How true, really, is the expression, “C’est la vie”?
My dear French friend, Esther, with me at a “soirée” this weekend in Penestin.*
A dear friend of mine just “skyped” me the following statement which I find to be pretty profound:
“It’s like there’s this sorta train on its way and when I stop to think about it, my stomach hurts a bit.”
Yes, ladies and gents, that’s a direct quote.
This stomach-hurting reference is about leaving France. A fellow American in Nantes since September who also lived with a French family, my friend Alex also “connaît bien la chanson,” as the French say, or, as we say in English, “knows the story.”
Instead of repeating the time-old cliché that “It seems like just yesterday that I arrived,” I prefer to just share what I’m feeling in this present moment.
Sadness. Nostalgia. Fear. Excitement. Relief. Stress. Anxiety. Joy.
In other words, I’m a royal mess.
And funnily enough, a song by the renown French artist Patrick Buel just began to drift into my ears from my iTunes, entitled “Pour la vie.” There are a number of times in the chorus he says, “C’est la vie, c’est la vie…” and he talks about the different ways we go in life. There is one line in particular:
“On se dit, ‘Biensûr, je m’en souviens,’ mais on rappelle de moins en moins…”
This roughly translates to:
“We say, “Of course, I remember that!” but, in fact, we remember less and less…”
My time in France will, of course, always remain a part of me. There is no way it could not. I have grown and changed, but I have also discovered the things about myself that stay always the same. Tried and true, there are qualities, I believe, that we discover about ourselves and our mother culture only when confronted with those different from our own. And yes, as I prepare to leave this beautiful, rich, confusing, difficult, strike-making, cheese-producing, passionate country in just a week, sure, “C’est la vie…” Life goes on, I will return, though I be sad to leave, “c’est la vie, c’est la vie…”
But there’s a little more to it for me.
I will keep with me, always, without much effort, a reverance for my time in France. In French, there is a word that I love that encapsulates voyage, trip, and time spent in a given place all in one: “séjour.” It wasn’t just a vacation, it wasn’t just “study abroad.” I arrived feeling small and misunderstood, lost and even lonely, isolated by the language barrier and the cultural differences. But what’s even more difficult is to leave, especially knowing that I have been understood by those so different from myself, that I have cultivated relationships, that others have taught me and challenged me beyond what I thought possible.
So yes, Monsieur Bruel, “c’est la vie,” and the chapter closes, but the book is forever altered by the pages forged in France.
*Friends I’ve made here…*sigh* I’ll miss almost the most.
April 27, 2009
Shelf life of a study abroad student: sexy or sad?
Drink in the rich image of fancy tea, calmly resting on a colorful shelf in a Paris boutique. Though it was delivered to the shop at a certain date, and is meant to stay there for awhile, eventually it will be picked up and carried out again into the world, somewhat abrubtly displaced.
A bit like the average study abroad student.
Though we can arrive in our host countries with the acceptance that it will be a bit difficult at first to adjust to the culture shock, what is often less discussed is the difficulty on the flip side of the journey. The process of arriving takes all our attention, our energy, and our focus: we don’t have time to realize what changes we’re experiencing because we’re so concentrated on the challenges that could await us. Anxiously, we search for the difficulty, and so we find none. The over-compensation of hyper-tuned radar helps us avoid pitfalls of shock (for the most part).
Finally, a few months into it, we step back and look at ourselves in the mirror. Finally, we see just how far we’ve come: the language skills, the familiar walking path from a favorite café to a class, the first time a person asks us for directions in a city that was once very foreign. A rhthym commences. Suddenly, I found myself saying “In French, we say…” rather than “They say…” I found a steady beat with which to walk among the French, rather than trying to clang my cultural sound against theirs.
But then my shelf life kicked in.
Those afternoons in Paris, licking gelato outside the famous ice-creamery “Bertillon” located on Isle San Louis, sun-kissed and glowing from visits to museums and parks and restaurants (as pictured below) seem to become even more delicious because I become aware of their finality. It’s as if someone told me, “This is the last time you’ll ever taste chocolate,” right as he handed me a bar of Lindt Swiss or a Ferraro Rocher. The taste suddenly floods my senses.
Such has been this last month in France. With just three weeks left, after 10 months here, I’m finding that there is a tragically beautiful nature to a shelf life: with the conscience of an expiration date, each limonade drunk on a café terrace, each soirée out with my dear French friends, each slice of Camembert during dinners with my host family, each promenade from school to my internship, each time I see Antoine or Emma, the little kids for whom I babysit, each odeur of a fresh baguette from a boulangerie, each sensation, chaque embrasse, chaque sourire–it all becomes powerfully poignant.
And so the shelf life is both sexy and sad, a juxtaposition of achey dread to leave and blissful relief to return. Studying abroad, I believe, is the culmination of the definition of “bittersweet,” and though of course it is difficult to swallow what is bitter, it is only in doing so that the sumptuous flavors of my experience are as delectable as that raspberry gelato bought on a sunny afternoon in Paris.
March 17, 2009
The dancing monkey who steals things…a.k.a., an American host student
My French host mother, often asking, “Julie! What are you doing? Are you alright? Where are you going? Ok, well…”
Though I’ve written a couple warm and cuddly posts about my host family, allow me to remind any one considering a stay with a host family of the possible difficulties as well. No, my mission is not to paint some sort of misanthropic picture of my lovely French host family.
But, let’s face it.
They are French.
And that means that there are certain, let’s say, qualities inherent in the way they interact with others, primarily their wee little American girl living with them. In a conversation with my mother (yes, on Skype*), I was telling her about what I’d call a sincere cultural difference between myself and my host family. Let me give you the exposition.
My host mother, lovely as she is, is somewhere between a mother hen, looking after her little flock of sons, husband, and American girl, and an overly curious journaliste, looking for as many facts as possible about every aspect of her inner circle’s affairs.
So, what does that mean for me, the American who tries to speak French and survive the teasing antics of her host brothers?
It means that I’m somewhat of a dancing monkey for my host family. They love me and accept me, but to a certain extent. For them, I feel sometimes to be the source of a dysfunctional kind of entertainment. When I make a grammar mistake, when I take two slices of Camembert instead of combining those two slices into one, when I go out with my friends and come home sort of late, when I don’t go out, when I take a sip of water too quickly, when I’m a little tired and I don’t respond right away, it’s a round of:
“Julie! Qu’est-ce qui se passe?? Pourquoi t’es aussi fatiguée? Tu n’as pas une bonne mîne, Julie, pourquoi? Qu’est-ce que t’as fait hier soir? Tu étais avec qui? Pourquoi? C’est qui? Tu dînes là? Pas ici?”
(translation:)
“Julie! What’s going on?? Why are you tired? You don’t look so good, Julie, why? What’d you do last night? Who were you with? Why? Who’s that? You’re eating there? Not here?”
The flood of questions doesn’t stop there.
On top of that, even now, 7 months after living with this family, I still feel like I’m stealing when I eat my breakfast in the morning. I grab an apple or a yogurt and I feel like the French thief at the end of Ocean’s 12 stealing the jewels while balancing multiple laser boundaries. It’s a bit absurd. The feeling of being a stranger, of being outside the family, never totally goes away. It lingers like the dew of a strong fog–it’s almost all clear, and one can see the way to go, but the sense of a haze isn’t gone. And it doesn’t go. It’s an important aspect of living with a host family–we never become truly a part of the family.
In short: I am the dancing American monkey, funny to watch, funny to talk to, who sometimes “steals” apples and bananas, who is adored in a “Oh, you cute little thing” sort of way, who is in the circus but will never be one of the French trapeze artists who are soaring high above.
Ok, I have to go, I have a class with the 50 other American monkeys dancing here in Nantes. À bientôt!
*see previous post for some Skype snippets
March 11, 2009
Ménage à trois…via Skype, that is…
After much ado (grâce à ma mère-”thanks to my mom”) about blogging, I’ve put fingers to keys once again. Sometimes in the flurry of France and all the baguettes flying around and totally black-clothed Frenchees blowing smoke in my face while they cry about their lives while sitting on top of the Eiffel Tower just gets to be too much.*
So today Skype has served me in more ways than one. The new-aged tool for communicating for free helped me reach a friend in China, my Omaha-mama, a French friend 15 minutes away, and even a friend in Chicago. And it was all from my wee little Mac. Props, technology.
But Skype has a secret its not telling you.
First of all, for those of you who have yet to discover “Skype,” here’s a brief description:
Passez des appels sur votre ordinateur. Ils sont gratuits entre utilisateurs de Skype et à tarif réduit vers des téléphones fixes et mobiles partout dans le monde. En outre, la qualité audio est extraordinaire. Laissez-le ouvert toute la journée et c’est comme si vous vous trouviez dans la même pièce que votre interlocuteur.
and in English:
“Make free calls on your computer. They’re free between any other Skype users and offered at a reduced price for home phones and mobiles everywhere in the world. Plus, the sound quality is extraordinary. Leave it open during the day, and it’s like you’re in the same room as the person you’re talking to**!”
So now I can fill you in on the magical secret that makes Skype even sexier:
the possibility of a three-way.
That’s right friends, on Skype you can ménage à trois with your loved ones. Though the video capability is mitigated when you switch to a three-person call, three Skype users can talk and hear each other at the same time. It’s brilliant!
And you may even get to hear your mom say, “Ooh, yeah, I’ve never done a three-way before, that’ll be fun!”
Totally, totally worth it.
For more info on how to download Skype, visit: www.skype.com
*Yes, I totally subscribe to these ironic stereotypes. (not)
**I added the exclamation point for American enthusiasm to which the French do not always subscribe.
February 16, 2009
How to avoid stu-”dying” (financially) while abroad
The harsh reality of many students’ lives, at home and abroad.
It’s a well-known fact that students are the wealthiest demographic of all the social strata.
Riiiiiight.
Considering the price of college tuition these days, coupled with the current economic crisis, students are needing to be more and more creative when it comes to part-time jobs to supplement those oh-so-important late-night pizzas, movie tickets, or even toilet paper.
This need to be creative is even more pressing when a student is overseas.
When I landed in the Paris airport five months ago, I was very stressed about finding a job. I work around 20 hours a week in Chicago as a tour guide, assistant in the English Department office, or in the Undergraduate Admissions Office. How was I going to find a way to make my euros go the distance?
I did a couple of things right off the bat, and now I have a steady babysitting gig, a couple of students to whom I give English lessons, and some other offers still coming in.
1. Talk to your network.
That is, if you’re living with a host family while spending time abroad, ask them their opinions. Do they have friends you could babysit for? If you’re in student housing, is there already an office set up for foreign exchange students to ask questions? Start by asking, and you shall probably receive at least a start in the right direction.
2. Fliers, fliers, fliers…
After consulting with my study abroad director, my host mama, and some young French students, I made a flier that included my information and my price for private English tutoring (12 euros/hour is a pretty competitive rate, affordable yet not too cheap–French people shy away from things that are too affordable because they think it indicates poor quality). A couple days later, I had some emails and began calling people to set up “rendez-vous.”
3. Be the squeaky wheel.
Sometimes after putting fliers up on school bulletin boards, grocery store windows, church bulletins, and university boards, there still is no answer. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a need. Just this morning, I received a text message from a French high school student interested in getting English lessons, and I’m planning on meeting with her later today. If you just keep pressing on, you’ll find someone who needs to learn English, or needs a babysitter.
Though it isn’t easy, especially in a foreign country, you can find a couple little lessons to earn yourself some going-out/toiletry mula. Keep with it, research websites like this one I found, sort of a “Craig’s List” for the Frenchees: http://www.vivastreet.fr/account_classifieds.php
And hey, if you don’t find a job, think of all the weight you’ll lose walking around Europe not being able to buy baguettes.
February 12, 2009
Why are French women so hot?!
Who DOESN’T want to look like this? Seriously.
Call it better genes, better jeans, a certain “savoir-faire” (know-how) or simply an effect of the hierarchy of human beings, but there is something about French women that just works. There is a quality to the way they sling a scarf around their long, graceful necks. making hundreds of loops from two yards of fabric.Even my host mother, passing into the golden years of her life, carries an atmosphere about her. Matching her outfits in complimentary ways that aren’t overly match-ee match-ee, her clothes are always pressed and ready for the day, with easy transition to prepped for a soirée with a simple application of some eye-shadow.
As I walk down rue Crébillon, the main drag of downtown Nantes, which is lined with Michigan Avenue-worthy stores and even more worthy shoppers, I could not feel more aware of my americanism (I know, not really a word, but still).
This was particularly evident to me the other day. I was charging down the street, iPod earphones blasting “The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson, and finally feeling at home in a city where I’d lived for about five months. I have even mastered the classic French stare: the cool gaze that you arrange about your face to avoid shallow stranger-smiling. Everything was like a movie, the sun was out, I had great music, on my way to meet friends, when suddenly, I couldn’t hear Michael serenading my triumphant marching anymore, and as if in slow motion, I realized it just as it happened…
I face-planted.
No lie. The tip of my boot had caught on one especially knarly cobblestone, and I tripped over it and fell right on my face. Hands out to brace the fall helped a little, but what hurt especially was, of course, my pride. Just when I thought I was migrating over to the French side of sophistication, I got a little message from the heavens that no, in fact, I will always be American, making a little bit of a spectacle of myself wherever I go.
It’s not so bad–I picked myself up, brushed myself off, turned the corner, and no one on that next street knew I wasn’t French.
Touché.
February 11, 2009
What’s in a French “mom”? Frenchness, kindness, good wine…
Nathalie, my beautiful host mama, always dressed to the nines and lookin’ fine.
“Dis-donc, Julie, raconte! Qu’est-ce que t’as fait aujourd’hui?”“Julie! Tell me! What did you do today?”
Such is often the greeting I receive from Nathalie, my French host mother, when I get home from a long day of classes, meetings, clubs, or just general life in France, accompanied with a cup of tea or even better, un verre du vin (a glass of wine). Sitting down with regal grace across from me, my host mom will listen attentively, lending her ear but also her objective and often quite frank advice (ever wonder where the word “frank” comes from? Stop the presses–because if ever there was a people almostly too bluntly direct and honest and at times, it is the French).
Though she speaks from her French esprit (soul, mind; in French, esprit involves the two into one concept), Nathalie Renaud is much more than just a polite conversationalist. She laughs easily, quick to find the joke or the bit of a situation that is somewhat shocking, flashing her eyes and biting the corner of her lip in a girlish manner, and tempting her audience to react the same way. That is, any time a friend of mine has come to visit me, to have dinner, to watch a movie, or simply stop by, she is ready to meet and greet them, to get to know them, and to see the beauty of the funny things in life.
This evening, for example, my friend Kathleen is sleeping over, since her host parents are in Paris for about 10 days (yes, the French have roughly 7 weeks of paid vacation a year, and yet are still the world’s 4th biggest-economic power). Upon arriving at the house, I was anxious to get up to my room so as not to disturb my host parents after hours. Yet, as Kathleen and I stood in the doorway, saying a quick “Bon soir” to Nathalie, we began to have a more intricate conversation about Kathleen’s host family and how Kathleen, who just arrived in Nantes a few weeks ago, is taking to everything. Three minutes into it, Nathalie broke from her sentence and declared, “That’s it, I’ll come have a cup of tea with you girls, let’s chat!” (Of course, said in French.)
Less than the detailed points, more so, I want to paint the portrait of my host mother as a genuinely warm, caring woman, who loves her family with all of her heart, who gives of herself in a uniquely French way; that is to say, though the French might be known to some Americans as arrogant, unapproachable snobs who don’t know how to loosen up and just stop going on strike all the time, my host mother, I believe, represents a part of the French culture who know how to cook, how to drink fine wine, how to laugh about those things that deserve laughter, and how to cast aside what doesn’t really matter. She knows how to observe, with a keen eye and a worldly understanding, those around her, and love them for who they really are, faults and qualities alike. She is, even if she is French, a mother to me, though I am an ocean away from my own. She is, as we say in French, a maman. And I am so lucky to get my experience in France with someone like her.
She has even participated in her own generation’s strikes. It’s offish. She’s tight. Granted, I can’t ever explain to her how the fact that “tight” is a compliment, but still.
January 26, 2009
25/1: Another Sunday of epically slow proportions, II/II
Continuing on with my updated résumé and insights…
20/1: The Presidential Inauguration! Or, as we say en français, “L’invesiture d’Obama!” It has been incredible being in Europe while the historic political scene has been taking place. For the noon-time event, that being about 6:00pm en France (18h00), I headed to my favorite bar in downtown Nantes, a place that has become somewhat of a second-home: Webb Ellis (yes, named after the Welch founder of rugby). It offers a warm atmosphere, striking the balance between a rowdy sports bar and an intimate French café with the European-style high tables and rugby paraphenalia everywhere.
Ludo, the owner, is incredibly welcoming of all the Americans, and so we head to Webb Ellis when we just want to wind down with a kir or a café, or when we’re winding up and end up staying for quite awhile. Arranged in advance, Ludo 
showed the inauguration on the big projection screen (le grand écran) and we ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate the momentous occasion.
We were all just stunned, sitting there, a group of about six Americans and two dear French friends, listening to the profound words of our new president:
I know, my Longchamp looks ridiculously large in this photo. :-p
After the inauguration, we headed to a crêperie for dîner, a social activity arranged by Samuel, the beloved social coordinator of IES. I had a galette, which just means a crêpe that has the makings of a salty, dinner-ish plate, like in my case: cheese, sausage, seasonings, and an over-easy oeuf (egg). It was chocolat all the way for dessert, and cidre brut all during the meal, which my friend Pete seemed to enjoy a little too much:
Soooo drôle, mon ami.
21: Had two classes, including my teaching internship course, which I am really excited about. Mme Duportail, the professor, smiled so much during the course, and was so convivial, I wondered if she was really French. It was back to dîner chez moi (dinner at my house) for the evening, and a night in.
22: Headed to the IES center after sleeping in, babysat, and lead my convo club before going over to my friend Guillaume’s for dîner, and then to Webb Ellis for drinks. The conversation club I lead is for the French American Alliance organization here in Nantes, which is known as “France/Etats-Unis,” and is sort of one of those chic extra-curriculars for adults. French adults who are members of the Alliance thus come to the institute for practice with their English with a young American student<—–me.
23: More babysitting little Antoine (3 years old) and Emma (1 year old) before eating with my host fam. The night then took a swirly turn, as I headed into town around at about 9pm.
21h00: at Webb Ellis, meet up with French friends.
22h00: Still Webbing it up.
0h00-1h00: Head to night club here in Nantes, “Castel.” Play on the word, “castle.” Gain admission due to Jérôme’s friend, Guillaume, who dj’s at the club. 13 euros including a beverage.
1h00-3h00: Dancing, talking, drinking, and fun!
3h00-6h00: Head over to friend Victor’s for the morning to speak some more French and discuss cultural differences such as the word “hypocrit.” In jesting with a friend, Nicolas, who was trying to dry his just-washed hands on my sweater, and who wouldn’t let me do that same to him, I said, “Ah, comment t’es un hypocrite, toi!” His face went positively white. The following 15 minutes included me apologizing and playing my American card for the umpteenth time, and figuring out that that is pretty much the most honor-shattering thing to say to a French person. Bit of a sting of a lesson to learn, but now ça va, ça va.
24: Slept until…3? Watched “Darjeeling Limited” and had dinner chez Jérôme…went to bed around midnight from exhaustion from clubbing. Own fault, yes. :-p
25: Ah, TODAY, at last! Caught up! Consisted of a lunch of pasta, a lovely pork/meat sauce, salad, and dessert, with a glass red cabarnet. Quintin has been resurfacing the terrace, and good American friend of mine, Alex, is coming over for a cup of tea before dinner tonight, which will be all in English, as an opportunity for my host-bros to practice. American friend Charles will be dining with us as co-animator of discussion, and 2 of Vianney’s friends will be coming, too. After dinner, I’ll probably begin reading “Les femmes savantes,” by Molière, in preparation for my French theater class tomorrow.
25/1: Another Sunday of epically slow proportions
It’s that time again.
Time to…
be.
Sundays really are to France as the tortoise was to the hair…verrrrrrrryyyyyyy slow. Especially in consideration of the time French people spend out and about, working, walking, talking, drinking, eating, museum-ing, n’importe quoi…
So finally, much to what I imagine will be my mother’s great pleasure, I am able to sit and just write for awhile, sans distraction. My time in France really has taken off since getting back from my lovely holiday in England. A brief résumé:
13/1: I arrive back in Nantes, and greet my ever reine-like (queen-like) host-mother. Somewhat surreal realization that I was no longer at the Rowley residence. A bit of a culture shock. Begin speaking French again, a bit slow to respond, but luckily it was all there.
14: Not too much to report, save drinking tea, sleeping, and dining with the Frenchees. Much host-brother teasing, but finally feel that I have ammo with which to retort back.
15: Week of orientation at IES with the new group of about 60 americans; I found a way, even in France, to be a tour guide. Headed to the French university (l’université de Nantes) with the new guys, and walked around for about two hours, explaining and showing and helping as much as I could. Stopped at the little expresso bar inside the R.U. (restaurant universitaire) and had a café with my group, which started a chain-reaction with the others to join in on.
For one of the first times, I chit-chatted with the woman manning the bar (<–ironic sexual contradiction here, God bless the English language). It was fabulously liberating, my speech flowing with ease, with no real snag between my thought and my actual conversation. After getting back to IES, the center downtown, I headed off to my babysitting gig. Around 18:30, I met up with the other Americans, and my good friend Moy, who is also a full-year student, walked with me like a co-mother duck at the head of about 30 of them to get to “L’hôtel” for a little “Galettes des rois” celebration. See below for a brief history on “galettes des rois” en France.* Also see below for a picture of our little pre-dinner gathering to celebrate this tradition: 
Continuing with my résumé…
16/17 (vendredi, samedi/friday, saturday): Not too much too report; did some walking around, went out with some of the new Americans…as previously written, went to my first FC Nantes football game.
18: Sunday, as today is, was quite slow. Saw “Burn After Reading” with about 5 other Americans, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The six of us were about the only ones laughing during certain moments, as it was shown in what is called, “Version originale,” so it was in English with French subtitles. Oh, what is lost in translation, honestly, is sometimes the funniest joke or innuendo…
19: Courses begin! I’m taking the following this semester:
FR473: Grammar/composition course at IES with the ever-famous Mme de Pous
LT345: Panorama du théâtre français
IN395: Teaching Internship (I’ll be teaching English in a French préparatoire twice a week, a prep-school for the Grandes Écoles en France = ooh la la:)
PO340: La France et les États-Unis au Moyen-Orient depuis 1945: convergences et divergences (France and the Middle East since 1945)
HS/RL342: Religion, Société et Etat dans la France moderne (XXe siècle)–>Religion, Society, and the State in Modern France, 20th century)
I’m really looking forward to this semester, and I’ve resolved to be more organized. Part of this resolution evolved from my experience at the French university last semester, where I felt sort of like a needle in a haystack, not paid to much attention by my French professors, and even less by my fellow French students. Thus I’m sort of confining myself to the IES institute for courses, as I believe it will force me to be more diligent with my studies and that means becoming more adept at FRENCH.
This post is getting a big obnoxious in length, so look for Part II of Epically Slow Sunday above…:)
*A king cake (sometimes rendered as kingcake or kings’ cake) is a type of cake
associated with the festival of Epiphany in the Christmas season in a number of countries, and in other places with Mardi Gras and Carnival. It’s very popular here in France, but also in Belgium and Switzerland, Portugal, and Spain.The cakes have a small trinket (often a small plastic baby, sometimes said to represent Baby Jesus–imgaine that, a little plastic Jesus) inside, and the person who gets the piece of cake with the trinket has various privileges and obligations–that is, if he doesn’t choke in his efforts to win the prize. :-p
January 19, 2009
French football, films, fun, and friends…
This weekend was a bit blurry, but incredible all the same. A brief resume:
17/1: Attended my first ever FC Nantes football match. In European terms, football = soccer, hence the keeping with the culture in which I’m living. It was wicked fun, sitting with all the hooligans and crazily loyal fans, trying to shout French swear words while not getting on anyone’s nerves. I went to the match with some of the new American crowd, who are just as jovial as can be, and truly had a lovely time. See below for evidence of a truly cross-cultural photo:
Note the French dude behind us, holding his cigarette in his Frenchiest way. God bless him.
After the match, we headed to the beloved Webb Ellis, a welch bar in the centre ville. The tram ride there could NOT have been more crowded, but Charles le Roi and I made it work. En ville, I met up with Jérôme and Guillaume, my two lovely, lovely French friends, and another good buddy, Alex, whose brother, Chris, was visiting. Laughing and bantering in French and in English, the night sped past us…time seems to do that when one is enjoying the company so much:
Pete, Charles, me, and Alex 
Guillaume, Alex, Jérôme, and Charles
Put me home quite late…and sooo worth it.
18/1: On this sunny Sunday in France, I rolled up and out of bed around noon. After a nice little lunch with the host fam, where I understood almost everything that was said, I trotted on down the lane chez les Jagneau, where Dina, the new American where Imin used to live, was hanging out, and invited her over “for a brew” (thanks, English folk). We ended up heading downtown to meet up with some others, and spontaneously decided to go see “Burn After Reading,” the new Coen brothers film with George Clooney and Brad Pitt. INCREDIBLE film, go see it ASAP. Then it was back on home to dîner with the host fam, and organize some papers to get ready for the first week of classes.
19/1: Ok, so the day has been pretty much a RUN-DOWN so far:
7h35: Alarm sounds.
7h40: Get up.
8h08: Dressed and ready, descend from my room to grab a couple clementines before dashing out the door.
8h15: Catch #56 bus vers Malakoff to get to the IES center for my 9h00 grammar class.
9h00: La grammaire avec Mme de Pous! Oh, how her steely blue eye-shadow makes my knees weak.
10h00: Finish with Mme’s class. Computer lab. Chicken marbella recipe copied down because the silly printer isn’t working. Made some Easymac (thank you BETH!) and trotted out the door.
11h15ish: At Marché Plus, the local little grocer, where I bought fixings to make an extravagant meal this evening for my host family.
12h00ish: Arrive back at host fam abode. Run into host mama and Vianney, little host bro. Find out that host mama has ALL missing ingredients for chicken marbella. Washed over with sense of relief.
12h30ish: Lunch with host mama and Vianney. Fish sticks, rice, peppers, salad, tea. Good stuff.
13h30ish: Help clear the table with host mama.
14h00: Currently blogging and thinking about how I need to go make the chicken marbella so that it can marinate properly for a good five hours before dinner.
WHEW!
I also learned a lovely French expression today that is somewhat intriguing…when something is too salty, as Vianney thought the salad was at lunch today, one asks the chef/person who made the too-salty food, “Es-tu amoureux?” meaning, “Are you in love?” This might not strike the logical chord immediately, but then Vianney explained, “Because when you’re in love, your eyes aren’t on the salad, and your brain is somewhere else, so you just let the salt fall onto the plate…”
Ah-ha, Frenchees. Touché.
December 29, 2008
29/12: The Holiday, English-style
So, I don’t have Jack Black offering me big-dolloped Starbucks, but I am still quite cheery.
I’m spending the winter holidays in Manchester, England.
Though France is lovely, it really was high time to get to a familiar place. Homesickness becomes particularly dehabilitating around the big holidays, and so I headed off to the home of a dear family friend. Jayne met my “mum” when the two of them lived in Paris, about five years before I was born. Sort of like an aunt to me, she has visited the States numerous times, and was delighted to invite me over for Christmas.
More than hop from one tourist activity to another, we’ve been a bit confined to the house as I got the flu my second day here. Finally feeling more on the up and up, I will be rejoining the three-dimensional people today with a bit of shopping and hob-knobbing around town.
One cool activity we did before I got super sick was to climb a tower, Rivington Tower, to be exact. It took about three hours in all, but I still felt a great sense of accomplishment at the top:
Though it has been somewhat challenging to be so far from home and my family during the holidays, I’ve managed by focusing on how brilliant it is to live in the moment. It truly is a once in a lifetime opportunity to spend Christmas in England, let alone a year in France. And hey, climbing forts sure does beat emptying the dishwasher. 
November 13, 2008
Cracking French Codes
Even Antoine, the petit boy I babysit for, doesn’t smile. 
Some say that it is through the encountering of new cultures that we really begin to understand our own. I have found this to be a valid observation after my first couple of months living in France. I have drunk the cosmopolitan cocktail of the new culture, and just now, two months later, I am beginning to get over the sour hangover of finding things in a different light after the sugar had left my system.After that honey-moon feeling has evaporated, and the new environment in which you find yourself has become routine, obstacles, conflicts, and misunderstandings start to come out of the woodwork. I found myself feeling more and more misunderstood in the month of October, wondering why things weren’t done in the way I was used to doing them, or how anyone could possibly think to say something a certain way. I was truly pressed to find just one week, or even just one day, in which I didn’t feel smacked in the face by my new world.
But then, I sucked it up. I found some codes, some cultural keys, to unlock those doors that kept getting slammed in my face during daily interaction.
I began to realize that when I enter a shop, in France it is obligatory to say “Bonjour,” as well as “Au revoir,” when I exit. This small addition to my daily habits has made all the difference in my dealings with shopkeepers, and often has meant good versus bad service. When I get home in the evenings, I make an effort to stop by the kitchen or the living room and present myself to my host family, greeting each person individually before dropping my bag in my room. In dealing with strangers, I take an extra second to excuse myself for bothering them before asking for directions, and their instant smile at this makes me feel like I am finally understanding them: the French.
They do not smile for no reason, as we Americans will do, almost as a reflex. The next time you’re walking down the street, count how many times you smile at someone you don’t know. I bet you’ll be surprised. The French find this smiling thing somewhat shallow. Instead, smiles are reserved for precious moments, or when you’ve had a little interaction that merits a shared understanding.
Allow me to explain.
Today I was at the supermarket, and was heading toward the queque. As I approached, mini-baguette and wheel of camembert in hand, I assessed my choices for lines quite keenly. Stepping into the line closest to me, I suddenly noticed the line to my right was shorter. As I made a move to change queques, someone appeared from behind the aisle and took the spot I was readying to conquer. The woman in front of my original line choice saw this entire process, my brief hesitation, my movement to jump to the other line, and then my little smile of embarrassment at my own defeat. Looking over her shoulder, she grinned at me, as if to say, “Aw, little one, it’s alright, you just stay right there and you’ll be done soon! Don’t worry if you didn’t get it this time.”
It may sound odd, but that smile from her was a little victory for me. I grinned right back, laughing a bit, and rung up my little lunch after saying “Bonjour” to the cashier.
I’m telling you–crack the codes, find the keys, and life becomes a series of little successes that add up to one great experience.
October 2, 2008
2/10: Getting down to French business!
It was QUITE a day.
To start, I headed out not knowing exactly where I was going. 
Me, knowing where I’m going, most of the time. Not like today.
Though that feeling is always a little unsettling, after surviving in Italy with basically zip-o language skills, I’ve realized that if I can at least ask, “Excusez-moi, Madame, pouvez-vous me dire…” then I’ll be alright. The reason I didn’t know where to go was because my L’histoire d’art class was actually held at the Musée des Beaux Arts de Nantes today.
Behold. La musée!
No big deal, just, lemme grab some breakfast and you know, go look at primary-source PAINTINGS for class.
Gee whiz it was awesome.
It was just fun to walk around the museum with my friends (I was paired up with my friend, Ben, who goes to Santa Clara, who also loves art) and look at the art and analyze it. The hour and a half flew past me. I had one of those moments come over me like, “Am I really here, in France, in CLASS in an ART MUSEUM like this, and my prof is FRENCH and she’s speaking FRENCH?”
Then my friend Moy and I headed to Marché Plus, a little grocery store, for the week’s cours. For 16.92 euros, I bought:
- Camembert (si important)
- a box of spaghetti
- spaghetti sauce
- a frozen pizza
- a package of 2 quiches lorraines
- those AMAZING Bien Mention cookies
- raspberry jam (Bonne Maman:)
- a baguette
- a 4-pack of yogurt
- a can of peas
- a pack of 2 slices of turkey
Excellently bought, I thought. Then Moy and I headed back to IES for lunch. Afterward, Mads and I headed to the SNCF station to get our 12/25 cards and our Tours tickets–81 euros, but cela vaut la peine. We actually ran into Magalie, a really sweet French girl whom we met through Mads’s friend Steph, and tomorrow we’re meeting up with her and some of her friends to boire un verre. Yippee!
After the train ticket excursion, I went back to IES and worked at the bibliothèque for une heure. At 16h00, I headed out to go and fetch Antoine, the little French boy I am now babysitting for on Thursdays and Fridays, from school. He was absolumment adorable! Après Antoine, I picked up Emma from her day-care center, and a quick 20 minutes later, Mme Bonneau was home! Just in time, I headed back to IES for the Club de Conversation that I lead for the French/American Alliance. It’s a club of French adults who are enrolled in this association that sponors intercultural events with French and American people, so I get to exercise my English machine once a week WITH some Frenchees. Chouette, eh? :-p
I had printed out an article about the debate between Madame Palin and Monsieur Biden going on at WashU tonight, but before we dove into conversation about the elections, I had each one of them go around and introduce themselves (in English) and describe where they were from and what they were currently doing: working, retired, kids, grandkids, whatevs. It felt like I was back on old turf, like giving a tour of campus, except we didn’t move and I was in France. But you know what I mean. At the end, they all thanked me profusely, and as we switched our conversation back into French, and the scales shifted from my favor to theirs (yet again), I realized just how cool the hour had been, because even though we walked out speaking French, I felt like I had gotten to be myself with some French people, like we really got to know each other a little bit, and I realized how lucky I feel to be able to at least basically function en français.
During the conversation, we touched on a lot of info about the elections. I asked the six French adults I had in front of me what their thoughts were about the elections and what their thoughts were about American culture in general. When I asked the latter question, one woman thoughtfully replied something like this:
“I find that when I am with French people, and we talk about America, that the French often criticize the American way of life. But the reality is that though the French criticize the life, they want it for themselves all the same!”
Very, very interesting.
I found myself working to keep my personal opinion out of the conversation and continually turn things that I might have reacted to negatively into calm questions. This worked quite effectively, and by the end, we’d had a lovely hour of practicing English together, and one of them told me, “A friendly atmosphere–that’s what we’re looking for!” which made my heart all full of puppies dancing in front of rainbows and sunshine.
Then I took the 56 bus home, vers Hermeland, hopping off at Poincaré, mon arrêt, and walked the four minutes it takes me to get to Rue Claude Monet (do I REALLY live on this street? YES. :D).
Then it was à table pour dîner, where I found out that Vianney will be going to England for a week, and staying with a host family and everything, and when he was talking about how nervous he was, I was like, “T’inquiete pas!!! Je peux t’aider, vraiment. Tout se passerent bien…si je peux le faire, tu peux le faire aussi!” and he said, “Mais ce n’est pas pareil!”
Oh, Vianney. :-p Welcome to my life all the time.
September 24, 2008
Celebrating the little victories…when you’re an American Idiot.
Yep, it’s happened.
I’ve already experienced, more than a few times, the feeling of stupidity that comes with moving to a new country.
For any of you reading this considering studying abroad, I cannot recommend it highly enough. The benefits are enormous, and while I’ll write more later on how awesome it is, I do want to say: you must, you MUST, YOU MUST:
have a sense of humor.
I have found myself riding different waves of emotions from time to time, and the roller-coaster of studying abroad can really be helped by a heaping of laughter and self-understanding. Patience is obligatory if you’re planning on studying for a semester or even a year like I am. While patience is a virtue upon which I am constantly working, I find that it still helps me in my every day endeavors.
Allow me to explain.
Yesterday, I was standing in line at a “Librairie,” which in French is actually a bookstore, not a library (une bibliothéque). As usual, I felt like everyone in line was thinking, “God, what a silly American girl, clutching her books and not knowing what will happen when she gets to the counter,” which of course is the furthest thing from reality. So, I’m standing there, and finally it’s mon tour, and after I hand over my 10-euro bill for my 5.50euro book (un livre), I receive only coins back from the cashier. I searched her face frantically, and asked,
“Mais Madame, vous m’avez donner seulement les centîmes…pourquoi?”
Looking at me with a sort of “Aw, poor little one can’t count” face, the woman pointed to my hand full of coins. As I glanced down, I realized that I had 4.50euros in my hand: two 2.00euro coins and one 0.50euro centîmes.
Smart one, Jules.
I had thought that, like in America, I would get bills and coins back, and I was ferociously self-defensive that this cashier, hearing my accent, was trying to take advantage of me.
Once again, I made myself the center of the universe.
One thing I’ve learned so far: people don’t pay as much attention to you as you might think. Though it is certainly important to pay attention to how loudly you might be speaking English as you walk around town or how obnoxious you might be while out with other American comrades, the world around you doesn’t just KNOW that you’re American. I have to remind myself of that quite often.
But as I rushed out of the bookstore, face burning with embarrassment, I tried to console myself with the knowledge that at least I had figured it out. At least I had learned something, and I could remember for the prochaine fois (next time) that anything under 5euros comes in the form of coins.
Small victory, giant moment for Mademoiselle Foubert en France.
September 20, 2008
L’emploi, la culture, ma famille d’accueil…
Mon petit frère français, Vianney, coupe la pizza pour dîner. Adorable, n’est-ce pas?
Today was QUITE a productive day! It was certainly a “I love France” day–sometimes I am not so lucky. But things are ironing themselves out, so for that I feel very fortunate.
Nouvelles: Yesterday, I discovered a website called “Vivastreet,” which is basically the French equivalent of Craig’s List, and I made un petit annonce, aka a free ad, for those looking for a babysitter. After one night of my ad’s publication, as of this morning I had received not 1, not 2, not 3…but 8 offers of employment from various parties! One in particular is incredibly promising, so tomorrow I have a rendez-vous with Madame Lydia Labalette and her 2 petits garçons to see if we can work something out for the entire school year. Stay tuned! Things are looking good (*crosses fingers)!
Éxpérience culturelle: Today, I opened a French bank account. With the help of my beautiful French mother, who took me to the bank, I was able to chat it up with a lovely banquier (banker man) who apparently had a couple of friends in New York and was just nuts over Al Capone and Chicago, so he waived all of my fees for opening/closing my compte. Soon, I will have a little French “carte bleu,” aka an ATM card, and I’ll be able to make deposits and everything! Héléne, the other woman who helped me, was wonderfully patient and explained things to me so I could understand. I am so proud that my euros are safe and sound at the bank now, instead of in my hot little hands!
Famille d’accueil: For those of you who don’t know, “Famille d’accueil” translates to “Host family” en français. Mine is incroyable. We laugh so much, my brothers are already teasing me and semi-beating me up, it’s fabulous. Tonight, Quintin, the 23-year-old who lives in Nantes but not at the house, came over for dinner, and we had a bang-up time. I feel so lucky because we’re in Week 2, and I can already feel myself becoming more and more comfortable as the days continue. Stay tuned for pics!!
Love you all, and I’ll write again soon! Bisous!