Throughout the semester, there have been a lot of things that we've said over and over again. Most of them are really awful jokes.
We make a lot of Aix puns, including the name of this blog (Aix marks the spot), our facebook group (S-Aix-y Betches), our nickname for the semester (Aix-en-Vacances), and a lot of our photo album titles (Aix-pat).
We also make Marseille puns. Well, "Mar-say-what" is really all we've got. Basically, we make as many puns off of city names as possible.
"What the FAC?"
We congratulate ourselves on what we think are good jokes with one of the following:
"Nailed it!"
"Killing it!"
"Point!" *draws tally mark in the air*
"I don't speak French."
"I don't speak English."
We throw French words and phrases into English sentences because we don't really speak either of the two languages fluently anymore, and sometimes we just think of the word in another language first. We also sometimes think it's funny. Then we found out in a linguistics class that this phenomenon is called "code mixing."
We say "miel" instead of "honey."
"Anybody want to go to Crepe a Go Go?" The answer is invariably yes. This applies pretty well to Nabab and Boca Loca as well.
We say a lot of things about how much we hate and/or want to kick the pigeons.
"I drink coffee and red wine all the time. I don't understand why I'm so dehydrated!" Oh. That's why.
Sides are decisively taken on how we feel about chèvre. You either love it or hate it. There is absolutely no middle ground.
"It's near the fountain." Aix-en-Provence is often referred to as the city of a thousand fountains. You need to specify which one.
"I'm heading to (insert country name here) this weekend." RyanAir flights make the world go round... except for during the landings.
"I though I was going to die when the plane landed." RyanAir has never once had a smooth landing.
"Ça va?"
"A little bit of this..."
"You, me... bailar?"
"En épie!" In our Anthropologie de la Provence class, we learned about various styles of stone construction, including en épie. We made a little dance move to go along with it.
"Oh-bri-GOD-a!" The Portuguese word for "thank you" is "obrigada" (or obrigado when said by a man). We've also turned it into an exclamation.
"Monoprix? More like multiprix! Or n'importe quel prix!" The biggest store here, Monoprix, is functionally similar to a Super Target, except way more expensive. In fact, the one here just so happens to be the most expensive one in the country, suggesting that the prices aren't as fixed as the store name seems to claim.
Any time a beach is mentioned, at least one person breaks out into "Starships" by Nicki Minaj.
We repeatedly quote certain professors and friends.
"Qui est disponible?"
"Oh, la!"
"Vous risquez rien!"
"Je m'appelle Brandon, mais je préfère Victor"
"Ohh!"
"Plus two? What do I do with this?"
"UNO!?"
We make fun of each other's Wisconsin and Chicago accents.
We whine about the things that we miss from back home.
We whine about how much we're going to miss each other when we're back home.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
On the Boston Marathon: 15 Avril, 2013
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/16/us/explosions-reported-at-site-of-boston-marathon.html
http://edition.cnn.com/2013/04/16/us/boston-marathon-explosions/index.html
In my generation, a decent chunk of our lives has been dedicated to mourning terrorism and other tragedies in the United States. My childhood was marked by the attacks on September 11th, 2001, and although I was too young to fully grasp the gravity of the situation, I understood even as a nine-year-old that something terrible had come to pass. After all these years, I've heard and read about the other tragedies befalling the country, such as last year's Newtown, Connecticut shooting, and I've felt more and more of the meanings of these situations. Tonight, I gained the news from afar of the explosions at the Boston Marathon.
After a dinner of chicken and pasta, some friends and I were lounging around the table, digesting our meals and enjoying each other's company, as Alyssa walked in and asked us if we had heard about what happened at the Boston Marathon. Living under a rock as we do, with no TV or newspaper, we didn't know any details yet, but our Facebook and Twitter feeds were suddenly alight with vague reports of the explosions. We turned to news websites as soon as possible in an effort to learn as much as we could about the situation.
Never in my life had the Internet seemed to work so woefully slow, but we pulled up every article that we could, and eventually gathered around Alyssa's iTouch to watch the latest CNN report. Even in that moment of being so far away from everything that was happening, only seeing it on that tiny screen, I felt so deeply struck by the event. This marathon included parents from Newtown, who had already seen too much tragedy in the past year, and now they've been faced with even further devastation. Today was supposed to mark hope for them, and now it's a day of further loss, having already taken two lives according to what I've read thus far. The number of lives feeling this loss is so much greater than the number of people present at the marathon.
I feel so deeply for what happened today. In the american microcosm of my apartment, I know that I'm surrounded by similar sentiments, but I don't know what I'll find when I go out into the streets of France tomorrow. Maybe some of them have family in the States. Maybe some of them know. Maybe some of them care, and that would be more than most Americans I know could give if the tables were turned. I don't know what to expect of this situation and its aftermath in the context of this country. I can't help but to wonder if it would affect me any differently if I were back in the States right now.
I don't remember much about September 11th, that vague concept of a day from my childhood, but I know that I'll remember today. I will continue to pray for those affected by today's explosions.
http://edition.cnn.com/2013/04/16/us/boston-marathon-explosions/index.html
In my generation, a decent chunk of our lives has been dedicated to mourning terrorism and other tragedies in the United States. My childhood was marked by the attacks on September 11th, 2001, and although I was too young to fully grasp the gravity of the situation, I understood even as a nine-year-old that something terrible had come to pass. After all these years, I've heard and read about the other tragedies befalling the country, such as last year's Newtown, Connecticut shooting, and I've felt more and more of the meanings of these situations. Tonight, I gained the news from afar of the explosions at the Boston Marathon.
After a dinner of chicken and pasta, some friends and I were lounging around the table, digesting our meals and enjoying each other's company, as Alyssa walked in and asked us if we had heard about what happened at the Boston Marathon. Living under a rock as we do, with no TV or newspaper, we didn't know any details yet, but our Facebook and Twitter feeds were suddenly alight with vague reports of the explosions. We turned to news websites as soon as possible in an effort to learn as much as we could about the situation.
Never in my life had the Internet seemed to work so woefully slow, but we pulled up every article that we could, and eventually gathered around Alyssa's iTouch to watch the latest CNN report. Even in that moment of being so far away from everything that was happening, only seeing it on that tiny screen, I felt so deeply struck by the event. This marathon included parents from Newtown, who had already seen too much tragedy in the past year, and now they've been faced with even further devastation. Today was supposed to mark hope for them, and now it's a day of further loss, having already taken two lives according to what I've read thus far. The number of lives feeling this loss is so much greater than the number of people present at the marathon.
The song "The News" by Jack Johnson keeps playing in my head. If you've heard it, you'll understand.
I feel so deeply for what happened today. In the american microcosm of my apartment, I know that I'm surrounded by similar sentiments, but I don't know what I'll find when I go out into the streets of France tomorrow. Maybe some of them have family in the States. Maybe some of them know. Maybe some of them care, and that would be more than most Americans I know could give if the tables were turned. I don't know what to expect of this situation and its aftermath in the context of this country. I can't help but to wonder if it would affect me any differently if I were back in the States right now.
I don't remember much about September 11th, that vague concept of a day from my childhood, but I know that I'll remember today. I will continue to pray for those affected by today's explosions.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Day Tripper: 9 avril, 2013
Just so you know, repeatedly listening to the song "Day Tripper" by the Beatles is obligatory while reading this blog post.
Throughout the semester, the program provides us with a few day trips around various cities and sites throughout Provence, and this past Saturday's trip took us to Bonnieux, Roussillon, and L'Abbaye de Sénanque.
Provence is a notably sunny region, typically having around 300 days of sun per year. As I woke up on Saturday morning, I rubbed my eyes to find that it was one of the region's few rainy days, so I grabbed an umbrella, picked up some warm pain au chocolat from the closest boulangerie, and wandered my way over to the 50 seat bus that would be taking the 15 of us around for the day. I was not the only one to stretch out along the excess of seats to catch some naps during our day's drives.
Our first stop was a graveyard in Luberon, which at first seemed to me like an odd idea, but seeing the place took away all questions of why we were there. For one thing, this was the graveyard where Albert Camus, author of L'Etranger (or The Stranger, in English), was buried. He was a literary great, meriting mention in my past English and French classes alike, so I would have expected a grand grave to house the man. However, his grave was by no means anywhere near the largest in the cemetery. I still wouldn't call the grave underwhelming by any means; instead, there was an overarching beauty of the entire cemetery, which Camus's grave certainly contributed to. I always expect to simply get used to the beauty of southern France. I expect to see it as commonplace rather than exceptional, but everything here, from the simple houses and streets to the graveyards, never ceases to blow me away.
After we had looked through the graveyard, we moved on to Bonnieux, a perched provençal city. This is where the stairs started to become the theme of the day. Although the word "perched" tends to suggest beautiful views and all that lovely stuff, it's also a slight euphemism for "so hilly that your legs are going to give out." And so we headed off to a little old church whose name was Eglise Vieille, or "old church." I have a sneaking suspicion that this was not its name when it was first built. This church, as chance would have it, it situated at the top of an obnoxiously tall hill, so we climbed up a gentle-ish slope to reach some stairs, which led to another set of steeper stairs. It was great.
When we finally huffed and puffed our way to the top of all of these stairs, we got a wonderful view from our perch, and my primary thought was, "How does anybody ever make it here for weekly church services?" Seriously, most of the people there looked pretty well aged, and while it would be no small feat to make it to the top at any age, I can't imagine how people would do it week after week as they progress through the years. I hold a great respect for this pilgrimage that they must make so often. My fellow program members and I, however, celebrated making it to the top by climbing the really awesome tree that we found there. I'm amazed that we never got yelled at, but I get the feeling that it must happen fairly often there; that tree just looks particularly climbable, and somebody that looked like a groundskeeper or something drove through in a truck, just going on with his day comme d'hab.
After those antics, we found some quiche and café, then piled back into the bus to head on over to Roussillon, specifically heading there to see the ochre quarry. I hadn't really put much of any thought or research into what this would be like before I got there, so this was another one of those views that blew me away.
We were surrounded by vibrant orange and yellow rock that felt almost like clay to the touch -- and stained like paint. It was absolutely gorgeous, with the colors brought out even further by the rain, but there was no shortage of stairs and hills. It was there that my friends developed the motto that we like to complain (especially about stairs) in really pretty places.
Once we had finished hiking through the ochre, we still had another two hours to kill in the city, but the rain provided us with few options other than finding food and drinking coffee, so we passed the time by drinking our second and third coffees of the day. That being said, we were good to go for our third and final leg of the journey, L'Abbaye de Sénanque.
As we pulled up to the abbey, the weather was dreary, rainy, foggy, and perfect. The 12th century building houses a lavender field as its front yard, and is backed by green hills. Since the lavender won't be in bloom until June, the delicate pastel color that is normally associated with the area was lacking during our visit, and the dark and heavy fog made for the perfect complement to the scene, showing an entirely different flavor of the beauty of Provence.
We had a relatively short visit within the abbey, taking a guided tour through its quiet corridors. We passed through the rooms where monks still live in almost complete silence, wasting no words during their days. As we emerged into the gift shop, in contrast, we spent a lot of time repeating phrases along the lines of "Look at this! This smells so good! Ooh, I want to get this!" I feel a bit of guilt in admitting that this little shop was the most exciting aspect of the interior of the building. It was filled with products of the lavender grown right outside, along with other scented soaps, perfumes, foods, and oils. Seriously, though, it just smelled so good!
We came back outside into the rain and soon noticed that all of our coffees had worn off, so we packed back into the bus and headed back home through the rain and fog. I popped in my headphones and let Carla Bruni lull me to sleep, adding a French cherry to the top of my provençal day.
Throughout the semester, the program provides us with a few day trips around various cities and sites throughout Provence, and this past Saturday's trip took us to Bonnieux, Roussillon, and L'Abbaye de Sénanque.
Provence is a notably sunny region, typically having around 300 days of sun per year. As I woke up on Saturday morning, I rubbed my eyes to find that it was one of the region's few rainy days, so I grabbed an umbrella, picked up some warm pain au chocolat from the closest boulangerie, and wandered my way over to the 50 seat bus that would be taking the 15 of us around for the day. I was not the only one to stretch out along the excess of seats to catch some naps during our day's drives.
Our first stop was a graveyard in Luberon, which at first seemed to me like an odd idea, but seeing the place took away all questions of why we were there. For one thing, this was the graveyard where Albert Camus, author of L'Etranger (or The Stranger, in English), was buried. He was a literary great, meriting mention in my past English and French classes alike, so I would have expected a grand grave to house the man. However, his grave was by no means anywhere near the largest in the cemetery. I still wouldn't call the grave underwhelming by any means; instead, there was an overarching beauty of the entire cemetery, which Camus's grave certainly contributed to. I always expect to simply get used to the beauty of southern France. I expect to see it as commonplace rather than exceptional, but everything here, from the simple houses and streets to the graveyards, never ceases to blow me away.
After we had looked through the graveyard, we moved on to Bonnieux, a perched provençal city. This is where the stairs started to become the theme of the day. Although the word "perched" tends to suggest beautiful views and all that lovely stuff, it's also a slight euphemism for "so hilly that your legs are going to give out." And so we headed off to a little old church whose name was Eglise Vieille, or "old church." I have a sneaking suspicion that this was not its name when it was first built. This church, as chance would have it, it situated at the top of an obnoxiously tall hill, so we climbed up a gentle-ish slope to reach some stairs, which led to another set of steeper stairs. It was great.
When we finally huffed and puffed our way to the top of all of these stairs, we got a wonderful view from our perch, and my primary thought was, "How does anybody ever make it here for weekly church services?" Seriously, most of the people there looked pretty well aged, and while it would be no small feat to make it to the top at any age, I can't imagine how people would do it week after week as they progress through the years. I hold a great respect for this pilgrimage that they must make so often. My fellow program members and I, however, celebrated making it to the top by climbing the really awesome tree that we found there. I'm amazed that we never got yelled at, but I get the feeling that it must happen fairly often there; that tree just looks particularly climbable, and somebody that looked like a groundskeeper or something drove through in a truck, just going on with his day comme d'hab.
After those antics, we found some quiche and café, then piled back into the bus to head on over to Roussillon, specifically heading there to see the ochre quarry. I hadn't really put much of any thought or research into what this would be like before I got there, so this was another one of those views that blew me away.
We were surrounded by vibrant orange and yellow rock that felt almost like clay to the touch -- and stained like paint. It was absolutely gorgeous, with the colors brought out even further by the rain, but there was no shortage of stairs and hills. It was there that my friends developed the motto that we like to complain (especially about stairs) in really pretty places.
Once we had finished hiking through the ochre, we still had another two hours to kill in the city, but the rain provided us with few options other than finding food and drinking coffee, so we passed the time by drinking our second and third coffees of the day. That being said, we were good to go for our third and final leg of the journey, L'Abbaye de Sénanque.
As we pulled up to the abbey, the weather was dreary, rainy, foggy, and perfect. The 12th century building houses a lavender field as its front yard, and is backed by green hills. Since the lavender won't be in bloom until June, the delicate pastel color that is normally associated with the area was lacking during our visit, and the dark and heavy fog made for the perfect complement to the scene, showing an entirely different flavor of the beauty of Provence.
We had a relatively short visit within the abbey, taking a guided tour through its quiet corridors. We passed through the rooms where monks still live in almost complete silence, wasting no words during their days. As we emerged into the gift shop, in contrast, we spent a lot of time repeating phrases along the lines of "Look at this! This smells so good! Ooh, I want to get this!" I feel a bit of guilt in admitting that this little shop was the most exciting aspect of the interior of the building. It was filled with products of the lavender grown right outside, along with other scented soaps, perfumes, foods, and oils. Seriously, though, it just smelled so good!
We came back outside into the rain and soon noticed that all of our coffees had worn off, so we packed back into the bus and headed back home through the rain and fog. I popped in my headphones and let Carla Bruni lull me to sleep, adding a French cherry to the top of my provençal day.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Soundtrack to the Semester: 2 avril, 2013
In a semester filled with new experiences and memories, one thing that I know is going to be a powerful link back to these times when they're long gone and I'm back in the US is music. There are certain songs that have been played FAR too many times here to not associate with these people and places, and sometimes parts of them are oddly fitting for the memories that they're linked to. Others lyrically have nothing to do with anything.
One Day / Reckoning Song
by Asif Adan
"One day, baby, we'll be old, oh baby we'll be old
And think of all the stories that we could have told"
This is one of the songs that has been pretty much inescapable this semester, especially if you go to any bars or clubs. While the entire group is in our early twenties (save for Savannah, our sole teenager), we're certainly young and trying to experience life to its fullest, checking out foreign countries, learning about new languages and cultures, and quite simply having adventures wherever we can find them. We're creating the stories that we'll be able to tell for years to come, and who knows, maybe years from now this song will be playing in our heads as we tell them.
Forrest Gump
by Frank Ocean
"My fingertips and my lips,
they burn from the cigarettes"
People smoke in France. Granted, I myself am not a smoker, but basically everybody else in the country does. I used to hate the smell of cigarettes, but through the combination of past roommates and my time in this country, I have developed a bit of a nostalgia for the smell that tends to accompany a lot of the people with whom I've listened to "Forrest Gump."
I Follow Rivers
by Lykke Li
"I I follow, I follow you
Deep sea baby"
I couldn't really tie the lyrics of this song into anything meaningful and relevant to this semester, but this is another one that is played absolutely everywhere. The first time I heard this song was the first time I went to a bar, socializing with these new acquaintances that have since grown to be important friends of mine, and getting to know the city that I now call home.
Scream and Shout
by Will.I.Am and Britney Spears
"We are now now rockin' with
Will.I.Am and Britney bitch"
Once again, these lyrics are completely devoid of meaning. I also personally find this song to be pretty abrasive for the most part, but this song is also EVERYWHERE. For the longest time, I legitimately had no idea what this song's title was; its name was "Will.I.Am and Britney bitch," and it was the center of numerous jokes. Despite being annoyed by the way it sounds, this one is still liked to fond memories for me, and I at least somewhat like it for that.
So Fresh, So Clean
by Outkast
"I'm dressed so fresh so clean"
Honestly, if I heard any part of this song other than the chorus, I wouldn't necessarily recognize it. The reason why this one is here is that on my first trip to Marseille, my friends and I made up an imaginary band called Cody Rhône and the So Fresh and So Cleanlies. Our lead man, Cody Roehl, is known by the name of Rhône because of the wine called Côtes du Rhône. It is probably the cheapest wine at Monoprix, and sounds way too much like his name, so it was fate. We drink it a lot. The backup band, the So Fresh and So Cleanlies, was obviously named after this song that I had not yet heard before, but I guess we were particularly fresh and clean that day? That's a lie. We were staying in a hostel in a gray and rain-soaked Marseille. The song still makes me think of that group and that day, though.
Pretty much any song from Glee
or Pitch Perfect
I have watched altogether too much of each with my roommate/cousin Alyssa (did I mention that I found a long-lost cousin in my apartment?) and our friend Brandon/Victor/Paolo (who clearly has dissociative identity disorder since he can't just pick a name). When we're not watching the show Glee or the movie Pitch Perfect, we're often singing along to their soundtracks in the kitchen.
No actual French songs.
At all.
The just don't like their own music here, I guess.
Friday, March 29, 2013
What's In Store: 29 mars, 2013
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.
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.
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.
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