Escargot, anyone?

Walking home last night in the rain, it occurred to me how ridiculous I must have looked weaving sporadically across the side-walk, attempting to dodge the snails in my path. Large, taut-bodied, juicy snails that always feel the need to ebb themselves underfoot. Whose, really WHOSE, brilliant idea was it to eat these most disgusting of creatures?

Le Printemps

I had initially planned to spend these few days before Italy at the beach and exploring local sights, but the lack of money and desire to make more travel plans has rather quenched it. And so, I've stayed in town catching up on movies and spending time with friends.

Today, my friend Xaviera and I decided to walk around the outskirts of our neighborhood. I've always meant to explore the unknown part of "farther up the hill" but it's usually too exhausting just to make it to my own apartment after a long day of class. The weather was the warmest it has been in weeks. Sunny, clear--the perfect epitome of spring.

We traipsed down long gravel roads, through tall fields of grass and wildflowers, past well-hidden houses covered in vines and colored shutters. We bemoaned the lack of accessible nature in Aix (she's from Sweden, so she understands) as we searched for somewhere soft, grassy, or dry. We finally found a charming field with olive trees, wild flowers, and an exquisite view of Mont St. Victoire.

And so we frolicked.


And made flower chains.



It was lovely.

Tout est Bien Encore

Tail between my legs, heart pounding, I slumped into the living room today to make up with a rather irritated host mother. "Umm, Michèle, can I talk to you for a minute? I know you're not very happy with me and I just wanted to apologize for whatever I did..."

After an entire week of avoiding a frightening 5' woman, everything is finally resolved. Turns out, it was a problem of laziness and a culmination of letting too many little things slide. Go figure.

1-I put my laundry in the hallway on Sunday morning (because I was going to be gone until very, very late) instead of in the bathroom on Sunday night.

2-I left my shutters open for several nights in a row, despite the absence of violent, winter winds.

3-My desk was covered in papers when she tried to clean it.

4-I leave the closet doors open when I go to school.

5-My clothes in the closet are thrown in rather haphazardly.

And so, after 20 minutes of discussion, of hearing how many times I had forgotten these petites choses, I finally told her that while there was no way to undo my past mistakes, I would recommit to doing everything better.

"It's all I can say to you. I'm sorry and I won't let it happen again."

And then, as if an entire week of short comments and critical looks had never existed, "Apology accepted. You know, my brother-in-law has a vascular problem and I'm very worried about him. I was at their house the other day and all of the sudden he stopped hearing, but fortunately I was there so we called the firemen and..."

Looks like things are back to normal.

The Return

Sorry it's taken me this long to post another entry. I've been shamed long enough by my friend Katie's regularly updated, always entertaining entries and thus I'm recommitting myself to being more diligent at writing--that is, at least until next Thursday when I depart for a week in Italy.

So, what have you been up to? Here's a rather brief summary of some of the things that have happened recently (or rather, not-so-recently due to my erratic posting):

1. Camargue:
This is a region in Southern France known for its white horses, black bulls, flamingos, and salt marshes. We were lucky enough to go with a fellow study abroad program who had already organized the whole trip--a two hour horseback ride through the salt marshes to the beach, a stop at a local town for lunch and a quick rest on the beach, and a traditional Course Camarguaise bullfight. These are what I like to call "nice bull fights" where the animals are not slaughtered like their unfortunate counterparts. In fact, the only goal of the game is to remove several small pieces of string that are attached to the bulls horns. As you can see, it's a little easier said than done.



2. Bordeaux:
I spent the weekend of Pâques (Easter weekend) in the French city of Bordeaux with several other kids from my church. Although the weather was far from pleasant (rain, puddles, wind, more rain) it was an absolutely wonderful weekend. We toured the old downtown area of Bordeaux, had a "P" themed party (I went as Le Penseur [The Thinker]), met a lot of neat people, and spent an otherwise perfect time together. I spoke French for three days straight and I only wish I could have that opportunity more often!


3. Chocolate:
Candy is as much a part of Easter tradition here as it is in the US. But in France it is the church bells and not a rabbit that delivers the treats--which, when you think about, is just as nonsensical. My favorite part about Easter in France though is the display windows of the local bakeries and artisan candy shops. Instead of the highly processed, over packaged products you'd find elsewhere, these windows are filled with the delicate chocolate shells of a whole menagerie of creatures: white chocolate lambs with little bows, hens with slightly tinted feathers, fish with bulbous lips, clowns, chicks, rabbits, and any other slightly springish creation. They're beautiful, these bonbons, but you pay a hefty price--some of the bigger ones ranged up to 45€. Although I was in Bordeaux over the week-end de Pâques, my host mom still bought me Easter chocolate which she gave me when I returned. It is a two sided shell (very traditional, I was told) filled with the tiny figures of ducks and hens and fish and flowers. I am proud to say that, after almost a week, it is still less than half-way finished.


4. Losing my Mind:
I'm entering that transitional point between French and English where I'm beginning to lack a precision in both languages. While my vocabulary is not as strong in French as I would like, I'm also beginning to forget basic English words. This week I forgot the words inside joke, alumni, fastidious, and recommitted. Soon I'm just going to have to resort to hand gestures and cross-cultural grunts.

Just Bear With Me

This week, I am tired of France. Of this impossibly gendered, over-tensed, non-accented language. Of the millions of vocabulary words I have yet to learn.

Of the lack of grass. Or rather, the lack of grass not covered in cigarette butts and dog poop.

Of my host mom's various rules that she can break but I can't. Of not being able to slam doors and play loud music and eat whenever I please. Of having to listen to the perpetual health problems that afflict the people around me.

Of being stupid. Of giving up mid-sentence. Of being constantly corrected.

I miss generosity, even side-walks, and having a car.

I miss wearing pajama pants and t-shirts and flip flops to the store.

I miss having a dryer. With nature scented dryer sheets and not the air itself. Where jeans are never stiff.

I miss understanding background conversation on the bus. A list of ingredients on a food package. A mumbled comment from a television character.

Yes, this week I am tired of France. Vraiment trop fatiguée.

Cassis

This Sunday was spent at the sea-side village of Cassis. Sans camera but full of sensations:

-Sitting on a pebble beach. Warm sun, cold water, cool wind.
-Sifting through pebbles to find the loveliest fragments of sea glass; blue, green, white and perfectly smoky.
-Squeals of little naked children as the water met their feet.
-My double decker ice cream cone of grapefruit and mandarin melting faster than I could eat it.
-Watching the old men play pétanque.
-Boat ride around the white cliffed, brush covered calanques.
-Well-dressed older women clutching sprigs of olive branches for Palm Sunday.
-Walking through warm, deserted streets. Linen drying from the windows in fragrant rows.
-Musical melange of guitar, carnival ride, passing mopeds, waves, and the hum of a thousand content voices.

Maybe This is Why You've Had Several Wives

Quote from my French professor:

"The problem with women is that you mix love with ownership.
I love you but I don't belong to you."

Translation

Here is a passage from a short story we read in my literature class. Please forgive the rather poor translation, as it is my own.

From Michel Tournier's "Les Fiancés de la Plage":

Au centre du groupe, la maman, plus toute jeune, un peu corpulente déjà, serrait en silence sur ses genoux le plus jeune, six ans peut-être. Mais autour d'eux les adolescents parlaient avec animation d'un concours de beauté avec élection d'une "miss" locale organisé le soir même au casino. On lance des prénoms de demoiselles ayant des chances de vaincre. Les filles se défient, intimidées et envieuses, affichant un détachement apparant pour ce genre de manifestation.

Soudain, un ange passe, et on entend la voix du petit garcon: "Mais toi, maman, pourquoi tu ne te présentes pas au concours de beauté?"

Stupeur d'un instant. Puis hurlements de rire des adolescents. Ce gosse, quel idiot! non mais, tu vois ça, maman au concours de beauté!

Mais, au milieu de tout ce bruit, il y en a deux qui ne disent rien. Le petit garçon qui ouvre de grands yeux et qui regarde passionnément sa mère. Il ne comprend rien, mais vraiment rien du tou à ce déchaînement de gaieté grossière. Il a beau écarquiller les yeux, ce qu'il voit indiscutablement, c'est la plus belle de femmes.

Et la maman, plus toute jeune, un peu corpulente déjà, qui regard son petit garçon. Non, qui se regard avec émerveillement dans les yeux de son petit garçon.

Les fiancés de la plage...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the center of the group, the mother, no longer completely young, already somewhat plump, held in silence between her knees the youngest child, six years old perhaps. But around them the adolescents spoke with animation of a beauty contest and the selection of a local contestant that night at the casino. They tossed around the names of those who had a chance to win. The girls challenged each other, intimidated and envious, displaying an apparent distance from this type of event.

Suddenly, a silence fell and the voice of the little boy was heard: "But Mom, why don't you enter the beauty contest?"

Stupor for an instant. Then howls of laughter from the adolescents. This kid, what an idiot! But no, can you see it, Mom in a beauty contest!

But, in the middle of all this noise, there were two who remained silent. The little boy who opened his large eyes and looked passionately at his mother. He did not understand anything at all of this outburst of raucous gaiety. Try as he might to see otherwise, the person he regarded was, indisputably, the most beautiful of women.

And the mother, no longer completely young, already somewhat plump, who regarded her little son. No, who regarded herself with amazement through the eyes of her little son.

The fiancés of the beach...

Poisson d'Avril

So I know I promised a rather riveting story of my experience with the French grading system, but I've changed my mind. Given that April 1st comes only once a year, I'd rather explain this most playful of holidays French style.

Quite simply, with fish. April Fools Day is called Poisson d'Avril in French which, is to say, Fish of April. I'm not quite certain of its origins, but the modern holiday involves secretly sticking a small paper fish on the backs of unknowing people. It is also a day where one is permitted to say whatever one pleases, n'importe quoi, with a grand "Poisson d'Avril! April Fools!" at the end.

Here is a rather amusing vintage postcard celebrating the first of April:


Today we spent an hour in class discussing 1st of April practices from all of our various countries (America, France, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, China, Korea, Nigeria, Sweden, and Syria). What started as a rather mellow reportage of our respective cultural jokes ended up in a hilarious slew of French blagues from our professor. While the jokes themselves were amusing enough, it was the near hysterical paralysis they caused in our professor that was the most amusing.

So, you need to know that the French LOVE mocking the Belgians. There are countless number of belge jokes in France (to be fair, I know that the Belgians have a great many French jokes of their own.) But, as I was informed, it is just too easy to mock the rather "slow, naïve" belge (I'm not endorsing any of the mockery--just calling it as I see it.)

And thus in honor of my time spent in France on April Fools, I will impart to you two typical Belgian jokes:

1. Two Belgians were trying to buy a new car. They checked the steering wheel, the doors, the locks, the trunk, and all the other features to ensure that they worked. Finally, the first Belgian told his friend to go outside the car and make sure that the blinker was working properly. He turned on the blinker and the second Belgian cried, "Ça marche, ça ne marche pas, ça marche, ça ne marche pas." Or, "It works, it doesn't work, it works, it doesn't work."

2. A Belgian couple was driving down the interstate in their car when the following announcement came over the radio, "Attention, attention, there is a maniac driving down the wrong side of the interstate. It is necessary that you take caution. Attention!" The man turned to his wife and said, "In fact, they need to say that there are several. Look at how many just passed us!"