Briefly

As I should be studying for a grammar test tomorrow I don't have much time. Tomorrow I will recount the rather drôle experience of the French grading system. Intrigued?

Tonight as I was searching through my notes I found a piece of paper which I had used during my last language exchange. You see, each of us writes down the words from our conversation that the other does not understand. I had to laugh somewhat to myself when I glanced through the strange list of vocabulary I imparted on my poor, unknowing French friend.

It reads as follows:
Liberal Arts
Peace Corps
headquarters
Eco-Tourism
orphan
host family
drama
zipper
siblings
to tailgate
tailgating
honking
to honk a horn
red neck

Only in France...

I find I rather enjoy all the various ways in which I am reminded of my presence in France. Of course there are the obvious and cliché occurrences such as flower markets, cobblestone streets, dogs in department stores, floating auras of cigarette smoke...But it is far more amusing to me to witness the more subtle, often unconscious, displays of cultural identity. Take for example my language worksheets, composed of hundreds of grammar practice sentences. Among the other tedious lines insisting on the correct usage of verb tenses, indirect discourse, subject/verb agreement, etc., can be found some comical statements that I doubt exist outside this fine republic. Moreover, I doubt that any average French citizen would even notice their peculiarity as a sentence. Although I've stumbled across many more, I could only find three for tonight:

Ayant trop mangé, il a eu une crise de foie.
Having eaten too much, he had a liver crisis.
(The term crise de foie could merit its own entry, as it seems to me so indefinable. In effect, it is something that attacks French livers after their owners have eaten too many rich foods. After such a "crisis" it is necessary to cut back on wine and chocolate and to tell all of your close friends of the pain you are currently suffering. All that said, I'm not sure if the condition truly exists)

Nous n'avons jamais mis les pieds dans un McDonald.
We have never set foot in a McDonald's.

Je n'ai pas réussi ma mayonnaise. J'en suis désolée.
I was sorry that I did not succeed in my mayonnaise.
(Because as everyone knows, it is an absolute abomination to buy mayonnaise from the store.)

Man of my Dreams!?!

This Thursday, sitting happily alone on a bench in the school courtyard, I was approached by an elderly man (read: anywhere from 60 to 75). I had my headphones on, several open books in my lap, and was clearly not interested in being interrupted. Despite this otherwise obvious sign, he began to talk to me. Mundanely, at first, with an accent so strong that I struggled to understand him. And then, in that way so seemingly natural to French men, it became, "So, are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have liaisons?" He began this lengthy tangent about amour, none of which I understood due to his accent, and I was slightly flabbergasted as to how best respond. And then he invited me to lunch and this conference at the local cathedral about the life of St. Paul. When I told him I couldn't go, he proceeded to give me ALL of his contact information--address, two email addresses, phone numbers...At one point, he couldn't remember one of his phone numbers and so he pulled an immense magnifying glass out of his pocket to look in the phone book of his cell phone for the number. I, ever unable to say no and thinking that I would never have to see him again, consented to give him my cell-phone number when he asked for it. Clearly, I thought, I just won't answer when he calls.

And so the whole event seemed comically concluded by Friday afternoon; nothing more than another excuse to make fun of French men. It was for this reason that I thought nothing of my ringing phone. I answered it, excited by the French number, only to be greeted by the gravelly and practically incomprehensible voice of Jean, my geriatric new love. He invited me to lunch on Saturday, if the weather was nice. Being that I am terrible in situations like this even in my own language, I stammered out a response of "I'm completely busy this weekend (which was true) but I will get back to you about a later time (which wasn't so true)." When I recounted the whole tale to a German girl in my class, she offered to call him back for me. She, pretending to be me, thanked him for the offer but replied that she/I wasn't interested. Oh, how I appreciate these blunt, take-charge Germans!

When I told the story to my host mom that night she replied, "Well it looks like you've found the man of your dreams. Or rather, the grandfather of your dreams!"

And thus ends my oh-so-fortunately short-lived French romance.

La Vie à la Rue

I enjoy people, I do. And yet I've always considered myself to be somewhat distant, independent, unaffected by the actions of others. In this regard, France has served me well. I am able to walk through the streets completely uninterrupted, singing or talking to myself if I please. No one will look or make anything that can be construed as acknowledgment. The streets of Aix, crowded as they may be, are one of the few public places in which you can completely retreat to your own planet.

And yet, there are times in which you feel like sidling up to the unknown woman on the bus and singing into her ear how lovely a day it is. Or smiling at the old man you pass on the sidewalk; smiling so warmly so as to tint the rest of his day a little brighter. There are no patting the heads of loitering children here. No cooing over babies or matted dogs or to-die-for shoes. No haphazard run-ins with people you haven't seen in months. You walk with purpose, your gaze fixed ahead, avoiding potential eye contact and unfortunate run-ins with mopeds.

But then, one day, after having lived in France long enough to know more than the two people you live with, you are surprised to see someone you recognize--the lady with the green reusable shopping bag, perhaps. The server from the restaurant. The old woman with shockingly light blue eyeliner. And as time passes, these encounters are more frequent, until the day when you finally see someone you know. Really know. And you stop in the street and kiss their cheeks and feel, for that little moment, so fulfilled to have actually touched a person in the rue. It's at this moment when you finally appreciate these small instances of contact, of Provençal warmth, of the French romantic sensibility. Passing classmates on the way to the market. Strolling arm in arm with a copine. Chance meetings in the school courtyard. Knowing that the woman in the corner store recognizes you and charges you less for oranges. Hearing someone address you as you walk, be it only a pardon or merci or excusez-moi.

I tried today to explain to my language exchange partner that, where I come from, it's considered rude to not acknowledge a person in passing. "Really?!?" she said. "That is so much better. The French are too serious."

Trop serieux.

The Endive: Save Your Tongue the Agony

I rather enjoy eating. As this is something I've known for some time, you can imagine my excitement and expectation in coming to one of the most culinarily celebrated cultures on the planet. And France has not disappointed. Lamb cutlets, delicate slices of saucisse, roasted pork with homemade mayonnaise. New turnips, potatoes au gratin, fleshy Tunisian oranges with flecks of red under their skin. Lemon meringues, fresh fruit tarts, canelles, crèpes, chocolate flan, éclairs, pears in chocolate sauce, madeleines...

While it may seem that I am simply a gourmand (which is probably true) I have to draw the line of edibility somewhere. And while I preach tolerance in all other realms of life, I must confess here: I detest endives. They are not even worth the effort it takes to pluck them from the ground. As the vegetable racist I have come to be, I cannot support the eating of this, the most galling of foods the earth has ever produced. Imagine an ear-wax flavored piece of celery, sometimes baked with ham and cheese, sometimes cooked with sugar and crème fraîche. This is the endive. Avoid it at all costs.

In more positive news, I learned how to knit tonight.

Une poème

Not much to report on the French side of things. Sun and school. Eating and walking. Du jour au lendemain.

Today I received an email from my little sister in which she had written the most adorable poem:

The Eiffel Tower is so far away, why don't you visit it another day?
You will be safe in France I pray
Can't wait to see you at the end of May!

Le Lundi au Soleil

Here is a rather cheesy 70s French song that seems to describe my day quite completely. For you non-Francophiles out there, the title simply means "Monday in the Sun" (pour les Francophiles, il faut que vous me corrigiez si je suis trompée.)

I sat through my one class of the day and proceeded directly to the park to eat my lunch. I napped in the sun while the nearby boy strummed his guitar and the high school truants wrestled in the grass. Ahhh, this life of leisure is going to be hard to leave.

A Change in Plans is Not Always a Bad Thing

At least, this is what I tell myself. Today should have gone like this: wake up leisurely after having showered last night, enjoy breakfast, catch the 7:18 bus, make it to the Gare Routière (bus station) by 7:40, spend the whole day in Arles with my program, see the inspiration of Van Gogh's The Night Café and an old Roman amphitheater, return happily home by 6 pm. But since real life does not always proceed the way we feel it should, this is how it really went: woke up at 6:50 after only 5 hours of sleep, took a shower this morning, was told by my somewhat irritated host mother that I had made too much noise so early in the morning, ate breakfast at the bus stop, decided that I had missed the bus and so would walk to the stop of another line only to be passed by the very bus I needed, waited for the different bus that had a much longer and indirect route to the Gare Routière, ended up missing the bus to Arles by 5 minutes, learned that the next bus wasn't until 2 pm.

Stop.

At this point in the morning when I was wallowing in the self pity of a wasted day, I discovered that two other girls in my program had missed the bus as well. Although it didn't quite nullify my exclusion from Arles, we decided to enjoy ourselves the best we could. And what wonderful a day it turned out to be! While they returned home to shower and change, I wandered through the Saturday market at the Palais de Justice (courthouse). I was undeniably irritated when I entered the square, but there was something magical about the market that completely lightened my mood. Perhaps it was the sensation of walking past stalls of dried lavender and scented Savon de Marseille. Perhaps it was the new shirt I bought. Perhaps it was seeing someone I knew in public, making me all the more an inhabitant of Aix. Or it simply could have been that the narrow walkways were crowded with people in brightly colored outfits, fashionably shouting that the blacks and grays and plums of winter are finally over. It was there that I met Sam and Greta and we proceeded to buy items for our planned picnic at the Parc Jourdain.

Want to know what we had? A huge loaf of bread, uniquely shaped and still coated in flour. A baguette with olives baked in it. Salami. Tapenade made with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, salt, and olive oil. Yogurt. Clementines. Pears. A raspberry custard tart. A lemon almond tart. A chocolate Caribbean tart.

We sat there on the grass, surrounded by bags of food, simply talking and enjoying the nearly-forgotten warmth of the sun. It was perfect, this afternoon. Full of food and indolence, good company and pleasant surroundings.

When I finally had to leave to meet another group of friends for dinner, I was surprised to find a large mass of people standing on the sidewalk of the Cours Mirabeau. As I approached, I saw that there was a jazz band playing in front of the steps of a local store (basically the French equivalent of Target), surrounded by at least 50 spectators. They were incredible, and the blatant spring-ness in the air made their music all the more appealing. I wish I could have put more than one euro in their open guitar case but, after all, I have to live too!

Dinner was held at my friend Rezzi's villa. Yes, villa. She lives only 5 minutes away from me in a huge Provençal house with 12 other people. The villa has vines growing on the walls, a red-tiled roof, and a view of the surrounding country side unlike any other. In the afternoon, the sun falls onto the back porch in thick bands, warming everything for hours. I love it there. Today I was invited to a BBQ hosted by her housemates. We had grilled sausages and hamburgers and charcoal roasted Camembert topped with herbes de provences. The food was good, the conversation better, and I spent a thoroughly pleasant evening sitting and talking and eating.

Although Arles would have been amazing, I would not exchange it for this languid, initially ruined day. I would not choose it over the sunburn I've developed, the food I've eaten, and the people I've encountered. Sometimes a change in plans is really for the best.

Pictures and Other Things

Here's the link to my pictures of Egypt on picasa. There are not very many and of course they do no justice to the reality of the place, but they will just have to suffice until you can see Cairo for yourself!

And since I realize this post is a little dry, I'll also leave you a link for a great Algerian singer I discovered while in Egypt. Her name is Souad Massi. Heard of her before? Well, here's a good start: Ech edani, Houria, and Hagda wala akter.

Se Vanter

So I know I just barely made a post, but I need to take a moment to revel in the change that has occurred tonight. After nearly a month and a half of living with them, Alain and Michèle have finally told me to exchange my vous (formal "you") form of address for the tu (informal "you") in conversation with them. Yay for tutoyer!

Calling all Paupers

To all you impoverished students and not-so-impoverished working-folk, I would like to offer a little advice: go to Cairo. Why? Because it is quite possibly the only time you will ever feel as if you've just walked out of the Monte Carlo casino with all the potential of the world contained in your wallet.

As proof of my week of opulence, here is a summary of only a portion of my spending: (EGP stands for Egyptian pounds)

A pair of prescription sunglasses: 150 EGP ($26)
A huge bag of hand blown glass items : 50 EGP ($9)
A thirty minute taxi ride : 35 EGP ($6)
A very good haircut: 100 EGP ($18)
A 4 course meal on a boat on the Nile for 3 people: 266 EGP ($47)
A one night stay in a hotel with a private bathroom : 60 EGP ($11)
Student museum admission : 25 EGP ($4)
A metro ticket : 1 EGP ($0.18)

So, who's ready to feel like a millionaire?

Deserted

Sorry for my somewhat lengthy neglect, but I've been rather preoccupied with vacationing. I returned to France just last night (after one taxi ride, two shuttles, two flights, an 8 hour layover, and two bus rides home) where I promptly indulged myself in a 12 hour night's sleep. And so, I begin in retrospect to finally recount my adventures in Egypt.

On Saturday I returned from an overnight safari in the desert with my Egyptian friends and I know of no way to adequately describe it to you. It is a place that belongs most closely to satellite pictures of distant, rocky planets; a place other-worldly. Heba, Mahmoud, and I all left Friday morning from our hotel in the small oasis village of Bawati for our one night safari in the desert. Since we had arrived at the hotel in the middle of the night, it was surprising to wake up to the sound of roosters and the utter barrenness of the surrounding desert. At the hotel we were joined by our very Bedouin guide and another American tourist named Zach (who looked alarmingly like my father in his teens). It took several hours to drive the 190 miles into the bowels of the Black and White deserts and our guide made several stops to let us climb large dunes, collect crystals, wash our faces in mineral springs, and rest under a palm-shaded oasis.

Cruising over sand dunes and past bizarre rock formations at speeds reaching nearly 80 mph, we finally found ourselves deep in the heat and solitude of the New White desert. Our guide began to set up camp with the supplies he had brought while we watched the sun set against the contrast of thousands of chalky, white rocks. It was so peaceful, that evening, listening to the music of my friends' Arabic fall around us, magnifying the utter silence of the desert. After our guide prepared an absolutely exquisite (and yet incredibly simple) meal over the campfire, we stretched under our blankets and slept under the vast desert sky. At one point in the night we were awakened by a strange chirping sound. As the moon was nearly full, we were able to see the silhouettes of two slim desert foxes enjoying the remains of our meal, scampering through camp in celebration of their fortunate find. Eventually, the weight of the blankets and our meal put everyone into a deep and contented sleep.

Around 6:30 the next morning I awoke suddenly to an unknown but albeit odd sensation. I sat up abruptly only to find everything completely as we had left it the night before. When I laid back down, the feeling (similar to a cat dancing up and down my legs) recommenced. So again I sat up to find nothing but my sleeping companions. By the third time, I was completely alert and decided to approach the problem more stealthily. As I slowly emerged from my blankets, I saw at my feet a desert fox (presumably one from the night before) staring at me. And so my friends, I have been pranced on by a fox in the middle of the desert. Erwin Rommel, I have met your namesake. In truth, I didn't really mind that the little guy felt like scampering on my torso at 6 in the morning, but I was a little scared that he wanted to nibble on my face. So after a few more kicks of my feet, he finally left.

Several hours later, we packed up the jeep and began the 3 hour journey back to the hotel. The wind was strong that afternoon and we eventually found ourselves in the middle of a sandstorm. At several points in the trip the air was so dense with sand that it was impossible to see the road. Although I was certain that our guide knew the road and the weather well, I am still surprised that we survived the journey home. Between swerving cars, huge sand drifts, and reckless speeding there were times when I feared that I had survived Cairo on my own only to die in the desert. Fortunately, that was not the case.

Although I've seen pictures of the desert my entire life, the immense reality of the place cannot compare to any representation. It possesses a beauty and strangeness I have never before seen; an atmosphere which I will forevermore respect and remember.


The beginnings of sunset


The camp


The white desert


The sandstorm

Clips from Cairo

I have successfully been in Egypt for two full days now and with the passing time I am growing to love Cairo more and more. It is overwhelming and somehow comfortable at the same time. While cars hurtle through the streets with the seeming desire to flatten anything that is stupid enough to be in their paths of trajectory, it is also possible to see wooden carts pulled by donkeys ebbing slowly through the masses of people that line the road. I think it is this melange between traditional and modern that, in part, makes the city so compelling for me.

And yet, it is a place in which I am constantly foreign. I've never before been so utterly aware of my American-ness. Although I have never once sensed a feeling of hostility, I am constantly looked at. Today as I rode in the womens car of the metro (I didn't really feel the desire to be potentially harassed in the mixed car) the stares were quite blantant--not disturbing or rude in the slightest, but nevertheless present.