One cultural element that is effectively unavoidable and shows a significant difference between the US and France is the the shop setup of each country. The stores in a city not only provide for its citizens' needs, but they can also be rather telling of the city's culture and values.
There are certain stores that can be found all over Aix, but are far and few in between back in the States, such as fromageries (cheese stores), crepe stands, and bakeries on every corner, but I find myself equally interested in that which one cannot find in France.
For one thing, I have no idea how french people watch movies. There are enough theatres in the city to provide the opportunity to watch a new release occasionally, but paying €10 per person every time you see a movie would add up way too fast, plus that only accounts for the newest movies. I'm sure that DVDs exist here, but I don't know how people find them. There are no video rental stores. There is no redbox. There is no DVD section of Monoprix (basically the french equivalent of Target). I have yet to spot any electronic stores that would have CDs or DVDs. Netflix and Hulu don't work in this country. I simply have no idea how they do it. Black market? That must be it.
Another category of items in France that must be traded entirely through the black market is pets. Everybody walks through the streets of Aix with their tiny little dogs, matching the size of their cars, but there are no pet stores to be found. All of the pet supplies that I've seen in France thus far populate the second smelliest aisle of Monoprix (the gold, of course, going to the cheese aisle), but I'm like 92% certain that you can't buy puppies at the grocery store -- not even in Europe. Logic might suggest that everybody goes to breeders here, valuing the pedigree of their canines enough to go to a specialist for the breed that they want, but then what about fish? Are french college student deprived of the love and affection that cuddly little betta fish are famed for bestowing upon their owners? Who will they play fetch with while putting off their lack of homework to not have to do in the morning?
Come to think of it, I have seen some fish for sale in Aix, although I don't think they would make for premium pets; they were a slight bit too dead for that. Ah, yes, the morning market. Every morning in Aix, one can find the outdoor market open until 13h (1:00pm in America speak), filled with offerings of fresh fruits and vegetables, local honey, fresh fish and other equally stinky seafoods, handmade pastas, scarves, hats, and various other goodies for the best prices to be found in the second most expensive city in France. One of my personal favorite aspects of the marché is the conversation that you get to have with the merchants.
Already being in southern France, I myself have picked up a bit of a southern accent on top of my american mispronunciations, but my accent is nothing compared to the thick southernness of their accents. Just hearing them say a price that contains either 20 (vingt) or 5 (cinq) provides a fair amount of entertainment for the visit, but there are certain characters that naturally bring a smile to your face any time that you speak to them.
For example, a woman that my friends and I refer to as "the Lavender Lady" holds a special place in our hearts. I'm sure that you will be surprised to learn that the Lavender Lady earns her living by selling lavender. Yes, I know. You did not see that one coming at all, and now you need some time to recover from that shocking revelation. I'm sorry that I didn't prepare you for that one. It's okay. Take your time. You good now? Good. Anyhow, the Lavender Lady is approximately 200 years old and has worn the exact same outfit every day the entire time. She wears a dress with a blanket wrapped around her stomach. This blanket does not reach above or below her stomach. She doesn't need to warm her legs. Just her stomach. This warm-stomached woman is, quite simply, just a sweet little old lady, telling visitors to her little stand how good lavender is for you. Evidently she bathes in lavender every day, so she never gets sick.
Provence is known for its lavender production, so lavender products can be found all over the marché and various stores. I strongly recommend lavender syrup, especially added to limonade (the French improvement of lemonade). The one thing that this city clearly loves far more than lavender, though, is shoes. The downtown area of Aix-en-Provence is mostly comprised of restaurants and shoe stores, because the two things that they will never limit to the black market are food and footwear. By american standards, both may seem grossly overpriced the vast majority of the time, and that just goes to show another cultural difference between the two nations; America takes pride in providing things affordably enough for the common man to be able to get anything, working along the lines of the American Dream, and France prides itself in making everything of the best quality possible, working to hold an elite role. Despite these differences, though, it all just comes down to providing for the people of each nation in a way that not only fulfills their physical needs, but expresses what they value as a culture.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Where The Heart Is: 29 mars, 2013
Upon leaving the States, I knew that homesickness, at least to some extent, would be pretty much inevitable. I knew that I would have moments of missing my friends and family back home, especially on their birthdays, or even at random moments when I just feel like a late-night Dr. Who marathon with my brother would be awesome. There are certain comforting smells and sounds that are missing from this temporary home of mine, such as the coffee pot brewing its distinctly american interpretation of the beverage in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Apart from all of this, though, I've discovered a completely new brand of homesickness that I never saw coming.
When in a completely foreign country, you may lack the comforts of being around people and places that you know, hearing a language that you can actually speak, and simply feeling at home. This is the homesickness that I felt during my week in Spain and Portugal (see "Breaking the Language Barrier"), missing the city in France that I now call home. Although I'm clearly a foreigner here, easily identified as such within the first three seconds of conversation with any french person, I now feel more at home here than I would if I were to venture a few cities over back in Illinois. I know which streets to take, where my favorite bakeries are, and how to (at least borderline successfully) communicate with people.
Spain and Portugal were some of the most beautiful places that I've ever been, but after even while walking down the ornate mosaic sidewalks, among colorful buildings covered in gorgeous tiles, I found myself longing for a good baguette, some chèvre to spread on it, and a nice spot in the Parc Jourdan to sit and enjoy it all near the shade of a platane. This brought to mind the distinction between a place where you love to be and a place that you love.
Maybe it's that I don't speak an even remotely acceptable amount of Spanish or Portuguese. Maybe it's the uncomfortably high level of poverty in combination with the evidently low level of health care (I had never previously expected to have to warn a friend that a creepy man with a jenk leg was crawling toward us, but then again I had never previously seen anybody so greatly affected by and untreated for polio). Maybe it's my genetic predisposition to avoid places with so much sunshine. Regardless, I've vacationed to countries that I absolutely loved being in, but I could never see myself calling them home. For me, Aix-en-Provence has been the best home away from home that Europe could offer me, and although I can't wait to see my friends and family again back in the States, I know that I will once more be feeling a nostalgic malady for this city of fountains and the people that I've met here when that time comes.
When in a completely foreign country, you may lack the comforts of being around people and places that you know, hearing a language that you can actually speak, and simply feeling at home. This is the homesickness that I felt during my week in Spain and Portugal (see "Breaking the Language Barrier"), missing the city in France that I now call home. Although I'm clearly a foreigner here, easily identified as such within the first three seconds of conversation with any french person, I now feel more at home here than I would if I were to venture a few cities over back in Illinois. I know which streets to take, where my favorite bakeries are, and how to (at least borderline successfully) communicate with people.
Spain and Portugal were some of the most beautiful places that I've ever been, but after even while walking down the ornate mosaic sidewalks, among colorful buildings covered in gorgeous tiles, I found myself longing for a good baguette, some chèvre to spread on it, and a nice spot in the Parc Jourdan to sit and enjoy it all near the shade of a platane. This brought to mind the distinction between a place where you love to be and a place that you love.
Maybe it's that I don't speak an even remotely acceptable amount of Spanish or Portuguese. Maybe it's the uncomfortably high level of poverty in combination with the evidently low level of health care (I had never previously expected to have to warn a friend that a creepy man with a jenk leg was crawling toward us, but then again I had never previously seen anybody so greatly affected by and untreated for polio). Maybe it's my genetic predisposition to avoid places with so much sunshine. Regardless, I've vacationed to countries that I absolutely loved being in, but I could never see myself calling them home. For me, Aix-en-Provence has been the best home away from home that Europe could offer me, and although I can't wait to see my friends and family again back in the States, I know that I will once more be feeling a nostalgic malady for this city of fountains and the people that I've met here when that time comes.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
What the FAC: 19 mars, 2013
Within Aix-Marseille Université, I study at the Faculté de Lettres, which we usually refer to as the FAC. Rather than the classes or professors, my favorite aspect of the school is the obvious and fitting pun permitted by its nickname: What the FAC.
Before getting to France, I had always pictured french schools to look as polished as the country's inhabitants, complete with a beret on top of the building and a giant cigarette hanging out of the front door. Instead, this school looks surprisingly akin to a post-apocolyptic version of a 1980's after school special TV show.
As you walk down the hallowed halls of the FAC, you may notice the graffiti covering every wall, door, and bathroom stall. You may observe some flickering lights in chained off stairwells. You may be pleased to notice a little splash of color on a red poster, until you realize that it's advertising communism. Yup, that's still a thing here. Not socialism. Actual communism. And a surprising amount of these posters were posted pretty recently.
One of the best parts of the FAC would have to be the state of its bathrooms. Certain aspects aren't too surprising when you're already accustomed to life in France -- they have no toilet seats and seldom have hand soap, toilet paper, or working hand dryers -- but other aspects are uniquely FAC-y. Certain stall doors are a bit of a challenge to close, don't lock, and require the aid of a comrade outside the stall in order to open back up. Yes, I've been temporarily stuck and panicked in one of those before. It was a glorious moment for me. It's still the graffiti that gets to me the most, although some of it can be kind of cool. One particular fourth floor bathroom has a perfect rendition of Saïd's "baise la police" graffiti from the movie La Haine. Evidently I was not the only person geeking out over that one, because another student made a little note of the reference immediately next to the image.
Honestly, the FAC isn't all bad. They have coffee vending machines. How could a place with coffee vending machines be all bad? And the professors are considerate enough to give a cig break (or coffee break for the American students) in the middle of the three-hour lectures so that students don't get the shakes. Granted, that might not be the real reason why those breaks exist, but that's just the way I prefer to look at it. And I look at the coffee. Oh, that sweet nectar of life that gets me through three hour blocks of hearing about the trees of Provence.
I think the best description of the FAC that I've ever read appeared in a certain facebook status written by one of the members of my program, Toler.
"a summation of the quality of the fac des lettres in one act:
Professor (standing at a graffitied lectern): could someone please close the door?
Student (after a moment of confused staring): The door is missing.
fin"
Before getting to France, I had always pictured french schools to look as polished as the country's inhabitants, complete with a beret on top of the building and a giant cigarette hanging out of the front door. Instead, this school looks surprisingly akin to a post-apocolyptic version of a 1980's after school special TV show.
As you walk down the hallowed halls of the FAC, you may notice the graffiti covering every wall, door, and bathroom stall. You may observe some flickering lights in chained off stairwells. You may be pleased to notice a little splash of color on a red poster, until you realize that it's advertising communism. Yup, that's still a thing here. Not socialism. Actual communism. And a surprising amount of these posters were posted pretty recently.
One of the best parts of the FAC would have to be the state of its bathrooms. Certain aspects aren't too surprising when you're already accustomed to life in France -- they have no toilet seats and seldom have hand soap, toilet paper, or working hand dryers -- but other aspects are uniquely FAC-y. Certain stall doors are a bit of a challenge to close, don't lock, and require the aid of a comrade outside the stall in order to open back up. Yes, I've been temporarily stuck and panicked in one of those before. It was a glorious moment for me. It's still the graffiti that gets to me the most, although some of it can be kind of cool. One particular fourth floor bathroom has a perfect rendition of Saïd's "baise la police" graffiti from the movie La Haine. Evidently I was not the only person geeking out over that one, because another student made a little note of the reference immediately next to the image.
Honestly, the FAC isn't all bad. They have coffee vending machines. How could a place with coffee vending machines be all bad? And the professors are considerate enough to give a cig break (or coffee break for the American students) in the middle of the three-hour lectures so that students don't get the shakes. Granted, that might not be the real reason why those breaks exist, but that's just the way I prefer to look at it. And I look at the coffee. Oh, that sweet nectar of life that gets me through three hour blocks of hearing about the trees of Provence.
I think the best description of the FAC that I've ever read appeared in a certain facebook status written by one of the members of my program, Toler.
"a summation of the quality of the fac des lettres in one act:
Professor (standing at a graffitied lectern): could someone please close the door?
Student (after a moment of confused staring): The door is missing.
fin"
(30 janvier, 2013)
Yup, that's our fine french education. Be madly jealous.
Breaking the Language Barrier: 5 mars, 2013
Winter break abroad has landed me in Spain and Portugal. As I have traveled to each new country, I have ventured progressively further out of my comfort zone, which likely has something to do with the fact that I have also been venturing into countries whose languages I speak less and less of.
When you're in a country that speaks your native language, you can feel pretty well at home. When in country that speaks a language that you've been speaking for eight years, you can feel like a bit of an outsider at times, but you adjust to feel pretty comfortable. Spending time in a country of your third language makes you rather conscious of the fact that you're foreign, but you can get by with just a few communicative innovations. In a country where you don't speak the language at all, such as Spain and Portugal for me and the group that I'm traveling with, things get weird.
Upon our arrival at the hostel in Madrid, we discovered that not only was it the receptionist's first night working there, but she could only say a few things in English and didn't speak any French. This was where we had to start getting creative. Clearly, nobody in our group can understand Spanish at all, so the receptionist and I made an attempt to communicate in Italian, which mainly consisted of her saying things fluently for me to poorly translate into English for the group, and me responding in mostly misconjugated Italian until I realized that I didn't even know the infinitive for the verb that I needed. Our most effective communication in that country consisted mostly of pointing at stuff and hoping to find somebody that spoke some English or French.
Over the course of the past several months, I've grown pretty well accustomed to hearing French spoken with various foreign accents, but hearing various accents with Spanish was entirely new to me. There was a little convenience store called Food and Fruits (later dubbed Fruit n' Shit by our group when we couldn't remember its name properly), owned by a little Chinese couple. The american accent on Spanish must sound absurd to Europeans, but for us to hear a chinese accent on the language sounded crazy to us, even in a conversation limited to "hola," whatever the price was, and "gracias." Hearing our two accents combined in a single conversation would probably be hilarious to a native speaker.
We ran into the most linguistic problems due to the fact that we all had the plague. Trying to obtain cold medicine in a Farmacia proved to be an adventure in Spain and even more of a challenge in Portugal. In Madrid, we ended up learning that the spanish word for "to cough" is "tosar," which was easy enough to remember since it's so similar to the french "tousser," but it proved harder to communicate in Portugal. First off, Portuguese sounds an awful lot like a combination of Spanish and Russian, neither of which I can speak, so I was disoriented beyond the static fuzz that illness was placing upon my mental faculties. Beyond that, despite trying out the "international" farmacia, the employee there clearly didn't speak English a whole lot better than I spoke Portuguese. Then it got weird.
I told him that I had nasal congestion and a sore throat, possibly also a fever, and asked him if he had anything to help with those symptoms. He stared at me for a second, walked off, and returned with a box of cough drops. Due to my desire to one day breathe out of my nose, I asked if there was something that also helped with congestion, to which he responded by once again staring for a moment, giving a terse "No," and walking off to put back the cough drops and retrieve some pills that help with congestion but not sore throats. I took a moment to look at the box and pretend that I knew enough Portuguese to tell which symptoms it helped with, and then asked if there was anything that could help with both symptoms. Once again, he gave a quick no and disappeared with that medicine, this time returning with a Vitamin C supplement. I asked if it treated any symptoms at all. It didn't. It was just a vitamin. I went with the cold pills. I had clearly taken up a lot more of his time than he would have liked.
Working at Target back in the States, I had been in that farmacia employee's shoes numerous times, trying to help someone that clearly didn't speak English at all, wondering why they were even in the country when they were so wildly unprepared to be there, but prior to my week in Spain and Portugal, I had never been someplace where I was the one that couldn't speak the language at all. I had never previously felt firsthand the panic of trying to find some word in some language that can get you by because you didn't anticipate needing medicine when you only intended to be in that country for such a short amount of time. I had never before been in the position of trying so hard to avoid pissing locals off while simply trying to pick up some of the culture, language, and scenery, proving to everyone around me how little I knew as I tried to learn everything that I could about where I was. As it turns out, being a dirty foreigner is really hard!
Everybody in Spain and Portugal that exhibited any level of patience with us seriously deserves a gold star, and I must say that the vast majority of the people that I encountered in the latter of those countries should be plastered in shiny actinoid accolades. The Portuguese, in contrast with the French, tend to sport a friendly look upon their faces most of the time, which was surprising when compared with the relative economies of the two countries. The unemployment rate in Portugal has been crazy high with the current state of the economy, but when we spoke to Joana, the owner of our hostel in Porto, she said that the smile is the most important thing for them to keep. So often, Americans will give in to negativity when they lack some material possession or another, whether they didn't get the newest iPhone or their dream car, but in Portugal, I found people who clearly couldn't get the health care that they needed, continuing to suffer from deformities due to polio, but they still greeted everyone with a smile. These were people that seemed to have the least to be happy about, but their happiness is the one thing that can never be taken away from them, even as they share it with others. Portugal is beautiful for much more than its scenery.
When you're in a country that speaks your native language, you can feel pretty well at home. When in country that speaks a language that you've been speaking for eight years, you can feel like a bit of an outsider at times, but you adjust to feel pretty comfortable. Spending time in a country of your third language makes you rather conscious of the fact that you're foreign, but you can get by with just a few communicative innovations. In a country where you don't speak the language at all, such as Spain and Portugal for me and the group that I'm traveling with, things get weird.
Upon our arrival at the hostel in Madrid, we discovered that not only was it the receptionist's first night working there, but she could only say a few things in English and didn't speak any French. This was where we had to start getting creative. Clearly, nobody in our group can understand Spanish at all, so the receptionist and I made an attempt to communicate in Italian, which mainly consisted of her saying things fluently for me to poorly translate into English for the group, and me responding in mostly misconjugated Italian until I realized that I didn't even know the infinitive for the verb that I needed. Our most effective communication in that country consisted mostly of pointing at stuff and hoping to find somebody that spoke some English or French.
Over the course of the past several months, I've grown pretty well accustomed to hearing French spoken with various foreign accents, but hearing various accents with Spanish was entirely new to me. There was a little convenience store called Food and Fruits (later dubbed Fruit n' Shit by our group when we couldn't remember its name properly), owned by a little Chinese couple. The american accent on Spanish must sound absurd to Europeans, but for us to hear a chinese accent on the language sounded crazy to us, even in a conversation limited to "hola," whatever the price was, and "gracias." Hearing our two accents combined in a single conversation would probably be hilarious to a native speaker.
We ran into the most linguistic problems due to the fact that we all had the plague. Trying to obtain cold medicine in a Farmacia proved to be an adventure in Spain and even more of a challenge in Portugal. In Madrid, we ended up learning that the spanish word for "to cough" is "tosar," which was easy enough to remember since it's so similar to the french "tousser," but it proved harder to communicate in Portugal. First off, Portuguese sounds an awful lot like a combination of Spanish and Russian, neither of which I can speak, so I was disoriented beyond the static fuzz that illness was placing upon my mental faculties. Beyond that, despite trying out the "international" farmacia, the employee there clearly didn't speak English a whole lot better than I spoke Portuguese. Then it got weird.
I told him that I had nasal congestion and a sore throat, possibly also a fever, and asked him if he had anything to help with those symptoms. He stared at me for a second, walked off, and returned with a box of cough drops. Due to my desire to one day breathe out of my nose, I asked if there was something that also helped with congestion, to which he responded by once again staring for a moment, giving a terse "No," and walking off to put back the cough drops and retrieve some pills that help with congestion but not sore throats. I took a moment to look at the box and pretend that I knew enough Portuguese to tell which symptoms it helped with, and then asked if there was anything that could help with both symptoms. Once again, he gave a quick no and disappeared with that medicine, this time returning with a Vitamin C supplement. I asked if it treated any symptoms at all. It didn't. It was just a vitamin. I went with the cold pills. I had clearly taken up a lot more of his time than he would have liked.
Working at Target back in the States, I had been in that farmacia employee's shoes numerous times, trying to help someone that clearly didn't speak English at all, wondering why they were even in the country when they were so wildly unprepared to be there, but prior to my week in Spain and Portugal, I had never been someplace where I was the one that couldn't speak the language at all. I had never previously felt firsthand the panic of trying to find some word in some language that can get you by because you didn't anticipate needing medicine when you only intended to be in that country for such a short amount of time. I had never before been in the position of trying so hard to avoid pissing locals off while simply trying to pick up some of the culture, language, and scenery, proving to everyone around me how little I knew as I tried to learn everything that I could about where I was. As it turns out, being a dirty foreigner is really hard!
Everybody in Spain and Portugal that exhibited any level of patience with us seriously deserves a gold star, and I must say that the vast majority of the people that I encountered in the latter of those countries should be plastered in shiny actinoid accolades. The Portuguese, in contrast with the French, tend to sport a friendly look upon their faces most of the time, which was surprising when compared with the relative economies of the two countries. The unemployment rate in Portugal has been crazy high with the current state of the economy, but when we spoke to Joana, the owner of our hostel in Porto, she said that the smile is the most important thing for them to keep. So often, Americans will give in to negativity when they lack some material possession or another, whether they didn't get the newest iPhone or their dream car, but in Portugal, I found people who clearly couldn't get the health care that they needed, continuing to suffer from deformities due to polio, but they still greeted everyone with a smile. These were people that seemed to have the least to be happy about, but their happiness is the one thing that can never be taken away from them, even as they share it with others. Portugal is beautiful for much more than its scenery.
Paradise in Palermo: 23 février, 2013
I am seriously dropping the ball on timeliness in this little chronicle here. As I write these sentences, I'm currently sitting in a hostel in Madrid, and there's a solid chance that I will be in Portugal by the time this entry is finished, but we'll get to that later. For the moment, our attentions need to be focused on another country: Italy.
After Paris, everyone needed a redemption trip, and Italy seemed promising. Our destination was Palermo, Sicily, and although I was unfamiliar with the name of the city, I definitely knew that anywhere in Sicily would be an adventure, plus I was pumped to practice my Italian.
Well it turns out that I really don't speak much Italian, so it was a very good thing that we had the man of many named, Brandon Victor Paolo (BVP), with us as primary translator. As I've discovered, I can understand most of what I hear in the language, so I didn't need a translator as badly in that direction, but when the time comes for me to speak, I suddenly find myself incapable of language production. "Je... euh... io... uh, voglio... oh shoot, mi dispiace" is about as eloquent as I got in the first day. Thanks to listening to BVP, I could get by in a restaurant by the end of the weekend, but were all more than content to let him take the reigns in most all Italian speaking endeavors.
Although the group as a whole left quite a bit to be desired with Italian skills, we were still more than capable of confusing sicilians by switching between French and English while talking amongst ourselves. On our first night in Palermo, we went to a little restaurant for dinner, and although we spoke almost exclusively in English amongst ourselves, the waiter translated several food items into French for us. The next morning, BVP and I had to stop at a grocery store at which we needed the help of an employee standing behind a counter. As we stood there waiting for her acknowledgement, we had been speaking to each other in English but a few seconds after switching to French, the employee was too confused to keep from looking up and finally helping us.
Evidently Italians like the French better than they like Americans. On our final night, we all went to a pizza parlor at which BVP and I teamed up to speak Italian to the cashier (my rendition of the language being much more broken than his, of course), and we spoke a combination of French and English to each other, causing the cashier to proceed to refer to me as madame for the remainder of the time that we were there, although she referred to BVP with an italian title.
Pizza was not the only stereotypical italian dish that we consumed there, but it was probably the one that we had the most of. Fun fact: all food in Sicily, or at least in Palermo, is incredible. Like a team of professional eaters, we worked our way through several types of pizza, pasta, cannoli, cappuccino, and aperitivo.
Italians know how to do food right. So does much of Europe in my experience thus far, but Italy just does it really exceptionally well. Italian food is as delicious as Derek Zoolander is good looking: really really ridiculously so.
Another thing that Italy does exceptionally well is everything. Maybe it was just the comparison with the prior weekend's parisian disasters, but everything in Italy seemed really idyllic. The rain was gorgeous, all of the architecture was beautiful, and the nature of the place was breathtaking. We were able to pick fresh oranges from a public garden, and although they were tart upon tasting them, they were thoroughly satisfying to have obtained.
The people there were also really friendly. When it was clear that the group didn't know where we were going, people would come up to us and ask us if we were looking for a given destination which they always hit on the mark, then told us where it was. Palermo was great.
After Paris, everyone needed a redemption trip, and Italy seemed promising. Our destination was Palermo, Sicily, and although I was unfamiliar with the name of the city, I definitely knew that anywhere in Sicily would be an adventure, plus I was pumped to practice my Italian.
Well it turns out that I really don't speak much Italian, so it was a very good thing that we had the man of many named, Brandon Victor Paolo (BVP), with us as primary translator. As I've discovered, I can understand most of what I hear in the language, so I didn't need a translator as badly in that direction, but when the time comes for me to speak, I suddenly find myself incapable of language production. "Je... euh... io... uh, voglio... oh shoot, mi dispiace" is about as eloquent as I got in the first day. Thanks to listening to BVP, I could get by in a restaurant by the end of the weekend, but were all more than content to let him take the reigns in most all Italian speaking endeavors.
Although the group as a whole left quite a bit to be desired with Italian skills, we were still more than capable of confusing sicilians by switching between French and English while talking amongst ourselves. On our first night in Palermo, we went to a little restaurant for dinner, and although we spoke almost exclusively in English amongst ourselves, the waiter translated several food items into French for us. The next morning, BVP and I had to stop at a grocery store at which we needed the help of an employee standing behind a counter. As we stood there waiting for her acknowledgement, we had been speaking to each other in English but a few seconds after switching to French, the employee was too confused to keep from looking up and finally helping us.
Evidently Italians like the French better than they like Americans. On our final night, we all went to a pizza parlor at which BVP and I teamed up to speak Italian to the cashier (my rendition of the language being much more broken than his, of course), and we spoke a combination of French and English to each other, causing the cashier to proceed to refer to me as madame for the remainder of the time that we were there, although she referred to BVP with an italian title.
Pizza was not the only stereotypical italian dish that we consumed there, but it was probably the one that we had the most of. Fun fact: all food in Sicily, or at least in Palermo, is incredible. Like a team of professional eaters, we worked our way through several types of pizza, pasta, cannoli, cappuccino, and aperitivo.
Italians know how to do food right. So does much of Europe in my experience thus far, but Italy just does it really exceptionally well. Italian food is as delicious as Derek Zoolander is good looking: really really ridiculously so.
Another thing that Italy does exceptionally well is everything. Maybe it was just the comparison with the prior weekend's parisian disasters, but everything in Italy seemed really idyllic. The rain was gorgeous, all of the architecture was beautiful, and the nature of the place was breathtaking. We were able to pick fresh oranges from a public garden, and although they were tart upon tasting them, they were thoroughly satisfying to have obtained.
The people there were also really friendly. When it was clear that the group didn't know where we were going, people would come up to us and ask us if we were looking for a given destination which they always hit on the mark, then told us where it was. Palermo was great.
An American in Paris: 12 février, 2013
Whereas Marseille is the Chicago of France, Paris is its New York City. In the NYC of France, at least in my experience, Murphy's Law governs all.
I had dreamt of Paris for years, fantasizing about the first time that I would go there, seeing the famed Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysées, Arch de Triomph, Louvre, and Musée d'Orsay. I imagined seeing countless mustachioed men walking the streets in striped shirts and berets. Through my experiences in France thus far, I figured that the stereotypical imagine of a parisian man would be pretty far off, but I ended up being even more wrong about my experiences and sights to be seen than any amount of time in Aix could have adequately prepared me for.
Upon arrival in Paris by way of TGV, I was in pretty good spirits. I had just made the acquaintance of a pleasant frenchman named Stephane, and I managed to carry on a 2hr conversation with him entirely in French, which is still rather out of the ordinary for me at this point. It helped that he didn't actually know enough English to converse, because most french people that I've encountered up to this point will respond in English to me when they know I'm anglophone, even when I speak to them in French. This good practice put me in a good mood as I emerged into the streets of this city that I had been dreaming of for so long.
My excitement for the city continued as the group with whom I was traveling arrived at our parisian apartment that we were renting for the weekend; it was beautiful, posh, and still surprisingly cheap for its location. We explored the apartment for a few minutes, until the strike of midnight rendered me too giddy with excitement to stay in one place.
Floating on dreams of the movie Midnight in Paris, I departed with the group in search of the Tour Eiffel. After a while of walking, I caught my first glimpse of the monument sparkling in the parisian sky. At this point, I figured that it would be no problem to find it up close as long as we made sure it was visible at least every once in a while along the route.
Not so. We lost the Eiffel Tower.
And then we found out that we were still a good two miles away. And later on, we found out that the tower's lights turn off around 1am, which retrospectively explained how we lost the enormous thing. Upon accepting defeat for the night, we got some kebabs and returned to the apartment and slept until the arrival of our next friend to join the apartment, and subsequently the real disasters began to occur.
This was about the closest that we ever got to the Eiffel Tower
I awoke the next morning to see Shannon arriving in tears. Evidently she had been pickpocketed on the train on her way there, losing her wallet with her bank cards and €250 in it. We were able to cancel her cards before anybody could use them, but she was still down a good $320 worth of cash, plus she was understandably jarred by the violation.
Although we didn't meet our goal of seeing the catacombs, our day went pretty well uphill from there as we visited some beautiful landmarks and ate some incredibly french food. That day, we consumed some staple moules frites (mussels and fries), and I tried escargots for the first time. The latter is delicious for the first few seconds of chewing, then grows to taste rather earthy, so I would not necessarily want to try that again, but I am nevertheless glad to have tried it.
The landmarks proved to be the highlight of my day, particularly when we visited Shakespeare & Company, which is the most wonderful bookstore to ever exist. My entrance into the store was a bit disorienting, because although it's located in Paris, France, the most stereotypically french city in the world, Shakespeare & Co. is an english bookstore, filled with English language books and a cashier from Baltimore, Maryland. Despite being in such a stark cultural contrast with the surrounding city, these books were beautiful. The walls are stacked high with books, and there's a certain quaint and homey feel to the overall decorum throughout the store, but you don't feel the true extent of it all until you climb to the upper level.
The inside of Shakespeare & Co. -- I was pretty excited
This floor is dedicated to antique books and typewriters, either of which guests are free to break out for a spin while curled up comfortably on their couches, and a little look that looks insignificant at first glance, but was the most magical spot that I've been to in France thus far. Inside this nook are little handwritten notes on whatever scrap or post-it people could find, expressed in countless languages, saying things ranging from "Sonya was here" to the most deeply poetic reflections. Sitting in there and reading those notes overwhelms you with all of the lives that have been touched by that city and store, and all of the amazing ways in which people can say so much on a simple little scrap of paper. Nothing in Paris could top that little nook for me, so essentially it was all downhill from there.
The rest of the weekend followed a general pattern of people being pickpocketed and the group attempting to make up for it with food and sightseeing, and then more people getting sick. Hanna got her wallet stolen on her birthday. We saw the Sacré Coeur. Trent's iPhone was stolen. We went to the most famed falafel place in Paris (on our second try, because evidently there are two different streets named Rosiers in Paris, located altogether too far apart from one another). Sara missed her train and her Carte Jeune went missing. We got quiche. I got sick and was too ill on our last day to go sight seeing or eat delicious food. I read a really good book from my new favorite bookstore.
A lot of things went wrong that weekend, so a lot of people lost a lot of money and items, and I missed out on the city's most famous landmarks. Living the dream. It certainly could have been more nightmarish for me, though.
I had dreamt of Paris for years, fantasizing about the first time that I would go there, seeing the famed Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysées, Arch de Triomph, Louvre, and Musée d'Orsay. I imagined seeing countless mustachioed men walking the streets in striped shirts and berets. Through my experiences in France thus far, I figured that the stereotypical imagine of a parisian man would be pretty far off, but I ended up being even more wrong about my experiences and sights to be seen than any amount of time in Aix could have adequately prepared me for.
Upon arrival in Paris by way of TGV, I was in pretty good spirits. I had just made the acquaintance of a pleasant frenchman named Stephane, and I managed to carry on a 2hr conversation with him entirely in French, which is still rather out of the ordinary for me at this point. It helped that he didn't actually know enough English to converse, because most french people that I've encountered up to this point will respond in English to me when they know I'm anglophone, even when I speak to them in French. This good practice put me in a good mood as I emerged into the streets of this city that I had been dreaming of for so long.
My excitement for the city continued as the group with whom I was traveling arrived at our parisian apartment that we were renting for the weekend; it was beautiful, posh, and still surprisingly cheap for its location. We explored the apartment for a few minutes, until the strike of midnight rendered me too giddy with excitement to stay in one place.
Floating on dreams of the movie Midnight in Paris, I departed with the group in search of the Tour Eiffel. After a while of walking, I caught my first glimpse of the monument sparkling in the parisian sky. At this point, I figured that it would be no problem to find it up close as long as we made sure it was visible at least every once in a while along the route.
Not so. We lost the Eiffel Tower.
And then we found out that we were still a good two miles away. And later on, we found out that the tower's lights turn off around 1am, which retrospectively explained how we lost the enormous thing. Upon accepting defeat for the night, we got some kebabs and returned to the apartment and slept until the arrival of our next friend to join the apartment, and subsequently the real disasters began to occur.
I awoke the next morning to see Shannon arriving in tears. Evidently she had been pickpocketed on the train on her way there, losing her wallet with her bank cards and €250 in it. We were able to cancel her cards before anybody could use them, but she was still down a good $320 worth of cash, plus she was understandably jarred by the violation.
Although we didn't meet our goal of seeing the catacombs, our day went pretty well uphill from there as we visited some beautiful landmarks and ate some incredibly french food. That day, we consumed some staple moules frites (mussels and fries), and I tried escargots for the first time. The latter is delicious for the first few seconds of chewing, then grows to taste rather earthy, so I would not necessarily want to try that again, but I am nevertheless glad to have tried it.
The landmarks proved to be the highlight of my day, particularly when we visited Shakespeare & Company, which is the most wonderful bookstore to ever exist. My entrance into the store was a bit disorienting, because although it's located in Paris, France, the most stereotypically french city in the world, Shakespeare & Co. is an english bookstore, filled with English language books and a cashier from Baltimore, Maryland. Despite being in such a stark cultural contrast with the surrounding city, these books were beautiful. The walls are stacked high with books, and there's a certain quaint and homey feel to the overall decorum throughout the store, but you don't feel the true extent of it all until you climb to the upper level.
This floor is dedicated to antique books and typewriters, either of which guests are free to break out for a spin while curled up comfortably on their couches, and a little look that looks insignificant at first glance, but was the most magical spot that I've been to in France thus far. Inside this nook are little handwritten notes on whatever scrap or post-it people could find, expressed in countless languages, saying things ranging from "Sonya was here" to the most deeply poetic reflections. Sitting in there and reading those notes overwhelms you with all of the lives that have been touched by that city and store, and all of the amazing ways in which people can say so much on a simple little scrap of paper. Nothing in Paris could top that little nook for me, so essentially it was all downhill from there.
The rest of the weekend followed a general pattern of people being pickpocketed and the group attempting to make up for it with food and sightseeing, and then more people getting sick. Hanna got her wallet stolen on her birthday. We saw the Sacré Coeur. Trent's iPhone was stolen. We went to the most famed falafel place in Paris (on our second try, because evidently there are two different streets named Rosiers in Paris, located altogether too far apart from one another). Sara missed her train and her Carte Jeune went missing. We got quiche. I got sick and was too ill on our last day to go sight seeing or eat delicious food. I read a really good book from my new favorite bookstore.
A lot of things went wrong that weekend, so a lot of people lost a lot of money and items, and I missed out on the city's most famous landmarks. Living the dream. It certainly could have been more nightmarish for me, though.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Mar-say what: 22 Janvier, 2013
Marseille is the Chicago of France. A dozen or so of us from the program decided to head to Marseille last weekend, causing many of us to experience more culture shock in a single hour than we had felt in the past several weeks combined in Aix.
We took the bus into the city, and almost immediately began to feel the Chicagoan vibe of Marseille. The bus station was highly reminiscent of Chicago's train stations, complete with the constant whirring by of people heading off to do their important business, the smells of McDonald's and sandwich shops, and the fluttering about of countless pigeons.
After exiting the station, we went off in search of food, but first encountered something much more interesting. Although the cloudy day's visibility was low and we couldn't yet make out what the signs held up by crowd members said, we could hear the rhythm of the drums being played in what we gathered must be a "manifestation." As we got closer, we started to notice all the rainbow flags and signs mentioning things like "égalité" and "droits"; it was a protest for equal rights for all sexualities.
We took a short break to grab some falafels for lunch, and once we emerged from the restau, we found that the crowd had gotten into a parade formation, with the drummers placed directly outside the restaurant doors. Once the drums had worded their way past us, we saw a man with a bullhorn leading the crowd in the french version of a "What do we want? And when do we want it?" chant, which went something like "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez? Egalité! Et quand le voulez vous? Maintenant!"
Our next destination was on the other side of the parade, so due to the process of traversing the procession we like to consider that we were in a parade in France. That one had not been expressly placed on my bucket list at any point, but it's still a pretty fun thing to say that I've done.
After getting a block over, such as to travel parallel to the parade, we discovered that the national police were keeping close tabs on the manifestation. The french national police are an intimidating sight to behold, emerging from their armored trucks, bedecked in severe-looking black uniforms complete with shin guards and harsh facial expressions. To my knowledge, they were never called into any actual action that day, but they were nevertheless quite a sight to behold.
The sights in the city that day were most certainly not limited to people; the architecture, landscapes, and water of the area are absolutely beautiful. Despite the overall gloom of the day that seemed to be perpetually on the brink of rain, the docks were a sight that can hardly be done justice by words or photographs. As we were drawing near the water, the scenery was still very urban consisting of darker colors and tall buildings, looking like an older version of Chicago, and then we suddenly emerged into this wide open area, bathed in a surprising amount of light shining through the clouds, showing off the vast waters opening up before us. The primary word escaping the lips of our mouths was simply "wow," playing on repeat as we snapped photos that invariably failed to capture the effect of the view.
You can tell through the commerce of the city that it is incredibly proud of its port; the seafood restaurants placed immediately adjacent to the water were predictable enough, and we also saw maritime-themed bookstores and antique shops, complete with those enormous antiquated scuba suits that are more commonly seen on Scooby Doo than in real life these days -- unless, of course, you're in Marseille. By the end of the evening, I would have greatly appreciated one of those to wear.
Being young and bold, we all assumed that we were prepared for anything on this trip, but the increasingly miserable weather in combination with our lack of umbrellas, proved to be our undoing that night, making us quickly forget any and all beauty that we might have observed earlier in the day. Few of us in the program brought decently waterproof shoes with us to Europe, and as the Marseillais rain began to fall upon us, I realized that fleece jackets and Toms shoes are rather more on the absorbent side. The general sensation of sogginess did not do much to improve my mood as the group began to realize how ravenously hungry we were once more growing to be. As our soggy search began, we were still in mostly decent moods, until we started noticing how difficult it was to actually find food at that point.
Our first vague attempt at food was at a bookstore/café combo, in which we failed to ever find the café section. The next try was at a promising-looking restau next door, which advertised meals at prices that we deemed acceptable. Upon our entry, we were informed that those were the prices for the lunch menu, while dinner would be closer to €25 per person, which approximates to $35. We're all poor college students, so that wouldn't quite fly with us. We moved on.
For the next half hour or so, we passed by countless restaurants that were either closed for the evening or too costly for us to work with as we wandered through the darkened and rain-soaked streets of Marseille. Several of us also needed to used the bathroom at this point, and public restrooms in France aren't that easy to come by either, so the next open restaurant seemed to be a godsend. We seated ourselves, only to discover that the restaurant was actually closed, so we were once more sent on our not so merry way.
After we had been searching in the rain for over an hour, our quest finally led us to a small, open, decently priced restaurant that was evidently owned by the kindest and friendliest inhabitant of Marseille. The flavor of the food had little to do with the fact that it was one of the most delicious and satisfying meals ever made. We happily ate our meals, comprised largely of fresh Marseillais seafood, including an entire fish, eyeballs and all, that gazed accusingly back at us as we munched away. The accusation of our food was completely worth it at that point. Once we finished up, we worked our way much more contentedly back to our hostel for a night of much needed détente and amusement.
Hostels tend to have a reputation for being disgusting and giving you pillows that smell like feet, and I'm sure that's the case for many, but ours was a much better-smelling experience than that. It was rather convenient that 12 program students went on this trip, because the hostel just so happened to house people in rooms of 6, so although we didn't meet any exciting new french people in our rooms, we got to have two group sleepovers in Europe, plus we didn't have to worry about other people stealing anything from our rooms whenever we were gone or sleeping. In an effort to avoid total isolation from the culture around us, we spent some time in the common area of the hostel, where we made the acquaintance of a french accordion player whose name I couldn't understand at all. We'll just call him Flaurent. Anyhow, we spoke all in French with our new bestest buddy Flaurent for a good 10 minutes before he disappeared, completing our foreign interaction quota for the trip. We ourselves eventually made our way to bed, and later made it all the way to sleep, getting a couple hours of rest before heading out for croissants and some café au lait, then boarding the bus once more to conclude our trip to the French version of Chicago. We went back a week later.
We took the bus into the city, and almost immediately began to feel the Chicagoan vibe of Marseille. The bus station was highly reminiscent of Chicago's train stations, complete with the constant whirring by of people heading off to do their important business, the smells of McDonald's and sandwich shops, and the fluttering about of countless pigeons.
After exiting the station, we went off in search of food, but first encountered something much more interesting. Although the cloudy day's visibility was low and we couldn't yet make out what the signs held up by crowd members said, we could hear the rhythm of the drums being played in what we gathered must be a "manifestation." As we got closer, we started to notice all the rainbow flags and signs mentioning things like "égalité" and "droits"; it was a protest for equal rights for all sexualities.
We took a short break to grab some falafels for lunch, and once we emerged from the restau, we found that the crowd had gotten into a parade formation, with the drummers placed directly outside the restaurant doors. Once the drums had worded their way past us, we saw a man with a bullhorn leading the crowd in the french version of a "What do we want? And when do we want it?" chant, which went something like "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez? Egalité! Et quand le voulez vous? Maintenant!"
Our next destination was on the other side of the parade, so due to the process of traversing the procession we like to consider that we were in a parade in France. That one had not been expressly placed on my bucket list at any point, but it's still a pretty fun thing to say that I've done.
After getting a block over, such as to travel parallel to the parade, we discovered that the national police were keeping close tabs on the manifestation. The french national police are an intimidating sight to behold, emerging from their armored trucks, bedecked in severe-looking black uniforms complete with shin guards and harsh facial expressions. To my knowledge, they were never called into any actual action that day, but they were nevertheless quite a sight to behold.
The sights in the city that day were most certainly not limited to people; the architecture, landscapes, and water of the area are absolutely beautiful. Despite the overall gloom of the day that seemed to be perpetually on the brink of rain, the docks were a sight that can hardly be done justice by words or photographs. As we were drawing near the water, the scenery was still very urban consisting of darker colors and tall buildings, looking like an older version of Chicago, and then we suddenly emerged into this wide open area, bathed in a surprising amount of light shining through the clouds, showing off the vast waters opening up before us. The primary word escaping the lips of our mouths was simply "wow," playing on repeat as we snapped photos that invariably failed to capture the effect of the view.
You can tell through the commerce of the city that it is incredibly proud of its port; the seafood restaurants placed immediately adjacent to the water were predictable enough, and we also saw maritime-themed bookstores and antique shops, complete with those enormous antiquated scuba suits that are more commonly seen on Scooby Doo than in real life these days -- unless, of course, you're in Marseille. By the end of the evening, I would have greatly appreciated one of those to wear.
Being young and bold, we all assumed that we were prepared for anything on this trip, but the increasingly miserable weather in combination with our lack of umbrellas, proved to be our undoing that night, making us quickly forget any and all beauty that we might have observed earlier in the day. Few of us in the program brought decently waterproof shoes with us to Europe, and as the Marseillais rain began to fall upon us, I realized that fleece jackets and Toms shoes are rather more on the absorbent side. The general sensation of sogginess did not do much to improve my mood as the group began to realize how ravenously hungry we were once more growing to be. As our soggy search began, we were still in mostly decent moods, until we started noticing how difficult it was to actually find food at that point.
Our first vague attempt at food was at a bookstore/café combo, in which we failed to ever find the café section. The next try was at a promising-looking restau next door, which advertised meals at prices that we deemed acceptable. Upon our entry, we were informed that those were the prices for the lunch menu, while dinner would be closer to €25 per person, which approximates to $35. We're all poor college students, so that wouldn't quite fly with us. We moved on.
For the next half hour or so, we passed by countless restaurants that were either closed for the evening or too costly for us to work with as we wandered through the darkened and rain-soaked streets of Marseille. Several of us also needed to used the bathroom at this point, and public restrooms in France aren't that easy to come by either, so the next open restaurant seemed to be a godsend. We seated ourselves, only to discover that the restaurant was actually closed, so we were once more sent on our not so merry way.
After we had been searching in the rain for over an hour, our quest finally led us to a small, open, decently priced restaurant that was evidently owned by the kindest and friendliest inhabitant of Marseille. The flavor of the food had little to do with the fact that it was one of the most delicious and satisfying meals ever made. We happily ate our meals, comprised largely of fresh Marseillais seafood, including an entire fish, eyeballs and all, that gazed accusingly back at us as we munched away. The accusation of our food was completely worth it at that point. Once we finished up, we worked our way much more contentedly back to our hostel for a night of much needed détente and amusement.
Hostels tend to have a reputation for being disgusting and giving you pillows that smell like feet, and I'm sure that's the case for many, but ours was a much better-smelling experience than that. It was rather convenient that 12 program students went on this trip, because the hostel just so happened to house people in rooms of 6, so although we didn't meet any exciting new french people in our rooms, we got to have two group sleepovers in Europe, plus we didn't have to worry about other people stealing anything from our rooms whenever we were gone or sleeping. In an effort to avoid total isolation from the culture around us, we spent some time in the common area of the hostel, where we made the acquaintance of a french accordion player whose name I couldn't understand at all. We'll just call him Flaurent. Anyhow, we spoke all in French with our new bestest buddy Flaurent for a good 10 minutes before he disappeared, completing our foreign interaction quota for the trip. We ourselves eventually made our way to bed, and later made it all the way to sleep, getting a couple hours of rest before heading out for croissants and some café au lait, then boarding the bus once more to conclude our trip to the French version of Chicago. We went back a week later.
Draguer, dirty words, and other discoveries: 15 janvier, 2013
One word that I've heard a lot of since my arrival here is "draguer", which refers to an aggressively french manner in which men here hit on women. The women in the program were instructed to deal with it mostly by ignoring it and avoiding things that would signal an invitation in the eyes of a frenchman. Apparently making eye contact and smiling is not polite here; it is an invitation for pursuit, which is just one of many dating culture differences between here and the United States, and also helps us silly americans, being the dirty foreigners that we are, much better understand the other cultural aspects of this area.
Upon our arrival, many of us noticed what seemed to be a rather cold air about french women as we walked down the streets. It was easy for us to interpret that as meaning that the French are simply rude and judgmental people, but that's simply not the case. The French tend to take relationships, dating and otherwise, rather seriously in comparison to Americans. Because their relationships tend to be less fleeting of events than they are for us, they will often be much more wary and guarded about who they let into their private lives.
When it comes to men asking women out here, the process has been very disheartening for the men in our group thus far, especially before we were informed of the local dating culture. Thus far, every attempt at approaching a french woman has resulted in rejection, which it turns out is a typical start to french relationships. Rather than encouraging the attention of a potential beau by accepting a date, the french woman takes the game of "hard to get" very seriously and rejects a man numerous times before finally acquiescing. This game of chat et souris results in the man proving that he is serious about his pursuit and really thinks the woman is truly worth it.
Although this idea may sound somewhat romantic in the ears of a starry-eyed american living the dream in France, it has a few significant drawbacks for the american woman. While no means no in the US, here it rather tends to take the meaning of "try harder," so the men here are a lot harder for us to effectively reject. Instead of issuing an endearing smile accompanied with a gentle "sorry" simply won't work here; we need to adopt a much more french frigidity and drop a cold hard "Dégage-toi" on whichever man it is that won't lay off, and after enough repetition they eventually disengage.
The concept of draguer has inspired a much more extensive knowledge of french expletives among the women in the program, partially from looking it up on our own and partially from the people that were here last semester telling us that we're going to need to use those words. I'm guessing that the commonplace necessity of swearing might have something to do with part of the origins of the phrase "pardon my French." That being said, pardon my French that appeared in the previous paragraph.
The French get such a reputation in the States for being foul in language and smell, and staying here at least for this little time thus far has helped me to much better understand where their reputation comes from, and also why it's wrong in certain ways. The language itself gets mixed reviews among Americans. Some say that it's beautiful or sexy, while others find it to be gross and foul. I can definitely see the beauty of the language in the fluidity of the vowel and consonant sounds created by liaison and enchainement, which I guess is a very nerdy and analytical approach to describing beauty, but beyond that, I love the poetry that can be made with the language, and I have no satisfactory way of describing and explaining that one. Certain people just have an amazing way of putting french words together, like Victor Hugo does in "Demain dès l'aube" and "C'est le moment crépusculaire," but unfortunately the talent of some doesn't exactly make the language itself beautiful.
The french language can also sound pretty gross to some, particularly with the standard R pronunciation that some describe as sounding like you're gagging on an eel, which you hear a lot in phrases like "grands gros grains gris." Being in this country, though, I've noticed some of the nuances of how different french people pronounce that same sound, and while some people have what sounds to me like a harsh pronunciation, other people deliver it much more fluidly, making it sound more beautiful to me. Once again, the beauty of the language seems half dependent upon the person using it and half dependent upon the listener.
For me, one of the most amusing stereotypes of the French based upon american perception is that they are smelly and unwashed. Having walked into a few fromageries these past few weeks, I have definitely noticed how stinky their cheeses can be here, especially when all stuffed into one small shop. Despite the slightly off-putting smell of these cheeses, they can be absolutely delicious on a baguette, although it still takes a little while to get used to the strength of the chèvres here.
Cheese is a rather large part of culture in this culture, having numerous shops per city devoted to the craft and the 350 some odd varieties of cheese to be found here, and I can see quite a lot of beauty in that. However, it was pointed out by a professor in class today that there are numerous types of cheeses that are not allowed into the US from France, while firearms are transported freely, showing an interesting and somewhat questionable balance of values between the two countries. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it makes me wonder how the US can find french cheeses to be stinky and unclean, while tools of war are the "beauty" that we accept into our country.
Americans tend to picture the French as hating "ugly Americans," believing that we will be wholly rejected by this country that must find no beauty in what we do, but I've found, at least thus far, for that inter-cultural animosity to be a myth. Sure, french people may often frown upon american politics a lot of the time, but the ones that I have encountered have a clear separation in their minds between our country's politics and its people. Most people are actually excited just to have an opportunity to practice speaking English to me if they find out that I'm american. I spoke with one banker here who, upon viewing my passport, asked if I was from Chicago, and then he seemed greatly proud of himself to be able to say "Let's go Bears!" in English.
In general, french people that speak English to people in the group tend to speak louder in English than the normally would in French, as if to show off to any other french people within earshot that they can speak our strange America talk. I'm pretty sure that I do the same thing when speaking French and Italian with native speakers in the US, so there's a nice little nugget of self-discovery coming from this multicultural experience. The world is all exciting and enlightening and stuff. Yay France.
Upon our arrival, many of us noticed what seemed to be a rather cold air about french women as we walked down the streets. It was easy for us to interpret that as meaning that the French are simply rude and judgmental people, but that's simply not the case. The French tend to take relationships, dating and otherwise, rather seriously in comparison to Americans. Because their relationships tend to be less fleeting of events than they are for us, they will often be much more wary and guarded about who they let into their private lives.
When it comes to men asking women out here, the process has been very disheartening for the men in our group thus far, especially before we were informed of the local dating culture. Thus far, every attempt at approaching a french woman has resulted in rejection, which it turns out is a typical start to french relationships. Rather than encouraging the attention of a potential beau by accepting a date, the french woman takes the game of "hard to get" very seriously and rejects a man numerous times before finally acquiescing. This game of chat et souris results in the man proving that he is serious about his pursuit and really thinks the woman is truly worth it.
Although this idea may sound somewhat romantic in the ears of a starry-eyed american living the dream in France, it has a few significant drawbacks for the american woman. While no means no in the US, here it rather tends to take the meaning of "try harder," so the men here are a lot harder for us to effectively reject. Instead of issuing an endearing smile accompanied with a gentle "sorry" simply won't work here; we need to adopt a much more french frigidity and drop a cold hard "Dégage-toi" on whichever man it is that won't lay off, and after enough repetition they eventually disengage.
The concept of draguer has inspired a much more extensive knowledge of french expletives among the women in the program, partially from looking it up on our own and partially from the people that were here last semester telling us that we're going to need to use those words. I'm guessing that the commonplace necessity of swearing might have something to do with part of the origins of the phrase "pardon my French." That being said, pardon my French that appeared in the previous paragraph.
The French get such a reputation in the States for being foul in language and smell, and staying here at least for this little time thus far has helped me to much better understand where their reputation comes from, and also why it's wrong in certain ways. The language itself gets mixed reviews among Americans. Some say that it's beautiful or sexy, while others find it to be gross and foul. I can definitely see the beauty of the language in the fluidity of the vowel and consonant sounds created by liaison and enchainement, which I guess is a very nerdy and analytical approach to describing beauty, but beyond that, I love the poetry that can be made with the language, and I have no satisfactory way of describing and explaining that one. Certain people just have an amazing way of putting french words together, like Victor Hugo does in "Demain dès l'aube" and "C'est le moment crépusculaire," but unfortunately the talent of some doesn't exactly make the language itself beautiful.
The french language can also sound pretty gross to some, particularly with the standard R pronunciation that some describe as sounding like you're gagging on an eel, which you hear a lot in phrases like "grands gros grains gris." Being in this country, though, I've noticed some of the nuances of how different french people pronounce that same sound, and while some people have what sounds to me like a harsh pronunciation, other people deliver it much more fluidly, making it sound more beautiful to me. Once again, the beauty of the language seems half dependent upon the person using it and half dependent upon the listener.
For me, one of the most amusing stereotypes of the French based upon american perception is that they are smelly and unwashed. Having walked into a few fromageries these past few weeks, I have definitely noticed how stinky their cheeses can be here, especially when all stuffed into one small shop. Despite the slightly off-putting smell of these cheeses, they can be absolutely delicious on a baguette, although it still takes a little while to get used to the strength of the chèvres here.
Cheese is a rather large part of culture in this culture, having numerous shops per city devoted to the craft and the 350 some odd varieties of cheese to be found here, and I can see quite a lot of beauty in that. However, it was pointed out by a professor in class today that there are numerous types of cheeses that are not allowed into the US from France, while firearms are transported freely, showing an interesting and somewhat questionable balance of values between the two countries. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it makes me wonder how the US can find french cheeses to be stinky and unclean, while tools of war are the "beauty" that we accept into our country.
Americans tend to picture the French as hating "ugly Americans," believing that we will be wholly rejected by this country that must find no beauty in what we do, but I've found, at least thus far, for that inter-cultural animosity to be a myth. Sure, french people may often frown upon american politics a lot of the time, but the ones that I have encountered have a clear separation in their minds between our country's politics and its people. Most people are actually excited just to have an opportunity to practice speaking English to me if they find out that I'm american. I spoke with one banker here who, upon viewing my passport, asked if I was from Chicago, and then he seemed greatly proud of himself to be able to say "Let's go Bears!" in English.
In general, french people that speak English to people in the group tend to speak louder in English than the normally would in French, as if to show off to any other french people within earshot that they can speak our strange America talk. I'm pretty sure that I do the same thing when speaking French and Italian with native speakers in the US, so there's a nice little nugget of self-discovery coming from this multicultural experience. The world is all exciting and enlightening and stuff. Yay France.
Books to Dive For: 14 Janvier, 2013
This post is really short. My apologies.
Since I wrote the last entry regarding my love for french bookstores, I have had a much more exciting experience at the same location. A few girls from the program and I went there to check out poetry and cook books, and the trip was rather uneventful until we got to the checkout counter. All of a sudden, the cashier's eyes rolled back and in a moment that seemed to nearly go in slow motion, she fell backwards and hit the ground. For a few seconds we all just stood there in shock, taking a moment to realize and wrap our heads around the fact that this woman had just fainted, and then it took us another moment to realize that none of us knew how to say "faint" in French or how to call an ambulance in this country. Nevertheless, we managed to get help for the woman, and she came to soon after, but I remain curious about how she has been doing since then.
Since I wrote the last entry regarding my love for french bookstores, I have had a much more exciting experience at the same location. A few girls from the program and I went there to check out poetry and cook books, and the trip was rather uneventful until we got to the checkout counter. All of a sudden, the cashier's eyes rolled back and in a moment that seemed to nearly go in slow motion, she fell backwards and hit the ground. For a few seconds we all just stood there in shock, taking a moment to realize and wrap our heads around the fact that this woman had just fainted, and then it took us another moment to realize that none of us knew how to say "faint" in French or how to call an ambulance in this country. Nevertheless, we managed to get help for the woman, and she came to soon after, but I remain curious about how she has been doing since then.
From the beginning: 6 Janvier, 2013
All of these posts are going to be put on the web way after they happened, but each was originally written on the date in its title. I waited far too long to actually make a blog.
I left the states on January 2nd, beginning my new experiences in this new country with the new year.
The excitement of anticipation for departure took a long time to hit me, so it was hardly on the forefront of my mind until a few days before I left. At night when you're trying to go to sleep is the time at which you tend to want mental relaxation the most, trying to leave the day behind you as your dreams carry you on to the next. On that night, however, my mind allowed me no such luck; instead, it proceeded to go over every possible plan and hypothetical scenario that it could invent on the topic of the coming semester, so I remained awake that night until the time that my father was getting up for work. Had it not been for the exhaustion of every day since then, I imagine that I would still be going through that insomnious ritual on a nightly basis now. I spent the next couple of days packing and preparing to part from my family and friends, and then the time finally arrived.
I like to think of myself as strong and independent enough to be unfazed by goodbyes that are to last less than a year, but when you wake up to see your mother in tears over your departure, it becomes a lot harder to keep your cool. Her goodbye marked the most emotional end of the spectrum that was capped at the other end by my sendoff from Kevin, with whom I exchanged a brief wish for a good next half year and a wave goodbye. Yeah, we're close. As for mom, she drove me to the airport and stayed with me up until we got to security, at which point I had not been feeling emotional, but mom promptly fixed that. Mom tears are contagious, so we had a teary hug and goodbye, and so began my travels sans parent.
Having not flown at all in some five years or so, and having never been on an international flight at all before, I wasn't sure what to expect on the plane that would be my home for the next eight hours, but I did know that the next time that I was to set foot on the ground, I would be in Europe for the first time.
Long plane rides are an interesting experience in several ways, one of which being a certain temporal displacement. Not only did I spend eight hours in one seat without much human interaction or moving, but I also traveled across seven time zones, such as to emerge from the plane at a time 15 hours later than when I had boarded. Since I was only able to get in about as many minutes of sleep as hours had passed, the day had already been very long for me before I arrived in Amsterdam for the layover.
Although I had been preparing myself to function in French culture for over seven years at that point, I was altogether unprepared for Dutch culture. My first flight was on Dutch Royal Airlines, being my first exposure to any european culture. My memory of airplane food had been a rather negative one, so unless American plane food has significantly improved over the last few years, I find Dutch plane food to be greatly superior, so that was a plus for them in my book. Their language, however, I was unsure of how to take. You typically don't hear that language in the States, so the bilingual intercom announcements on the flight came as quite a surprise to me. Certain words sounded similar to French, so I felt almost as though I should have been able to understand it, and then the other elements reminded me of German and the Swedish Chef from Sesame Street, or if the French and German languages had a baby that grew up to be an alcoholic. Eventually the pilot announced successively in gibberish and English that we had arrived in Amsterdam. I was in Europe. All that was left was the transition into France.
I watched the sun coming up as I boarded the Air France flight to Marseille, preparing myself to feel mostly illiterate as soon as I was to land. In the spirit of expediency, though, I managed to embarrass myself in French long before landing. When the flight attendant was going up and down the aisles offering food and drinks to people, I thought I would be well enough prepared to handle the short conversational exchange. Au contraire, when he offered me some sort of cookie I had no idea what he was saying, so I just asked for water and sipped on that while everyone else on the plane munched away on their snack. The best cure for my new embarrassment at this point was the view of Marseille as we approached the next airport. I wish that words could do justice to the beauty of that view, or that I had at least taken a picture or something, because it was a magical start to my time in the country. The rolling hills and mountains, the greenery, and the town itself looked beautiful in the morning sun, and it was as picturesque as anyone could hope for. I was finally there. I had finally arrived in France.
My entire first day in the country had a very surreal feel to it. It's possible that this feeling came from the final realization of this dream that had seemed so far off for so long, but the fact that I went for about 24 hours with 15 minutes of sleep more than likely played a significant role.
Another girl from the program and I split a cab ride to take us from the airport in Marseille to the hotel in Aix-en-Provence (Aix, for short), and we soon began noticing small cultural differences between the US and France. For one thing, taxis in France are a hell of a lot nicer than american ones. Our cab was a polished looking dark gray compact car that looked much too nice to actually be a cab, but it nevertheless took us where we needed to be.
Upon our arrival at the hotel where we were to stay the night, we noticed yet more differentiation from american living. The room was more like an apartment than a hotel room in our eyes, coming with a stove, full-sized fridge, and dishwasher. As we ventured into the bedroom, it took us a moment to verify that there were indeed two beds. The French must like getting cozy with each other, because these two twin beds were right up against each other, which we knew would make for an interesting night since there would be four of us in the room for the night.
Yet another surprise awaited us in the bathroom: there was no toilet in it. As I have since come to discover is also the case with my own apartment, the toilet is kept in a separate room from the sink and the shower. The primary conclusion that I have drawn from this is that french door knobs must be filthy. After having satisfactorily judged the country's culture by way of its hotels, Hanna and I emerged into the city in search of food.
The Cours Mirabeau is the primary street marking the city center of Aix, and it is lined with some of the most delicious and expensive restaurants to be found. Apparently Aix is the second most expensive city to live in out the of entire country. On that note, I would like to issue a formal apology to my bank account. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. So anyhow, Hanna and I eventually settled upon a nice little restaurant on the Cours, and we proceeded to take in our first dose of french dining culture. We each ordered a croque-madame and une verre de vin rouge, being my first taste ever of the former and my first ever legal purchase of the latter, and we commenced people watching.
Almost every french person on the streets is wearing some, if not all black, which fits pretty well with the american idea of the French. They are also all dressed impeccably well at all times, all smoke, and are generally really good-looking people. Cue disdain and jealousy. You see hardly any berets here though.
Starting with my croque-madame that day and continuing through every meal that I have had since then, all french food is delicious This applies to €20 meals on the Cours, €3 crepes from a cart, and €1,50 sandwiches from the FAC (Faculté de Lettres at Aix-Marseille Université, my school). My sandwich on that first day was a great introduction to french dining, but the only problem was that we didn't know how to pay and leave.
Apparently, neither of us had ever learned the word for check (l'addition), and we were certainly not used to the culture of simply sitting and hanging out at the café for so long, so we began to grow a bit uncomfortable. In France, people are never rushed in the slightest to leave a restaurant, even when the waiter knows that they are done eating and ordering drinks or desserts, so they never bring the check out early unless it is asked for. Since Hanna and I didn't have dictionaries with us or wifi access to some sort of translator, we eventually broke down and asked in English for the check. Once we had paid, our next obvious destination was one that I had been dreaming of for a long time: the french book store.
As a classic lit lover, I have a great appreciation for the power of words how the author intended them to be, and as a French speaker, I have the ability and preference of reading classic french literature in its original text. It is very difficult to find french language writing in american book stores, so for years I have been dreaming of being able to wander through the passages of a french book store. This store was a dream come true. This part of town was built by the Romans, so the buildings are old and beautiful, and the downstairs area of the store had cavernous passages slightly reminiscent of Carlos Ruiz Zafon's cemetery of lost books. I wandered around in the store until my francophilic heart was satisfied, and I left with a healthy stack of books. It was great.
I left the states on January 2nd, beginning my new experiences in this new country with the new year.
The excitement of anticipation for departure took a long time to hit me, so it was hardly on the forefront of my mind until a few days before I left. At night when you're trying to go to sleep is the time at which you tend to want mental relaxation the most, trying to leave the day behind you as your dreams carry you on to the next. On that night, however, my mind allowed me no such luck; instead, it proceeded to go over every possible plan and hypothetical scenario that it could invent on the topic of the coming semester, so I remained awake that night until the time that my father was getting up for work. Had it not been for the exhaustion of every day since then, I imagine that I would still be going through that insomnious ritual on a nightly basis now. I spent the next couple of days packing and preparing to part from my family and friends, and then the time finally arrived.
I like to think of myself as strong and independent enough to be unfazed by goodbyes that are to last less than a year, but when you wake up to see your mother in tears over your departure, it becomes a lot harder to keep your cool. Her goodbye marked the most emotional end of the spectrum that was capped at the other end by my sendoff from Kevin, with whom I exchanged a brief wish for a good next half year and a wave goodbye. Yeah, we're close. As for mom, she drove me to the airport and stayed with me up until we got to security, at which point I had not been feeling emotional, but mom promptly fixed that. Mom tears are contagious, so we had a teary hug and goodbye, and so began my travels sans parent.
Having not flown at all in some five years or so, and having never been on an international flight at all before, I wasn't sure what to expect on the plane that would be my home for the next eight hours, but I did know that the next time that I was to set foot on the ground, I would be in Europe for the first time.
Long plane rides are an interesting experience in several ways, one of which being a certain temporal displacement. Not only did I spend eight hours in one seat without much human interaction or moving, but I also traveled across seven time zones, such as to emerge from the plane at a time 15 hours later than when I had boarded. Since I was only able to get in about as many minutes of sleep as hours had passed, the day had already been very long for me before I arrived in Amsterdam for the layover.
Although I had been preparing myself to function in French culture for over seven years at that point, I was altogether unprepared for Dutch culture. My first flight was on Dutch Royal Airlines, being my first exposure to any european culture. My memory of airplane food had been a rather negative one, so unless American plane food has significantly improved over the last few years, I find Dutch plane food to be greatly superior, so that was a plus for them in my book. Their language, however, I was unsure of how to take. You typically don't hear that language in the States, so the bilingual intercom announcements on the flight came as quite a surprise to me. Certain words sounded similar to French, so I felt almost as though I should have been able to understand it, and then the other elements reminded me of German and the Swedish Chef from Sesame Street, or if the French and German languages had a baby that grew up to be an alcoholic. Eventually the pilot announced successively in gibberish and English that we had arrived in Amsterdam. I was in Europe. All that was left was the transition into France.
I watched the sun coming up as I boarded the Air France flight to Marseille, preparing myself to feel mostly illiterate as soon as I was to land. In the spirit of expediency, though, I managed to embarrass myself in French long before landing. When the flight attendant was going up and down the aisles offering food and drinks to people, I thought I would be well enough prepared to handle the short conversational exchange. Au contraire, when he offered me some sort of cookie I had no idea what he was saying, so I just asked for water and sipped on that while everyone else on the plane munched away on their snack. The best cure for my new embarrassment at this point was the view of Marseille as we approached the next airport. I wish that words could do justice to the beauty of that view, or that I had at least taken a picture or something, because it was a magical start to my time in the country. The rolling hills and mountains, the greenery, and the town itself looked beautiful in the morning sun, and it was as picturesque as anyone could hope for. I was finally there. I had finally arrived in France.
My entire first day in the country had a very surreal feel to it. It's possible that this feeling came from the final realization of this dream that had seemed so far off for so long, but the fact that I went for about 24 hours with 15 minutes of sleep more than likely played a significant role.
Another girl from the program and I split a cab ride to take us from the airport in Marseille to the hotel in Aix-en-Provence (Aix, for short), and we soon began noticing small cultural differences between the US and France. For one thing, taxis in France are a hell of a lot nicer than american ones. Our cab was a polished looking dark gray compact car that looked much too nice to actually be a cab, but it nevertheless took us where we needed to be.
Upon our arrival at the hotel where we were to stay the night, we noticed yet more differentiation from american living. The room was more like an apartment than a hotel room in our eyes, coming with a stove, full-sized fridge, and dishwasher. As we ventured into the bedroom, it took us a moment to verify that there were indeed two beds. The French must like getting cozy with each other, because these two twin beds were right up against each other, which we knew would make for an interesting night since there would be four of us in the room for the night.
Yet another surprise awaited us in the bathroom: there was no toilet in it. As I have since come to discover is also the case with my own apartment, the toilet is kept in a separate room from the sink and the shower. The primary conclusion that I have drawn from this is that french door knobs must be filthy. After having satisfactorily judged the country's culture by way of its hotels, Hanna and I emerged into the city in search of food.
The Cours Mirabeau is the primary street marking the city center of Aix, and it is lined with some of the most delicious and expensive restaurants to be found. Apparently Aix is the second most expensive city to live in out the of entire country. On that note, I would like to issue a formal apology to my bank account. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. So anyhow, Hanna and I eventually settled upon a nice little restaurant on the Cours, and we proceeded to take in our first dose of french dining culture. We each ordered a croque-madame and une verre de vin rouge, being my first taste ever of the former and my first ever legal purchase of the latter, and we commenced people watching.
Almost every french person on the streets is wearing some, if not all black, which fits pretty well with the american idea of the French. They are also all dressed impeccably well at all times, all smoke, and are generally really good-looking people. Cue disdain and jealousy. You see hardly any berets here though.
Starting with my croque-madame that day and continuing through every meal that I have had since then, all french food is delicious This applies to €20 meals on the Cours, €3 crepes from a cart, and €1,50 sandwiches from the FAC (Faculté de Lettres at Aix-Marseille Université, my school). My sandwich on that first day was a great introduction to french dining, but the only problem was that we didn't know how to pay and leave.
Apparently, neither of us had ever learned the word for check (l'addition), and we were certainly not used to the culture of simply sitting and hanging out at the café for so long, so we began to grow a bit uncomfortable. In France, people are never rushed in the slightest to leave a restaurant, even when the waiter knows that they are done eating and ordering drinks or desserts, so they never bring the check out early unless it is asked for. Since Hanna and I didn't have dictionaries with us or wifi access to some sort of translator, we eventually broke down and asked in English for the check. Once we had paid, our next obvious destination was one that I had been dreaming of for a long time: the french book store.
As a classic lit lover, I have a great appreciation for the power of words how the author intended them to be, and as a French speaker, I have the ability and preference of reading classic french literature in its original text. It is very difficult to find french language writing in american book stores, so for years I have been dreaming of being able to wander through the passages of a french book store. This store was a dream come true. This part of town was built by the Romans, so the buildings are old and beautiful, and the downstairs area of the store had cavernous passages slightly reminiscent of Carlos Ruiz Zafon's cemetery of lost books. I wandered around in the store until my francophilic heart was satisfied, and I left with a healthy stack of books. It was great.
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