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.