Some of you might recall the magic baguette episode.
Since then, I've had some pretty solid French-to-English mistakes. Like earlier this week, during a lesson on Thanksgiving.
Me: What do we eat on Thanksgiving?
Yasmin (student): Dinde!
Me: In English?
Yasmin: Ze dinde!
But what do you say to your 14-year old French student when he very seriously proclaims:
"Teacher, I lost my shit."
Some might veer away from confronting his obvious error and simply offer, "You mean your sheet?"
Not I. I've decided I've got nothing to lose. Since I've already made a few pretty explicit and, some might argue, inappropriate choices in class.
Like when I played "Celebrity" with my quatrième class at Terrenoire and thought, mistakenly, that it would be a good idea to place all the names of American celebrities in my cupped hands, so that the students had to resort to inserting their fingers into the small opening produced between my thumbs in order to pinch a slip of paper. This strategy worked just fine until we reached the end of the game, and, left with only 3 slips of papers in my cupped hands, the last student was forced to plunge his fingers forcefully into the gap between my palms, resulting in a pretty explicit gesture for the enjoyment of the entire class.
Or when a student tried to describe Pamela Anderson's larger-than-average breasts in English, and I found myself mocking "large breasts" with hands gesticulating all too wildly in front of my own chest.
So when Ferdy, a student in my troisième class at Terrenoire, announced to me that he had lost his "shit," I met his challenge head on. I wrote both words on the board, and told the students to repeat each with their distinct pronunciation. If you're gonna say a word, even if it's a bad word, you may as well say it right and use it in context.
Shit or sheet? Like bitch or beach, this is an important question for French speakers of English. One that I've addressed twice already in the past week. I'm looking forward to more, since adolescents already know as many or more bad words than I do. Besides, who am I to spare them English curse words? Most of you know I curse like a drunken sailor. Even when I'm not drunk or sailing.
Tuesday, November 25
The castle, the feast, and the ear plugs
Prelude
I am an incredibly lucky person. For various reasons.
To name a few, I am blessed with good health. A good education. A supportive and loving group of friends. Two fabulous sisters with whom I actually get along. And parents from whom us Ferrari girls inherited some invaluable traits. Nature has been good to us, bestowing more than adequate athletic abilities, a refined palate and healthy appetite, a sense of humor, two languages, and musical talent. Our parents had the good sense to nurture the latter from a very young age, and all three of us grew up studying the violin, piano, and voice.
I'm proud to say that once upon a time, me, Stephie, and Line could all sing the Queen of the Night Aria from Mozart's "The Magic Flute." Perfectly, I might add.
What I'm getting at is that my parents must have had an inkling as to how their gifts would serve us throughout our lives. Especially music. Otherwise, why would they have insisted on such an extensive musical education?
They were right, as it turns out (funny how parents have this annoying habit).
But did my father know, as he spent night after night accompanying me on Mozart violin sonatas or playing left hand to my right hand on Bach French Suites, that I would someday wind up in France where I would find an orchestra to play with? And did my mother foresee that, thanks to her insistence on my being able to attend music programs at home and abroad, I would become sufficiently accomplished on my instrument, enough to be invited to a French castle for a weekend of orchestral playing?
Probably not.
Before going on, thanks are due. So thanks, Monica and Gerardo, for making my world a bit bigger.
The castle
Pictured below.
So, I was invited to a French castle! Le Château de Goutelas. Located in the Forez province of the Loire department, the château dates back to the Renaissance. It fell into ruins until the sixties, when a good samaritan decided to lead its reconstruction. Thanks to 150,000 hours of pro bono work (farmers, construction workers, intellectuals, and artists all chipped in), the château was rebuilt in the hopes that it would serve as a place of free speech and culture. In 1966, the château welcomed Duke Ellington for a concert. A few years later, he would compose the Goutelas Suite (I tried to find a recording of this without any luck; instead, check out "Take the A Train", one of my favorites).
All in all, it's a pretty f-ing cool place.
The group I'm playing with, Ensemble Musica, is a ragtag assortment of players of different ages, levels, and backgrounds. I landed in their midst thanks to Corinne, who works with one of the violists in the orchestra (a History/Geography teacher at the Lycée Claude Fauriel). Me, Corinne, and Gemma (my Australian, violin-playing neighbor at the Facotel) have all joined.
I won't bore you with rehearsal tales. Let's just say I haven't played this much since I was 18. We rehearsed 3 hours on Friday night, 6 hours on Saturday, and another 6 on Sunday. It was intense. And probably not all that necessary since this is an amateur group (professional musicians and music students are the minority). At any rate, I can now play a mean viola part for Beethoven's 6th Symphony, and I've reconnected with my passion for classical music. I'm also toying with the idea of traveling to Switzerland this summer to stalk my old viola teacher and beg him to let me study at the Detmold Hochschule with him next year, but that's another story.
The feast
I may have omitted the fact that we slept and ate at the château all weekend. More eating than sleeping, I'm afraid. But oh, the eating! I'd forgotten how playing my arms off does wonders for my appetite, expanding it from already hearty to downright savage. We ate in the dining hall, fully equipped with a fireplace (sized approximately for roasting of wild-boar-on-spit) and long wooden tables.
An exemplary meal at the château, or Saturday's lunch -
First course: salad. Naturally. Giant bowls of lettuce and heaping plates of tomatoes, eggs, and beets (or "beet-fruit," as they say in Australia). Complemented by baskets of warm, crusty baguette.
Second course: pepper-crusted roasted pork loin with champignons in a cream sauce. And another giant bowl of overflowing ziti, prepared with butter and Emmental cheese. Plus, more baguette.
Third course: le fromage. Cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I sampled the blue cheese, but mostly stuffed my already engorged cheeks with the Saint-Félicien, a gooey cow's milk cheese.
Dessert: a yellow, custardy bread pudding with sweet prunes.
I should add that the entire meal was accompanied by a juicy Côtes du Forez. Of which I drank less than the Côtes du Rhône I've consumed while writing this post. Three-quarters of the bottle, to be precise. I think the French way of life suits me.
The ear plugs
Eating this much food can disrupt your sleep. As evidenced by our loud snoring neighbor who kept it up all freaking night long. At least it was rhythmic.
Gemma had the foresight to bring French-bought ear plugs. Which are apparently wax. All wax, all the time. They come wrapped in cotton, and after you peel away the hairy tufts, you're left with hard little balls of wax to warm and mold between your fingers before inserting them delicately into your ears. Only I have slight to moderate paranoia about inserting foreign objects into my ears, especially when they have a tendency to melt.
I lasted about 10 minutes with the wax plugs before I took them out and tried to sleep to the sound of nearby wheezing and snorting. Perhaps it was the practicing, or maybe the heavy eats, probably the wine as well, but it didn't take me long to pass out.
I am an incredibly lucky person. For various reasons.
To name a few, I am blessed with good health. A good education. A supportive and loving group of friends. Two fabulous sisters with whom I actually get along. And parents from whom us Ferrari girls inherited some invaluable traits. Nature has been good to us, bestowing more than adequate athletic abilities, a refined palate and healthy appetite, a sense of humor, two languages, and musical talent. Our parents had the good sense to nurture the latter from a very young age, and all three of us grew up studying the violin, piano, and voice.
I'm proud to say that once upon a time, me, Stephie, and Line could all sing the Queen of the Night Aria from Mozart's "The Magic Flute." Perfectly, I might add.
What I'm getting at is that my parents must have had an inkling as to how their gifts would serve us throughout our lives. Especially music. Otherwise, why would they have insisted on such an extensive musical education?
They were right, as it turns out (funny how parents have this annoying habit).
But did my father know, as he spent night after night accompanying me on Mozart violin sonatas or playing left hand to my right hand on Bach French Suites, that I would someday wind up in France where I would find an orchestra to play with? And did my mother foresee that, thanks to her insistence on my being able to attend music programs at home and abroad, I would become sufficiently accomplished on my instrument, enough to be invited to a French castle for a weekend of orchestral playing?
Probably not.
Before going on, thanks are due. So thanks, Monica and Gerardo, for making my world a bit bigger.
The castle
Pictured below.
So, I was invited to a French castle! Le Château de Goutelas. Located in the Forez province of the Loire department, the château dates back to the Renaissance. It fell into ruins until the sixties, when a good samaritan decided to lead its reconstruction. Thanks to 150,000 hours of pro bono work (farmers, construction workers, intellectuals, and artists all chipped in), the château was rebuilt in the hopes that it would serve as a place of free speech and culture. In 1966, the château welcomed Duke Ellington for a concert. A few years later, he would compose the Goutelas Suite (I tried to find a recording of this without any luck; instead, check out "Take the A Train", one of my favorites).
All in all, it's a pretty f-ing cool place.
The group I'm playing with, Ensemble Musica, is a ragtag assortment of players of different ages, levels, and backgrounds. I landed in their midst thanks to Corinne, who works with one of the violists in the orchestra (a History/Geography teacher at the Lycée Claude Fauriel). Me, Corinne, and Gemma (my Australian, violin-playing neighbor at the Facotel) have all joined.
I won't bore you with rehearsal tales. Let's just say I haven't played this much since I was 18. We rehearsed 3 hours on Friday night, 6 hours on Saturday, and another 6 on Sunday. It was intense. And probably not all that necessary since this is an amateur group (professional musicians and music students are the minority). At any rate, I can now play a mean viola part for Beethoven's 6th Symphony, and I've reconnected with my passion for classical music. I'm also toying with the idea of traveling to Switzerland this summer to stalk my old viola teacher and beg him to let me study at the Detmold Hochschule with him next year, but that's another story.
The feast
I may have omitted the fact that we slept and ate at the château all weekend. More eating than sleeping, I'm afraid. But oh, the eating! I'd forgotten how playing my arms off does wonders for my appetite, expanding it from already hearty to downright savage. We ate in the dining hall, fully equipped with a fireplace (sized approximately for roasting of wild-boar-on-spit) and long wooden tables.
An exemplary meal at the château, or Saturday's lunch -
First course: salad. Naturally. Giant bowls of lettuce and heaping plates of tomatoes, eggs, and beets (or "beet-fruit," as they say in Australia). Complemented by baskets of warm, crusty baguette.
Second course: pepper-crusted roasted pork loin with champignons in a cream sauce. And another giant bowl of overflowing ziti, prepared with butter and Emmental cheese. Plus, more baguette.
Third course: le fromage. Cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I sampled the blue cheese, but mostly stuffed my already engorged cheeks with the Saint-Félicien, a gooey cow's milk cheese.
Dessert: a yellow, custardy bread pudding with sweet prunes.
I should add that the entire meal was accompanied by a juicy Côtes du Forez. Of which I drank less than the Côtes du Rhône I've consumed while writing this post. Three-quarters of the bottle, to be precise. I think the French way of life suits me.
The ear plugs
Eating this much food can disrupt your sleep. As evidenced by our loud snoring neighbor who kept it up all freaking night long. At least it was rhythmic.
Gemma had the foresight to bring French-bought ear plugs. Which are apparently wax. All wax, all the time. They come wrapped in cotton, and after you peel away the hairy tufts, you're left with hard little balls of wax to warm and mold between your fingers before inserting them delicately into your ears. Only I have slight to moderate paranoia about inserting foreign objects into my ears, especially when they have a tendency to melt.
I lasted about 10 minutes with the wax plugs before I took them out and tried to sleep to the sound of nearby wheezing and snorting. Perhaps it was the practicing, or maybe the heavy eats, probably the wine as well, but it didn't take me long to pass out.
Wednesday, November 19
In which I realize that going to the market is kind of like going to the circus
SERIOUSLY, people, take a look at this purple cauliflower:
Saturday mornings in Saint-Etienne are all about the farmer's market. I've been lazy and stuck to the one by my house which occupies what normally serves as a parking lot. But on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and yes, Saturdays, the lot, framed by apartment buildings and a lone bar named "Le Pub Fiction," is overrun by farmers peddling their wares. Potatoes, apples, pears, lettuce, fresh herbs, pumpkins, radishes, cucumbers, berries, broccoli, cauliflower (in white, green, and purple varieties), are among the produce selection. Dairy products ranging from briques of pure cow's milk cheese, chèvre and brebis (goat and sheep's milk cheeses), homemade yogurt, and eggs can be found on the perimeter. Pork, beef, and poultry farmers also represent, with an emphasis on pork (pork-based products being a regional specialty). These ruddy-faced stéphanois sport blood-tinged aprons and meat cleavers, serving customers from caravans with hanging hams and rows of sausages.
Which brings us to my point about markets being like circuses. It could be the presence of caravans that first gave me a circus-y feeling. Or it could be the sights to behold, e.g. mutant strains of cauliflower or oddly shaped vegetables - Corinne adopted a cucumber that looked like it was sprouting two more cucumbers. Interesting sidenote: Europe recently relaxed its rules on the sale of "ugly" fruits and vegetables (thus explaining the curious absence of "overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves," and the abundance of said deformed bounty of nature at the farmer's markets).
Mostly, though, I think it's the farmers themselves. I can easily picture one of the pig farmers as a circus strongman, wrestling with a massive side of ham. In some cases, though, no imagination is necessary.
Take my favorite fruit farmer, whose name I still don't know even though I see him every week to buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples. And by buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples, I also mean chat with, admire, and generally oggle him.
Corinne: You mean that guy? He looks kind of like a goat...
Yes, apparently I have a thing for goat-like men. My apple man is tall and broad-shouldered, with charcoal hair and a really becoming goatee (trust me). His eyes crinkle and twinkle when he smiles, which is often. He wears the same sweater every time I see him, a faded navy blue wool knit that looks worn and mended.
So he's a dreamy goat-like man. I think if he headlined at a circus, his act would be entitled "Mephistophelian goat man." He would probably hypnotize hapless young women by juggling apples and dazzling them with his smile. The women, in turn, would stand zero chance of escaping his charms (and not buying his fruit).
My favorite circusesque farmers are the dairy duo from whom I buy my goat and sheep cheese. A married couple (presumably, though they might well be brother and sister) they are as old as their caravan, which looks like a throwback to gypsy wagons of yore. Round and plump, their rosy cheeks contrast with the snow white color of their sheep (yes, they have photos of their sheep lining the walls of the caravan). Their leathery hands with neatly clipped fingernails take great care when packing bricks and patties of all sorts of fresh cheeses in sheets of wax paper.
Usually, though, I can't help staring at their faces. The man has a glass eye that always trips me up when he looks past me asks me with grandfatherly warmth, "Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, mademoiselle?" The woman has more facial hair than he does, but the mustache suits her, as does the furry mole that dots her left upper lip. Both are missing teeth but don't seem to mind as they smile their gap-toothed smiles and move on to the next customer.
I'm not sure what act they would do. She could definitely play the part of the bearded lady (perhaps modfied to be "heavily mustached lady"). He might be the man with the magic eye?
I'm open to suggestions.
The market
Vegtastic
Saturday mornings in Saint-Etienne are all about the farmer's market. I've been lazy and stuck to the one by my house which occupies what normally serves as a parking lot. But on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and yes, Saturdays, the lot, framed by apartment buildings and a lone bar named "Le Pub Fiction," is overrun by farmers peddling their wares. Potatoes, apples, pears, lettuce, fresh herbs, pumpkins, radishes, cucumbers, berries, broccoli, cauliflower (in white, green, and purple varieties), are among the produce selection. Dairy products ranging from briques of pure cow's milk cheese, chèvre and brebis (goat and sheep's milk cheeses), homemade yogurt, and eggs can be found on the perimeter. Pork, beef, and poultry farmers also represent, with an emphasis on pork (pork-based products being a regional specialty). These ruddy-faced stéphanois sport blood-tinged aprons and meat cleavers, serving customers from caravans with hanging hams and rows of sausages.
Which brings us to my point about markets being like circuses. It could be the presence of caravans that first gave me a circus-y feeling. Or it could be the sights to behold, e.g. mutant strains of cauliflower or oddly shaped vegetables - Corinne adopted a cucumber that looked like it was sprouting two more cucumbers. Interesting sidenote: Europe recently relaxed its rules on the sale of "ugly" fruits and vegetables (thus explaining the curious absence of "overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves," and the abundance of said deformed bounty of nature at the farmer's markets).
Mostly, though, I think it's the farmers themselves. I can easily picture one of the pig farmers as a circus strongman, wrestling with a massive side of ham. In some cases, though, no imagination is necessary.
Take my favorite fruit farmer, whose name I still don't know even though I see him every week to buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples. And by buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples, I also mean chat with, admire, and generally oggle him.
Corinne: You mean that guy? He looks kind of like a goat...
Yes, apparently I have a thing for goat-like men. My apple man is tall and broad-shouldered, with charcoal hair and a really becoming goatee (trust me). His eyes crinkle and twinkle when he smiles, which is often. He wears the same sweater every time I see him, a faded navy blue wool knit that looks worn and mended.
So he's a dreamy goat-like man. I think if he headlined at a circus, his act would be entitled "Mephistophelian goat man." He would probably hypnotize hapless young women by juggling apples and dazzling them with his smile. The women, in turn, would stand zero chance of escaping his charms (and not buying his fruit).
My favorite circusesque farmers are the dairy duo from whom I buy my goat and sheep cheese. A married couple (presumably, though they might well be brother and sister) they are as old as their caravan, which looks like a throwback to gypsy wagons of yore. Round and plump, their rosy cheeks contrast with the snow white color of their sheep (yes, they have photos of their sheep lining the walls of the caravan). Their leathery hands with neatly clipped fingernails take great care when packing bricks and patties of all sorts of fresh cheeses in sheets of wax paper.
Usually, though, I can't help staring at their faces. The man has a glass eye that always trips me up when he looks past me asks me with grandfatherly warmth, "Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, mademoiselle?" The woman has more facial hair than he does, but the mustache suits her, as does the furry mole that dots her left upper lip. Both are missing teeth but don't seem to mind as they smile their gap-toothed smiles and move on to the next customer.
I'm not sure what act they would do. She could definitely play the part of the bearded lady (perhaps modfied to be "heavily mustached lady"). He might be the man with the magic eye?
I'm open to suggestions.
The market
Vegtastic
Sunday, November 9
Yes, we did.
I spent election night in Lisbon, glued to the television in Juan Manuel's apartment and watching the returns on cable. I made it to the point when CNN finally called Pennsylvania for Obama - by then, the five hour time difference was too much to bear, and I succumbed to sleep.
I woke up at 5 am, and Obama had won.
It's hard to put words to the feeling I had in that moment. A feeling that has stayed with me all week. Eirene put it perfectly in a chat I had with her on Friday:
Eirene: it was the happiest day of the last 8 years
it was sort of like being in love, and just really really happy
liberated?
In love, yes. Really really happy, most definitely. Liberated, of course. Of one of the most shameful administrations in American history. One that has repeatedly tarnished what "America" should and can represent.
I've cried every day this week since. Out of joy, pride, inspiration, and hope. And out of gratitude to the American people. For reminding me of why I'm proud to call myself American, in the fullest sense.
Wish I could have been there with you all to celebrate!
I woke up at 5 am, and Obama had won.
It's hard to put words to the feeling I had in that moment. A feeling that has stayed with me all week. Eirene put it perfectly in a chat I had with her on Friday:
Eirene: it was the happiest day of the last 8 years
it was sort of like being in love, and just really really happy
liberated?
In love, yes. Really really happy, most definitely. Liberated, of course. Of one of the most shameful administrations in American history. One that has repeatedly tarnished what "America" should and can represent.
I've cried every day this week since. Out of joy, pride, inspiration, and hope. And out of gratitude to the American people. For reminding me of why I'm proud to call myself American, in the fullest sense.
Wish I could have been there with you all to celebrate!
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