Happy Hanukkah to Ross & Monica

Hanukkah came and went discreetly in the land of stale baguettes. Last week it was Thanksgiving and then BAM! – the Hanukkah bells were ringing. (Can someone see about getting Hanukkah bells?) Now it’s the last night of our Festival of Lights, and I have no menorah or chocolate coins to show for it. What I do have is a kitchen that reeks of oil and a new pair of socks (Night #1, bought ‘em for myself).

From what I’ve witnessed in Lyon and Roanne, menorahs in French windows are few and far between, and plastic blue and white Stars of David in windows even fewer and farther. Two cars were spotted in Lyon with florescent menorahs on top, but that was exceptionnel, according to the menorah-car spotter. (In French, “exceptional” always means “rare and unusual,” not “unusually excellent.” Although menorah cars are nothing short of excellent.)

Hanukkah is not widely recognized or celebrated here. There aren’t loads of French Jews, and the gentiles don’t know loads about non-Christian, non “pure-French” cultures. Please excuse this sweeping generalization, but it was expressed by a number of French gentiles and I’m pairing their words with my observations.

For my students, I combined a Hanukkah lesson with some preposition work. Try this on for an ego-booster:

Hanukkah means “rededication” __ Hebrew and celebrates one ___ the greatest miracles ___ Jewish history. Only one small jar ___ oil was found in the Temple, normally enough __ last one day. But miraculously, the lamp stayed lit ___ eight days.

Most of the kids had never heard the word Hanukkah (rather, “ah-nu-kah”), much less did they know anything about it. A handful had a vague idea about lighting candles and getting presents. The Festival of Lights part was familiar, though, because in France, December 8^th begins the Catholic Festival of Lights, a religious celebration turned massive light installation honoring Saint Mary, who was Jewish (sorry, had to say it).

Other parts of the Hanukkah story were familiar for different reasons. Upon reading this sentence,

A small group ___ Jews, called the Maccabees, rebelled.

one girl exclaimed, “Oh! Ross talked about the Maccabees!”

For anyone without a TV or an issue of People Magazine (surely you’re better off without the magazine), she meant Ross Geller, a character on the show “Friends.” Ross and Monica, brother and sister, are the show’s token New York Jews. They bring a pretty authentic Jewish flavor to the show, whose production team is comprised largely of Jews. Holiday customs and Jewish guilt included!

I laughed and asked did she remember what Ross said about the Maccabees? No, just that he was wearing a strange costume (an armadillo suit, in fact) when he recounted the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days and the Maccabees’ triumphant recovery and rededication of the Temple (she only remembered the costume part). But for once, the exportation of American popular culture had helped my cause – name recognition goes a long way in the high school world! The others were impressed with Maccabee-Friends girl.

Back at the ranch, my German roommate knew a bit about Hanukkah and was delighted to learn that Jews eat latkes (potato pancakes, or potato fritters) – turns out they’re a popular German treat. Even better, the Germans also eat them with applesauce!

And so it happened that we hosted une soirée allemande-juive – a German-Jewish dinner featuring potato pancakes/latkes/Reibekuchen. We were an international group, as per uzh:  two English boys, and the gals, Italian, German, French, Taiwanese, and American.

I turned the lights off and set the scene with some klezmer tunes (traditional Eastern European Jewish music), telling them the story of Hanukah and how we light candles each night to remember the miracle of the oil that burned for eight days, affording sufficient light to rebuild the Temple. I told them how we play dreidel…which is about as interesting as actually playing dreidel. 1) Spin the four-sided top. 2) See which letter lands on top. 3) Put some chocolates in the pile, take some out, or do nothing, depending on the letter. 4) Repeat.

Don’t get me wrong, one round of dreidel is great. But to quote Howard Jacobson in his Nov. 30 New York Times op-ed article, “Hanukkah, Rekindled,”

How many years did I feign excitement when this nothing of a toy was produced? The dreidel would appear and the whole family would fall into some horrible imitation of shtetl simplicity, spinning the dreidel and pretending to care which character was uppermost when it landed. Who did we think we were — the Polish equivalent of the Flintstones?

All the same, I was kicking myself for not tossing a few into my suitcase.

I concluded with a favorite Jewish saying: They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat.

The others didn’t know if it was ok to laugh at this, and I assured them it was. It’s what Jews do, after all, and what we always talk about doing – we recount our tragic stories, then we laugh, then we eat. Take Ross in that ridiculous armadillo suit, telling the Maccabees’ tale: he’s nothing if not a tragically comic – or comically tragic? – friend.

The latkes were a success, every bit as oil-laden as the Maccabees intended them to be. I think my German Jewish Oma (grandmother) would have been happy to see us there, plates and forks covered in oil, enjoying them together.

And today the kitchen still smells like… the great miracle that happened there.

A doo a day keeps my troubles away.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to bring you something utterly lacking in sophistication or cultural insight.

A bird doo’ed on my head yesterday. Like an indiscriminate lightning bolt that offers no explanation or apology, the little birdie soared away without blinking an eye. 

And you know what, there’s nothing like a couple drops of bird doo to remind you to laugh at yourself and your lovely, doo-spotted tresses.

It was a chilly, squintably sunny day, and I had gone for a run that morning along the snowy banks of the Loire. I returned with a face covered in dried tears and a healthy dose of snot (no shame here, send the glamour scouts right over) and took a sizzling shower. I felt fresh, invigorated, and ready to conquer the world one baguette at a time.

I was walking with a big grin on my face and little kick in my step when PLOP! it started raining. And then it stopped… after two drops.

As it so happens, I was on my way to see my Italian friend, Arianna. Hey! I said excitedly, stepping into the kitchen’s warm embrace. In Italy, isn’t it good luck when a bird poops on you?

Oui, she replied. Mais c’est degoulase!  But it’s also disgusting.

C’est pas faux, as I’ve taken to saying. That is not false.

But I couldn’t help thinking how few people can say they’ve been pooped on by a bird. And this is actually my second gift from above – the first, I received at the zoo in eighth grade while on a class fieldtrip. Don’t think I’d forget that.

I think the lesson to be learned here is that we should all be like birds with their doo, happy to share with people of all nationalities and hair types.

This program will resume next week with “Oy gevalt, oh la laa! Teaching ze French how to spin ze dreidel.”

Hey Pumpkin! I could eat you with a spoon.

Last Thursday, while my family feasted on Aunt Tina’s ambrosial pies and fresh beans from Aunt Sue’s garden, I was telling the Thanksgiving story ad naseum to a bunch of kids whose response to pumpkin pie was, “That sounds disgusting.”

Paging Aunt Tina, you’re needed in France.

I explained that we eat pumpkins and sweet potatoes because they are delicious autumn vegetables, and who doesn’t love celebrating autumn with orange vegetables? I told them the abridged version of the Pilgrim-Native American relationship and one unknowing student hit the mark when she concluded, "And that's why the Pilgrims ate the Native Americans."

The ohhhh’s were unanimous when I pointed out the “thanks” and the “giving” in Thanksgiving. “I thought it was sanksgiving,” said one. No, little lady, that’s just your accent.

The pumpkin pie and sweet potato antagonism had me thinking more than usual about the French notion of food. The French are not all snobs, but when it comes to food… let’s just say, they know they’ve got it going on in the kitchen.

When I told someone I love making couscous, she asked me if I make real couscous. I replied that I don’t know quite what real couscous is, but I make mine using the vegetables in the fridge, the spices in the pantry, and the couscous in the pretty box. It tastes real – and real good – to me.

I suppose the attitude stems from tradition. The French take immense pride in traditional dishes, and a strong food culture penetrates every region. But there’s something distinct about the way people here view food and decide what constitutes Good Food. With my mouth full of Thanksgiving quiche oozing butternut squash and Gouda cheese, I realized the wide-reaching legacy of ol’ grandaddy René Descartes.

In a Cartesian Plane, divisions are distinct and utterly black and white. A point lies in one of four quadrants and its placement is indisputable. The French mindset concerning food is strikingly Cartesian: a quiche means a Quiche Lorraine and is made with gruyere cheese, little bacon cubes, and eggs. Anything else is not a quiche. Sure, you can make a quiche au something else, but it needs that specification and goes straight into the “other” quadrant.

The lines are blurring as fast food leaves its greasy fingerprints in France. Not even the French can resist those golden arches, and it terrifies them. But that's a whole 'nother can of snails.

Because life, like quiche, is surprising and wonderful, an unfortunate event led me to some dynamic and curious French students in Lyon, who've become mes amis. They were thrilled at the prospect of taking part in a real Thanksgiving celebration. And so two days after my family feasted in St. Louis, a kitchen in Lyon smelled of sweet potato casserole, prune-leek-sausage stuffing, the aforementioned butternut squash quiche, a succulent pumpkin pie, and roasted butternut squash seeds.

Our pumpkin pie, made in a tarte pan, was a pleasing visual blend of French and American desserts: larger in circumference than an American pie and with a thin bottom crust and no crust on top, it was a pumpkin pie with tarte aux pommes (apple tart) feathers.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for old friends and new friends, old foods and new foods, and for my family who loves me and feeds me sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie.

These Clogs Are Made for Walking

In two months time, I’ve learned some important cultural lessons here in the land of cheese and strikes.

1.      French beauracracy is worse than the sound of one million nails on one million chalkboards.

2.      Americans are alone in our appreciation of peanut butter (nectar of the gods, in my book).

3.      The French do not wear clogs, nor do they support the wearing of clogs, unless you are a poor peasant. Women wear boots or Converse sneakers.

I’m generalizing, of course, but it’s easier that way. And everybody does it.

The clog lesson is one I learned the hard way – that is, through the stares and comments of strangers wondering what could have compelled me to wear clogs.

Confused – what did I do wrong this time? – I turned to a highly-acclaimed French literary source, Le Wikipédia. The clog entry shed linguistic light on the roots of the French anti-clog mentality. And so I share it with you, gentle readers.

The French word for clog is sabot. Ever since the shoe gained popularity among factory workers in the Industrial Revolution, the French have associated clogs with the lower classes. Frustrated factory workers were prone to throwing their shoes, their sabots, into the machinery – intentionally damaging it – and this is how we came by the word sabotage.[1] Brilliant! 

The online Oxford English Dictionary mentions but does not support this story (they’re all snobs anyway). And since I’m the omniscient narrator here, I’m accepting Wikipedia’s explanation and presenting it as fact.  

So back to the story. I arrived in France with my clogs, some sneakers, and a pair of boots. After a few weeks of fast walking, my boot soles needed repairing. I took them to the cordonnerie and an unsmiling woman with rough hands told me it would take three weeks. No problem, I thought, I've got my clogs.

I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, but before long my feet morphed into flashing arrows saying, “Hey, I’m not French! Ask me about my clogs!”

Incident 1: It all started when a French boy stopped mid-sentence, after glancing down at my feet, to tell me he thinks clogs are ugly. Shocked into silence, I recovered enough to ask, “Oh, and why’s that?” He told me, simply, that they’re peasants’ shoes. He was wearing high-top basketball shoes and nylon sports pants, so I asked him if he plays any sports. He said no. I responded that we can all be dreamers.

 That's a lie. I wish I had said that. In reality, I mumbled something about clogs being popular in the U.S. and how different people have different styles. But next time I'll be ready.

Incident 2: One morning on the train to Lyon, I was lounging with my legs propped up on the seat next to me, peeling an orange, when I heard a male’s voice. It was 7:30 a.m. and this orange had a thin, fussy peel, so I didn't catch the complete comment. But I heard the words beaux sabots and detected a hint of sarcasm in the voice.

I looked up and observed the speaker: a young man in athletic pants, a sports jacket, and dress shoes. My age and not threatening in the least.

“Pardon?” I asked him to repeat his comment and pointed to the orange, suggesting that peeling one takes a great deal of concentration.

“I said, those are some nice clogs you’re wearing.” Again, that sarcastic tone.

I was not amused. I glared at him. In hindsight, perhaps I heard more sarcasm than was there, but I wasn’t going to stand for this clog mockery again. “I don’t get the joke. What’s wrong with my clogs?”

“Nothing, nothing. It was just a way to start a conversation, really. You’re not French, are you? So where are you from?”

I said nothing for a moment, then calmly replied, “No, I’m not French. I’m American. In America people wear clogs. And insulting people’s shoes isn’t generally a good way to start a conversation, wouldn’t you say?”

He stared at me. I stared back. I moved my clogs back and forth like windshield wipers and dropped the orange peel, now a single, elegant swirl, onto my lap.

He shrugged. “I guess they’re ok.”

Clogs: 1. Un-smooth operator: 0.

This weekend I was a guest at a teacher’s home in the beautiful countryside surrounding Roanne. I walked in and, seeing some clogs in the entryway, told her of my encounters with the clog antagonists. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. She told me that ten years ago she was wearing her pants tucked into her boots and people gave her strange looks.

If E.T. dropped down today for a fashion survey, he’d think that females are born with their pants tucked into their boots.

Fashion is like an orange peel, twirling round and round, styles disappearing and then reappearing in different times and places. I hope that the next time those clog haters start to hate, they’ll hear my voice and reconsider.

My boots are back from the cordonnerie, looking better than ever. But my clogs haven’t lost their place in front.

---

[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clog_(shoe)

Lend me that bicycle? I am your neighbor.

My first day in Roanne, I put a note on the announcement board in the teacher’s lounge: Does anyone have a spare bicycle to lend the American assistant? She’s far from home, missing her maman et papa and beloved red Schwinn.

I got a response right away but the bike was much too small, resulting in a sore back and bottom region. Deflated, I tried to convince myself that walking's just as good. But frankly, it's not. It felt like I was missing a limb.

Everything changed on November 11, which – surprise! – the French take as a national holiday. The timing gods gave me a nudge mid-morning and I decided to take out the recycling. On the way out I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Michel, cleaning out a storage room.  Michel is handsome with wavy, gray hair, quiet and always smiling a calm, non-toothy smile. We were chatting about the odds and ends in the room and I made a comment about the gorgeous bike, a shiny black Peugeot, leaning against the wall. I mentioned that I was borrowing a teacher's bike but that it was too small and hurt mes fesses (in French we have plural bottoms). He responded just as I hoped he might, Well this one's mine but I never use it, would you like to borrow it? Before he could blink an oeil I shouted Yes!

Experiences like these are sweet rewards for stepping out into the world and meeting people – I wonder how many good people and bikes are waiting to be discovered. This particular bike has a boy’s frame (like I always say, starting now, equality begins with a girl riding a boy’s bicycle), a bell, thin tires with fenders to keep the mud off mes fesses, and cruiser handlebars. It sparkles and I sit upright when riding, so I feel like a queen riding her crown jewels.

This weekend saw 60 degrees, sun galore, and leaves of all imaginable shades of red, orange, and yellow hovering somewhere between hanging onto the branches and falling softly to the ground. I had no choice, the weather gods pushed me out the door and onto that bicycle.

I convinced another assistant to ride with me on a footpath hugging a canal of the Loire River. Within a few miles of leaving Roanne we entered farmlands and passed pastures with cows and sheep grazing, front yards with chickens and ducks playing alongside children on swing sets, and bright green vegetable gardens. Women hanging laundry on clotheslines waved as we rode by. While gazing absentmindedly at the cows, I realized that what appeared as a bunch of cows munching happily was actually an entire industry at work – the cows in this region are raised for their meat. The countryside was at once serene and awesome in its functionality. moowow.

We passed spandex-clad cyclists and whole families on bikes. I beamed at them and sang Bonjour! Our destination was flexible and I kept pushing us farther until our stomachs declared it was lunchtime. We stopped at a little brick hut with a pool inside, constructed as a place for women to do laundry, back before girls rode boys’ bikes.

The ride home proved a bit trickier, as Tine – my bike partner, the Chinese assistant – had one pedal that was threatening to fall off. Luckily she had a roll of Scotch tape in her bag so we wrapped the pedal in tape and, miracle of miracles, it held until we reached home. Lesson learned – never leave home without Scotch.

Sunday morning I woke up early and hit the road again, this time as a lone rider. Seeing a path on my map, I thought I’d follow a small tributary of the Loire called La Renaison. I had had trouble finding the path’s entrance so stopped a friendly-looking gentleman to ask, where's this path, eh? He pointed me in the right direction and said to follow the river. I thanked him and he asked the customary, “You speek-eeng Eeng-leesh?” I said yes and smiled as he re-stated his directions: “You follow zees rheever, you no looze yorch-self!”

This path was bumpy and took me through some woods. I enjoyed the shadows of the tree cover and the crunching and crackling acorns, fallen leaves, and branches under my tires. I passed people jogging and walking their dogs, and like the day before, everyone was in high spirits. If people still offered sacrifices, the weather gods would have been feasting on cheese all weekend.

The path ended and I found a country road, Chemin des Moulins (mills path, roughly) that was smoother and, it being Sunday morning, free of car traffic. I rode toward the rolling hills surrounding Roanne, past more pastures filled with cows and bulls who were perfectly content to graze all day long. Cruising past, I remarked how happy I was to be a gal on a bicycle, not a cow.

And with that, I think I hear my neighbor knocking.

‘Eez a Schmoozer

Yves Béal knows everybody – he’ll tell you. Je connais tout le monde, et tout le monde me connait! I know everybody, and everybody knows me! was what I learned soon after meeting him.

Yves (“eve”) is a lovely gentleman despite the gold rings, bracelets and necklaces that somewhat lend him the look of a schmoozy salesman. He has a round belly, well-coiffed gray hair, a round nose, and permanently shiny shoes. Like any self-respecting 63-year old Frenchman, he is happily retired and spends his days talking about football (soccer) with all the people he knows and who know him. He used to be the top footballeur in Roanne – he’ll tell you.

Yves is married to Annie, the radiant secretary at Lycée Albert Thomas who I’ve made my French godmother. I met Annie my first day in Roanne, jet-lagged and without any luggage. She smiled sympathetically and cooed, “la pauvre!” (poor thing!), and I waited for her to pinch my cheeks, but instead she just kissed them à la français. She told me later that when we first met, she knew we’d get along well because I smiled despite being luggage-less.

Every afternoon I stop by Annie’s desk in the administrative offices. We chat about what we each cooked for dinner the night before, and she gives me a small chocolate from the bottomless ceramic bowl of bon bons on her desk. She knows I like the 70% and 75% dark chocolates so she saves them for me. Annie has no children or grandchildren. I think she’s been waiting for one to appear at her desk.

I’m sure Annie was a Jewish bubbe in a past life. She asks me if I’m eating enough and is my bed comfortable? She’s an excellent cook and sews many of her own clothes. Yves will tell you that she used to be much thinner – I can picture her as a waifish girl of the seventies, and her flair and class have not left her even if she's no longer waif-like. She has long dark hair that she dyes and pulls into a leopard print clip on the back of her head. Her mocha-colored skin is wrinkled from years of gardening in the sun. She wears all black or gray-black, black eye makeup, and silver hoop earrings and bracelets that clink when she gestures with her hands. She’s always clinking.

Annie took me winter coat shopping and tells me where to find the best deals on boots. I brought her my coat when the buttons needed re-attaching, and then she got angry when I brought her a box of jasmine tea. I’m never to bring her gifts, she said.

Annie drives a tiny white 4x4 (quatre-quatre), in French pronounced like “cat cat.” Yves prefers his Peugeot sedan with leather seats and a GPS system.

The day I ate lunch chez Béal, the sun was shining and Yves wanted to eat outside. Annie had already set the table inside, and insisted that we enjoy the sun from behind the glass. Sorry charlie, er, Yves, but the food will get cold outside, she said. Secretly on Team Yves-Outside, I stayed quiet. Yves continued to grumble but it was clear that we’d be eating indoors. Despite the small disappointment of sitting inside on a beautiful day, I was happy that Annie had the ultimate say, considering she had prepared the meal, had it ready when Yves returned at noon, and then cleared everything when he left an hour and a half later. It's clear who's the chef (le chef = the boss).

One morning I had coffee with Yves and Annie. We walked into Le Clemenceau and Yves personally greeted every person at the bar, including the barista. Their conversation began like this:

Ca va?

Ca va, et toi?

Ouaais, ça va, ça va.

Roughly, that’s:

You good?

I’m good, you good?

Yeeaah, I’m good, I’m good.

For all the striking and complaining that goes down in these parts, the French are surprisingly insistent on how good they are.

Annie and Yves are excited to meet the Emmons clan in January. I told them my family doesn’t  speak much French, and Yves responds confidently, “Eetz ok! We speak-eeng eengleesh. Hah-lo, I love you, bye bye!”

Zees meet-eeng ees go-eeng to be zoh good.

 

Three Strikes & You're French

SERVICE NORMAL sur votre ligne. NORMAL SERVICE on your line, reads the SNCF (French national railway system) website. 

Yeah, well, it’s about time.

After a week and a half of transportation strikes – one out of every six or seven trains running – the SNCF train engineers have decided they are ready to come back to work.

That’s right folks, it’s "strike season" in France. It’s kind of like "mud season" in the Northeastern United States, only less charming and more inconvenient. And you can’t wash it off your shoes.

The strikers are unhappy about a pension reform that includes a measure to increase the official retirement age from 60 to 62.  It seems trite, considering most of the world works well past age 62. I guess it’s like your parents having thirty years of vacation and being told that you only get twenty. Not fair! Strike!

A lively demonstration took place outside my window on Thursday morning. I was grooving to the live music (some guitars on a truck bed) when my Bolivian roommate came in, telling me his train to Paris was cancelled and he just lost 70 euros. I stopped grooving and expressed my sympathy. “C’est nul.” That sucks.

No one likes the strikes, because no one can get around them. Not even the black-robed, boot-wearing French beauties who surely have some magical powers.

Last week I took a train from Lyon to Roanne that had been overbooked and was jam-packed, sardine style. I was able to scrunch into a small ball on the floor – subliminal yoga plug – in front of les toilettes. Others sat on their luggage or stood for the one-hour ride.

Whenever I saw someone maneuvering through the crowd toward the bathroom, I would lean to one side and point to the button that opened and closed the sliding automatic door. You might call me the Bathroom Gate Keeper.

A few times, the door closed and then opened again. Poor bathroom-goers, only wanting a few minutes of privacy, were left peering out at a bunch of frowning people staring up from the floor.

And then, sitting there on the floor of the train in front of the bathroom, I observed something beautiful. People started chuckling, and frowns became smiles. The malfunctioning bathroom door made people forget how grumpy they were – the overcrowded train, the strikes, the cruel world.

Each time someone new squeezed through, the other floor-dwellers and I exchanged knowing smiles, hoping that the door would stay closed for the duration of the person’s...you know.

I enjoyed my stint as Bathroom Gate Keeper but welcome SERVICE NORMAL with open arms.  

Wine & Cheese (you knew it was coming)

They told me we’d be eating dinner in a cave.

Before you jump to any conclusions – cave is the French word for basement.

I had my first real French meal (as in, prepared by a real French person) on Friday night. We were a continentally-diverse group of fifteen, made up of French high school language teachers, a Guatemalan poet visiting Roanne, and our group of language assistants. In that group we are: an American girl, a Bolivian boy, an English boy, an Italian girl, a German girl, a Spanish boy, and a Taiwanese girl.

We speak French when we’re together and our different accents create a rainbow of ‘r’ sounds: Arturo, Arianna, and Sergio (Spanish, Italian, Bolivian) roll theirs, Tine (Taiwanese) and I attempt to push the sound from the back of our mouths into our throats, Nastasja (German) has the throatiness down pat, and Tom (English), actually has to pronounce the letter. Tom and I tease each other about accents. (Me: Oh ‘ello, ‘ow ah yew? Him: Grrreayt, thaaaynks.) We all have fun throwing around cultural stereotypes, especially Tine. To Arianna, her roommate, she likes to say, Moi, je fais du riz. Toi, tu fais des pâtes. I make rice. You make pasta.

Back to the cave. During the twenty-minute car ride there, I learned that we’d be tasting the wine, cheese, and meat of a local farmer. Ouais! Whoo! was how I felt about that. I was more than ready to taste the fruits of a hard-working farmer.

It was dark when we turned onto a gravel road, driving through enough trees to be a small forest. There were no lights other than our headlights, so a million stars were visible. We stopped in front of what looked like a barn and a farmhouse in one, dark except for some light peeking out from beneath the large barn doors.    

Inside it was buzzing with life; tables covered with colorful vegetables, bottles of wine, jars of honey, rounds of cheese, and loaves of pain epicés – dense, sweet bread made with spices and honey. People were chatting by the fire (did I mention that winter is starting to nibble at our toes?), buying food, and enjoying the live music – a father on accordion and his sons on clarinet and tambourine. They were playing what sounded like Irish jigs and turned out to be traditional regional music influenced by Irish jigs. When I told them I’m from the States, specifically St. Louis, the father’s face lit up and he said, Ah, Saint Louis, du jazz! (“Ah Sahn Lou-ee, du jahzz!”)

At 8pm was the call à table! We all descended to la cave, where the wine, cheese, and meat was stored. We seated ourselves at the long table, assistants among teachers, Guatemalan poet at the head. I had my fork in one hand, my knife in the other, and my stomach was saying, Bring it on. Show me whatcha got.

But I forgot that soup comes first, so I quickly swapped my knife and fork for a spoon. The soup, un potage, was a light vegetable purée, piping hot and full of unidentifiable root vegetables. We dipped our bread, an act I learned is called tremper la soupe, meaning literally “to soak the soup.” Funny, because you’re actually soaking the bread. Mais c’est comme ça – so it goes. We drank a white wine with the soup. It’s hard to resist using the word “nutty” to describe wine, yet I’ve never understood how a wine can taste like nuts. But who am I, really.

Now I’m going to talk about pork. Vegetarians and kosher-keepers, come back in five minutes.

Francois, our farmer-host (apologies for not introducing him sooner), brought out two plates of four different pork cuts, all animals he raised himself. I don’t eat much meat in the U.S for environmental reasons (factory farms = lots of poop in our water + who the heck knows what’s in that burger?), so I was glad to hear Francois’s description of feeding, serenading (just kidding) and killing his pigs. Because I’m not a seasoned meat eater, I’ll do my best to describe the array. There were thick slices of saucisson – sausage – very rich, tasted a bit like clogged arteries. There were thin slices of jambon cuit – cooked ham – sweet and salty, delicate and delectable. There were medium slices of jambon sec – dried ham – my favorite, a hearty texture, eaten with a spicy mustard. Last was the pâté de tête –  pâté of head – which I took one bite of and put the rest back on the serving plate (discreetly, of course). We drank a red wine with the meat. In a couple of months I might attempt wine descriptions.

Next came the cheese! Vegans and lactose-intolerants, five more minutes.

Francois brought out two plates of cheese, vache – cow – and chèvre – goat. Here he addressed me personally, joking about sending some to the U.S. and me being sent to jail. Everyone laughed...with me. Now, normally cow cheese is softer and sweeter than goat cheese, but these rounds were hard and had a strong kick. Moo! I’ll censor myself in case any FDA officials are reading. The goat cheese tasted like what we have at home only harder and more flavorful. My favorite was the fresh goat cheese, which had the strong taste with the texture of fresh mozzarella. Mmm c’est bon. We drank a different red wine with the cheese. It was drier than the previous one to complement the strong cheeses.

The meal was nearing its end and I knew what was next: dessert. Francois brought each of us a goblet of strawberries in not-too-sweet syrup. Strawberries in October? It’s true. He uses a special heating system to grow fruit out of season. So not the most energy-efficient dessert, but it tasted like summer. With the strawberries we drank a rosé wine. Red and pink and poof! the food and drink looked like Valentine’s Day. But it tasted so much better than candy hearts.

Last came the coffee and herbal tea. It was 11pm so I happily accepted a non-caffeinated drink (not much decaf coffee happens here). My tea came in a ceramic, handle-less pot (cup size) and tasted like citrus. Holding the warm pot in my hands – that and my full stomach – gave me a wonderfully satisfied feeling.

The dinner guests sat chatting until midnight. As I’ve been describing our meal, I haven’t acknowledged the company. We assistants were surrounded by teachers, so the four-hour meal was also a lesson in food, language, history, and culture. They all spoke at least one other language and were eager to learn about our respective countries, so it was a veritable cultural exchange. By the end, my mind was as full as my stomach.

And can you believe it? I’m still hungry.

These are a Few of Their Favorite Things

Bienvenue en France. Les français font les grèves. Welcome to France. The French go on strike.

Outside my window, large crowds of high school students are huddled in black, gray, and brown jackets. They caused quite a ruckus this morning – woke me up, the rascals! – blocking the school entrance with big, green, plastic trash cans. Someone even threw some toilet paper over the metal gates (cherry on the tarte). All day they’ve been out there, protesting, doing their patriotic duty. Some are shouting and shooting off bottle rockets. Many are standing idly and smoking. Most are sitting and chatting – the noble work of young revolutionaries!

The reason for the strike, just one among many taking place all over the city and country, is a reform pending in the French Parliament: the current age for retirement is 60, and the reform will increase it to 62. People are living longer, and there are too many retired people with pensions! says the pro-reform side. But there aren’t enough jobs as it is! says the anti-reform side. And so the French go on strike. High school students become forward-thinking, proactive, and concerned about the future! Or, high school students smell an opportunity to skip class and make some noise?

In two weeks, I’ve met a heap of friendly French people, notably the teachers at Lycée (high school) Albert Thomas, where I’m an English teaching assistant. And so right here, right now, I can affirm that not all French are snobs. Luckily I don’t weigh 300 pounds, so they in turn see that Americans don’t collectively resemble the girl who turns into a blueberry in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” But I digress. This morning, when I asked the teachers what is the deal-io with the French affinity for strikes and protests, many of them rolled their eyes and said, Bah oui. Les français, ils aiment faire de la grève.

So the French love going on strike. Here are some other things they love:

1) “Desperate Housewives.” Except that on this side of the pond, it’s “des-pah-rate ‘ouse wive.” Never having seen the show, I don’t understand it. Having seen a commercial, I really don’t understand it.

2) McDonalds. That’s right, they wag their cigarettes and poo-poo us while standing in line for a Croque McDo, fries (frites), and a Coke (un Coca). I will say, the McDonalds where I’ve been guiltlessly slurping up Wifi (“wee-fee”) is super swank, with soft swivel chairs and green, Mondrian-esque art on the walls. Still smells like fries, though.

3) Dark clothing. Oy vey, I’m a lonely purple begonia in a patch of black tulips. The older people do wear more color – one of the secretaries wears orange glasses, for instance. I like her.

4) Small things. Their cars and roads make ours look like dinosaur cars and dinosaur roads. Coffee is another one. After lunch, nine out of ten French adults (no, I won’t cite that) have un petit café with un petit dessert. A shot of espresso and a small pastry that I won’t describe here, as certain French desserts can lead to (appetite) arousal. Small, satisfying, and delicious. Bada-bing, bada-boom.

5) Saying “bah.” It sounds ridiculous, but surely I have heard this sound over one thousand times, give or take, in the past two weeks. “Bah” is French for “um” or “uh.” Frequently elongated, it sounds like our soft animal friend the sheep: Baaaaah, oui. Baaaaah, non. Baaaaah, qu’est-ce qu’elle a dit? J’ai rien compris, moi. (Uhhhh, yes. Uhhhhh, no. Uhhhhh, what did she say? I didn’t understand anything.)

So for now, I can only conclude that some things here are similar, and some things are different. But we all love dessert.

Blisters in the Sun

Mmm nobody cures my blues like Beethoven.

After a rocky first few days in Roanne, France, late Saturday night I decided that on Sunday morning I would take the train into Lyon for a chamber music concert featuring musicians of the Orchestre Nationale de Lyon playing a Beethoven trio. And as I had hoped, ça m’a redonné le sourire – it gave me back my smile.

Beethoven – 1; Blues – 0.

On account of fewer trains running on Sundays, I was up and chugging along toward Lyon by 7h30. I exited the train one sleepy hour later, found a nameless café near the station, and ordered un pain au chocolat and un grand café crème. I sat down to write a letter while waiting for the 11h00 concert. One double-shot and some buttery, chocolaty pleasure later, I made the five-minute trek from the train station to the concert hall (nice work, city planners of Lyon). The building looks rather like a stone spaceship from the outside, with a large, tree-speckled amphitheatre framing the entrance. I bought my 11-euro ticket for a seat au fond – in front – from a gorgeous Audrey Tautou look-alike. I’m afraid the cool, casual stroll I was going for might have been more of a happy skip as I ascended the stairs to the hall.

My espresso-saturated heart calmed instantly when I stepped inside. The room wrapped me in a blanket of cushy seats and attractive helper-people, all asking if they could guide me to my seat. Shortly after settling into my seat close to the stage, I was joined by a woman who reeked of lavender. Oh la la, why had this woman showered in perfume – to share it with me? Noooon, merci.

At 11h00 sharp, the musicians walked onto the stage and situated themselves in front of the trapezoidal light fixtures lining the back wall. The first piece was an early Beethoven trio for clarinet, cello, and piano: pure and lyrical, hummable (ask Madame Lavender), every note crystal clear. Next, a one-movement work for clarinet, violin, cello, and piano, named “Burning” after a William Butler Yeats poem. The composer, Edith Canat de Chizy (b.1950), came onto the stage after the performance to receive her applause (woot!). Last was a piano quintet by Robert Schumann. The violist – Jean-Pascal something-or-other – had a ball, as did I.

After wandering around the hall a bit, I still had two-plus hours before my train back to Roanne, so I sat down outside in the amphitheatre to eat my rice-and-veggies-in-Tupperware lunch (a girl could drown in sandwiches here), and to decipher what I had scribbled on my program in the darkness. One noteworthy scribble: the first violinist dropped his bow at one point, and I had written that it shattered the dream-like quality of the playing, making the music and the musicians seem more human. I wrote this directly above an ad for a German piano company, the ad reading: Passez du rêve à la réalité (move from dream to reality). Whaa?! Beethoven, is that you?

Before long, persistent gusts of wind picked me up, pulled out my map of Lyon, and sent me walking toward what appeared to be the Park of All Parks, based on the amount of green ink on the map – Parc de la Tête d’Or. It being Sunday, the streets were pleasantly empty, and I found myself walking trance-like on a sidewalk under a canopy of trees. At one point, about to jaywalk, I snapped out of my trance to the sound of a woman’s shrill voice instructing her toddler not walk when the Walk Man was red: Non ma pousse! Tu n’as pas le droit! “No sweetie (literally, ‘my thumb’), you don’t have the right (of way)!” And so I decided that I, too, would wait for the Walk Man to turn green.

I followed the beautiful Boulevard des Belges and realized I had walked into the Central West End of Lyon. Giant gated houses (boo, gates) and towering trees, yes, but where were the Mercedes-Benzes? Turns out the French only drive French cars (Citroen, Peugot, and Renault).

When I reached the park’s regal entrance, I learned that it had just closed on account of wind. Oh merde (shit), uttered a frustrated cyclist behind me. Merde indeed, fine sir. Red alert! Skirts flying! Your children are in danger of toxic exposure to breath-taking calves, thighs, and ankles! Gazing longingly through the park gates, I vowed that I would enter that green Garden of Eden if it was the last thing...

Speaking of cyclists, the boulevard was swimming with them. My feet cried out for those pedals (“Just one push, please, that’s all we want”), but the clunky rental bikes somehow seemed like the perfect opportunity to embarrass myself, so I opted for walking. Thought I’d enjoy the scenery a bit more that way.

Speaking of feet, at this point mine were just plain crying. My no-socks + clogs idea seemed less brilliant than it had that morning as I felt the blisters rearing their diabolical heads. I stuffed a napkin between the top of my right foot and the shoe, and while it did ease the pain, a paper napkin poking out of my shoe somewhat spoiled my classy get-up (high-waisted skirt, sweater draped over my shoulders, The Works).

Blisters – 1; Sonia – 0.

I continued slowly up the boulevard – along the Rhone River, as it so happens – until I reached the Lyon Interpol building, then turned around and began my return to the train station. Once there, I pulled out my concert program and began jotting down these very words.

But to be honest, I was mainly watching people and wondering if they noticed me watching them, as I was being pretty discreet, what with my pen, paper, and oversized sunglasses.

Anonymous American Chick – 1; Unknowing French Train Riders – 0.