to a slightly darker underlining. It's behavior is predictable and calculated; with a calm, confident bobbing of the head, it moves constantly toward whichever food source has presently caught its eye.
2. The Flustered Grey Pigeon (confuzicum-dazidicus) while a close relative of the Plain Grey, displays mussed feathers and is of a more mottled colouring, as if the good lord became bored one day and decided to fling monochromatic paint at the poor thing... This variety moves sporadically, head bobbing this way and that while it staggers carelessly across the ground. Due to its distinct lack of direction, the Flustered Grey often gets tangled in pedestrians and thus is often on the receiving end of aimed kicks and small children.
3. The Hurried Black Pigeon (speedium-twitchicus) is covered almost exclusively in feathers of the deep black variety. Constantly hurrying from one spot or the next, its head bobs at thrice the speed of a Plain Grey and it has a propensity for following straight lines, including the path of green tiles which runs along the ticket machines. The same neurosis which causes this driven behavior also causes the bird to breakout in uncontrollable twitches, or miniature seizures, resulting in the leg beating against the side of the head or the beak darting under the wing repeatedly.
4. The White-Footed Pigeon (fluffitimus-footicus) is the only thing in the Saint-Lazare station that appears to have been covered in bird splat. Its irregular smattering of white feathers continues not only across its face and wings, but from the upper thigh down to the toes, giving the bird the appearance of wearing overtly flamboyant bell-bottoms.
Note: These foot-feathers often cause the bird to slide across the floor upon landing -friction is compromised for fashion-
5. The Finch (coppius catticus) is nothing more than a small brown bird which has decided to fend for itself in a pigeon-like fashion. Its intrinsic cuteness makes it an outcast among the other birds and a favourite of the commuters. It's small size and elevated energy level also make it a skilled trash-hunter.
Later, when I'd missed the first train and had to wait for another hour, I started to notice some deformities in the feet of the birds, I named a Two-Toed Jack and a Peg-Legged Pete and a Club-Foot Foster, and then decided that the chronicling of pigeons had gone from amusing pass time to legitimately sad and creepy, so I stopped.
I did finally catch the train, saw my first castle/chateau/big fancy old building on the ride through provence (seriously, small town France has it made; few people, lots of trees, big pretty houses...why would you ever want to live in the city if that option was only thirty minutes away?) and the finally arrived in Caen, where I will be taking language courses for the next two weeks. Thank god for that, because I am getting truly sick of only understanding a third of what is said to or around me and only being able to answer in less than three words before my grammar starts to go to hell and it becomes obvious how much of a foreigner I really am.
On the plus side, however, my university is across the street from the ruins of a chateau built it the tenth century and surrounded by a dry moat and a church and wall built around the fourteenth century. I walked up to one of the lookout points and could see nearly the entire city. How beautiful. I think I left the cord to attach my camera to the computer behind, but as soon I as can have it sent out, I promise that there will be pictures of the whole ordeal.
9/5
I've just been to the french equivalent of Walmart. People talk about the charming boulangeries, the boucheries and the patisseries, but no one ever stops to wonder where all of those cute little french ladies, carrying their baguettes, or the old men with sweaters and sausages go for their laundry detergent. That would be Carrfour. I learned more about France in that half hour than I have in the last week; stupid things, like you have to have your fruit weighed and priced by a lady at a counter before you ever go near the checkout, or that grocery bags, which are reusable and sturdy cost ten cents(euro cents)....Hmmmm
I guess on the plus side, I'm not so intimidated anymore. Nothing put's things in perspective like stepping into one of the most un-french situations ever and seeing more people than have ever been crammed into the local big box stores on any day but black friday. On the down side, I was in the french equivalent of Walmart.
Each day that goes by, and trust me, they are loooonng days, everything begins to feel a bit more normal, but there is still that dull and ever-present ache in my head. It's the pressure that builds when one doesn't understand 87% of what's going on around them or what's being said. There is something incredible painful about being completely ignorant and lost and this is the manifestation of that.
AAUHGH!!! THE FRENCH MAKES MY HEAD HURT!
Also, there are no seats on the toilets at this school. NO SEATS! WTF? It's not a european thing, like I first assumed (being the only american here, I like to watch what I complain about for fear that it may be standard) because a lot of the other students are complaining about it as well. I'm in the heart of all things progressive and cultural and they can't figure out how to put a stupid plastic seat on their stupid regular old toilets.
And that, is my rant for the day.
much love
I am not so convinced after seven hours in the air that the atlantic ocean actually exists...We have been floating for miles and miles above landscapes of white. Cloud mountains, cloud valleys; there has been karst topography, drumlins, rolling hills, sweeping plains and sharp canyons, but I see no blue. If someone were to tell me that our captain had missed a turn somewhere and that we were flying over the north pole, I'd probably Believe them.
Reaching France was like flying over a great patchwork quilt of the strangest sort. Browns, greens and golden yellows meeting at odd angles, coming to sharp points or fat trapezoids, embroidered here and there by the relief of grand farm houses and the trees surrounding chateaus.
I'm sure you'll be happy to know that I arrived in Paris safe and sound and completely exhausted. I was going to try and find the train into town so I could hop on the metro and then walk a coupe of blocks to my hotel, but I was too tired to think and there were no clear directions to an sort of train station other than the TGV, so I payed nearly forty euro to take a taxi to the front door of my hotel. This was almost as much as I paid for two nights at the hotel (which says something about both the taxi and the hotel) but it was worth every penny to not have to drag my suitcases. Also, all the Taxis Parisen are mercedes...! It was super plush! My cab driver was also the nicest old man ever; he spoke to me in french and politely pretended like my answers were grammatically correct and easy to understand, but more than that, while I was in the lobby of the hotel fussing with my bags several minutes after he had dropped me off, he returned and said "did you forget something in your taxi?" and then held up my ipod, which must have fallen out of my bag in the shuffle!
Seriously, nicest man ever!
I've got to start being more careful though, I think that that incident used up any reserved good karma that I may have had stored up.
My hotel is very small and very cheap, but the people here are nice, very understanding when I'm not sure what they're asking me and very good at english when I start to look hopeless. I am on a small street in the 11th district, which as far as I can tell, is not the nicest place in the world for a lost american tourist. While the main street running near the hotel is pretty mixed, it became very clear as I stepped onto a side street that this is a mahgreban neighborhood; most people here are north african and it's not uncommon to hear arabic spoken in the little shops. I was going to go for a walk this evening and decided two things.
1: There is not much to see in this neighborhood and I am too tired to deal with the metro right now and,
2: I should not be wandering around unfamiliar streets at night, by myself, in all of my white glory.
It's kind of discouraging, because if I walk fast and keep to myself, I am french in their eyes, but the second I say more than two words, I become a foreigner and not worth the trouble of talking to. It's a bit lonely and I am a bit cranky about the whole situation, but perhaps some sleep will change that.
Tomorrow I want to go back to this enormous old cemetery near the hotel and take some pictures and then perhaps I will take the metro, or walk into one of the other districts. I need to go to a tourist trap, just so I don't feel like such a linguistic blemish, and also to get an actual map of paris as opposed to this terrible, partial, map quest thing that I had printed out for the hotel.
8/31
Yesterday, everything seemed so unbelievable unwelcoming. Today as I write this from the steps of the Paris Opera, everything just seems unbelievable.
This city is so surreal.
The buildings are so enormous and ornately designed that it's difficult to imagine a time when this was standard architecture. It's hard to find the words and even pictures can do this place no justice.
9/1
Another nice little moment today. I was dragging both m carry-on bag and my gi-nourmous suitcase along, having already managed to make it down the street from my hotel, down the stairs to the metro and all the way to the stop for the train station, I needed only to make it up one last flight of stairs. I started to adjust my luggage in order to get a better grip when this man who, by all appearances, seemed to be a bum took hold of the handle of the big bag and said something incomprehensible in deep, gravely french and started up the stairs as I followed. Perhaps he intended to steal the bag but decide upon actually seeing how heavy it was, that it wasn't worth the trouble, or perhaps he wasn't expecting me to keep pace with him as he headed up the stairs, but I'd like to think that he was just one more parisian going against the stereotype.
also
I have decided something about Paris:
The pigeons here Never Poop.
Impossible, you say, I have spent enough time staring at the floors and walls while waiting for trains to notice a distinct lack of bird splat, especially in face of the alarming number of the winged rodents.
Also, after too much time spent sitting in the train station, I feel that I have become somewhat of an expert on the fauna of the Saint-Lazare.
Read on:
1. The Plain Grey Pigeon (ratbirdicus-typicus) is the garden-variety city bird, with uniform colouring of a light grey, smooth layer of feathers which gives way to a slightly darker underlining. It's behavior is predictable and calculated; with a calm, confident bobbing of the head, it moves constantly toward whichever food source has presently caught its eye.
2. The Flustered Grey Pigeon (confuzicum-dazidicus) while a close relative of the Plain Grey, displays mussed feathers and is of a more mottled colouring, as if the good lord became bored one day and decided to fling monochromatic paint at the poor thing... This variety moves sporadically, head bobbing this way and that while it staggers carelessly across the ground. Due to its distinct lack of direction, the Flustered Grey often gets tangled in pedestrians and thus is often on the receiving end of aimed kicks and small children.
3. The Hurried Black Pigeon (speedium-twitchicus) is covered almost exclusively in feathers of the deep black variety. Constantly hurrying from one spot or the next, its head bobs at thrice the speed of a Plain Grey and it has a propensity for following straight lines, including the path of green tiles which runs along the ticket machines. The same neurosis which causes this driven behavior also causes the bird to breakout in uncontrollable twitches, or miniature seizures, resulting in the leg beating against the side of the head or the beak darting under the wing repeatedly.
4. The White-Footed Pigeon (fluffitimus-footicus) is the only thing in the Saint-Lazare station that appears to have been covered in bird splat. Its irregular smattering of white feathers continues not only across its face and wings, but from the upper thigh down to the toes, giving the bird the appearance of wearing overtly flamboyant bell-bottoms.
Note: These foot-feathers often cause the bird to slide across the floor upon landing -friction is compromised for fashion-
5. The Finch (coppius catticus) is nothing more than a small brown bird which has decided to fend for itself in a pigeon-like fashion. Its intrinsic cuteness makes it an outcast among the other birds and a favourite of the commuters. It's small size and elevated energy level also make it a skilled trash-hunter.
Later, when I'd missed the first train and had to wait for another hour, I started to notice some deformities in the feet of the birds, I named a Two-Toed Jack and a Peg-Legged Pete and a Club-Foot Foster, and then decided that the chronicling of pigeons had gone from amusing pass time to legitimately sad and creepy, so I stopped.
I did finally catch the train, saw my first castle/chateau/big fancy old building on the ride through provence (seriously, small town France has it made; few people, lots of trees, big pretty houses...why would you ever want to live in the city if that option was only thirty minutes away?) and the finally arrived in Caen, where I will be taking language courses for the next two weeks. Thank god for that, because I am getting truly sick of only understanding a third of what is said to or around me and only being able to answer in less than three words before my grammar starts to go to hell and it becomes obvious how much of a foreigner I really am.
On the plus side, however, my university is across the street from the ruins of a chateau built it the tenth century and surrounded by a dry moat and a church and wall built around the fourteenth century. I walked up to one of the lookout points and could see nearly the entire city. How beautiful. I think I left the cord to attach my camera to the computer behind, but as soon I as can have it sent out, I promise that there will be pictures of the whole ordeal.
9/5
I've just been to the french equivalent of Walmart. People talk about the charming boulangeries, the boucheries and the patisseries, but no one ever stops to wonder where all of those cute little french ladies, carrying their baguettes, or the old men with sweaters and sausages go for their laundry detergent. That would be Carrfour. I learned more about France in that half hour than I have in the last week; stupid things, like you have to have your fruit weighed and priced by a lady at a counter before you ever go near the checkout, or that grocery bags, which are reusable and sturdy cost ten cents(euro cents)....Hmmmm
I guess on the plus side, I'm not so intimidated anymore. Nothing put's things in perspective like stepping into one of the most un-french situations ever and seeing more people than have ever been crammed into the local big box stores on any day but black friday. On the down side, I was in the french equivalent of Walmart.
Each day that goes by, and trust me, they are loooonng days, everything begins to feel a bit more normal, but there is still that dull and ever-present ache in my head. It's the pressure that builds when one doesn't understand 87% of what's going on around them or what's being said. There is something incredible painful about being completely ignorant and lost and this is the manifestation of that.
AAUHGH!!! THE FRENCH MAKES MY HEAD HURT!
Also, there are no seats on the toilets at this school. NO SEATS! WTF? It's not a european thing, like I first assumed (being the only american here, I like to watch what I complain about for fear that it may be standard) because a lot of the other students are complaining about it as well. I'm in the heart of all things progressive and cultural and they can't figure out how to put a stupid plastic seat on their stupid regular old toilets.
And that, is my rant for the day.
much love
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