Piggy on sabbatical

My time in France is nearly up. I've got two weeks with the little ones before boarding my plane back to the U.S. and A. Where I will promptly board another plane bound to South America. Lima, to be exact. Followed by Cusco, La Paz, San Pedro de Atacama, Arica, and Miami.

I'll skip over the logic (or lack thereof) I've exercised in taking yet another trip without job or a solid savings cushion to fall back on. To avoid major freak out, I'm attempting to follow Dave the Scot's "Two Rules of Life."

Rule number one: Never worry about the small things.
Rule number two: Everything in life is a small thing.

(As a sidenote, do you ever need help justifying a ludicrous trip to yourself? Use this foolproof affirmation: My prospective trip to [insert exotic destination here] is a once in a lifetime opportunity. For instance, my prospective trip to the Falkland Islands is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Or, my prospective trip to Greenland is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Say it out loud, and stress once in a lifetime! It works, trust me.)

The fact remains that, for better or for worse (and I'd venture to say for better), I will be Andes-bound on May 20th.

Here is a map.

The reason I've provided said map is twofold. First, and don't be offended, because I know that South American geography isn't an emphatic component of American education. Second, because this is a special map. Can you find Peru and Bolivia? Sweet. Can you see what color they are? Correct! Yellow! And not as in sunny or hot. As in fever, the yellow kind.

Traveling to Andean regions requires immunization against a slew of deadly diseases. These include Hepatitis A and B, Tetanus, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. As of yesterday, I was missing three: Hep A, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. I probably could have waited to get my shots, but French medicine being what it is (socialized and awesome), I opted to surrender my naked shoulders to French nurses and get them all in Saint-Etienne.

Yellow Fever is only provided at the Hospital. I had to call and make a rendez-vous with the Service des Maladies Tropicales (Tropical Diseases). Fairly simple and straightforward. I booked an appointment and showed up as planned. And aside from the somewhat terrifying nature of being in a French public hospital, specifically, in the Department of Tropical Diseases, where the waiting rooms are papered with fliers about Bird Flu and Dengue and Malaria, my first shot went off without a hitch.

Hepatitis A and Typhoid, on the other hand, are done at the Centre de Vaccinations (Vaccination Center). Or so I was led to believe. I had called before to make sure, since there is some still incomprehensible rule about getting a Yellow Fever shot the same day as your other shots (otherwise you have to stagger it?), and I was assured by an amiable voice that the Centre de Vaccinations was the place to go.

So I showed up after lunch, chock full of Yellow Fever and eggplant and goat cheese pizza from Chez Franco. I walked into the waiting room filled with parents and their sullen children watching educational cartoons on a wall-mounted TV.

Je peux vous aider?

Can I help you? I was asked by a smiling woman.

Yes, I replied, I'm here for my Hep A and Typhoid vaccines.

Smiling woman: Vous les avez acheter? (Did you buy them?)

Me: Non, j'ai appelé il y a quelque semaines, et on m'a dit de venir aujourd'hui. (No, I called a few weeks ago and was told to come in today.)

No longer smiling woman: Comment ça? Attendez un instant, madame. Je vais vous faire parler avec ma collègue. (How's that? Please wait a moment, ma'am. I'm going to have you speak with my colleague.)

Fine, I thought. I have to pay for them first, apparently.

Minutes later, I was in the front office speaking with la collègue.

Me: Alors, je suis içi pour les vaccins contre l'hépatite A et la typhoïde. (So, I'm here for the vaccines against Hep A and Typhoid.)

La collègue: Mais vous ne les avez pas acheter? (But you haven't bought them.)

Me (beginning to get pissed off): Non, mais je peux les acheter maintenant! (No, but I can buy them now!)

La collègue (pausing): ... Mais il faut les A-CHE-TER. (But you have to BUY THEM.)

Me (officially pissed off, FUCK this lady is such a condescending asshole): Et bien, je peux les A-CHE-TER MAINTENANT. (Yes okay, I can BUY THEM RIGHT NOW.)

Okay, so as it turns out, I'm the asshole. The asshole who failed to process the subtle difference between acheter and payer (buy and pay). Because in France, you have to buy your vaccines at a pharmacy. And then bring them to a Vaccination Center. And have someone do the shooting up for you.

It's a depressing moment indeed when you realize that even though you've lived in a country for over six months and spoken the language and feel integrated and confident about your ability to navigate the local culture, you can fall so miserably short of basic comprehension. At moments like these I feel like I should be narrating a cautionary children's story about a big overgrown dummy (i.e. ME). See Katie. See Katie insert foot in mouth.

At any rate, I had plenty of time to go buy my Hep A and Typhoid vaccine at a nearby pharmacy (I wonder what would happen if I asked for a vaccine at an American pharmacy?) before closing time at the Vaccination Center. So I did. And then I returned, apologetic, contrite. And I thanked the staff. Profusely.

Note: I'm taking a break from blogging until I come back from my South America trip. Check back for updates on new travels in June!

Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: The crêperie that broke my heart

The perfect crêpe is an enigma.

The idea behind it is simple enough. A thin, light, delicate pancake made of wheat flour. Its name derives from the latin crispa, meaning "curled." The crêpe is a specialty of Bretagne, the northwestern French region reknown for other such gastronomic delights as cider and chouchen (a liquor made from wild honey). It's considered a national dish.

But take a closer look at the crêpe, and you'll discover the deception behind its apparent simplicity. It is more than a French pancake. It's breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. It's 1 cup flour, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 cup water, 2 tablespoons butter, and a pinch of salt. Or 2 cups flour, a pinch of salt, 3 eggs, 2 and 1/4 cups milk, and 1/4 cup butter. Or 2 cups flour, 3 eggs, 1 cup milk, 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons vanilla extract, 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, 2 tablespoons rum, and 1 cup still mineral water (this last one courtesy of food goddess Clotilde at Chocolate & Zucchini).

The crêpe can be savory or sweet. If sweet, it's a crêpe sucrée. Of these there are endless varities: nutella crêpe, strawberry crêpe, crêpe à la crème de marron (a sweetened purée of chestnuts), crêpe with chocolate-coconut-banana, crêpe Suzette (prepared with orange peel and Grand Marnier, and lit on fire). My personal favorite remains the crêpe beurre-sucre, made with salted butter and sugar.

If it's savory, it's referred to as a galette and is typically made of buckwheat flour. Galettes, too, enjoy a wide array of possible fillings. Emmental cheese, Emmental and ham, steak and Emmental, chicken and Emmental, feta-tomato-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-Emmental. And so on. (Emmental is extremely popular in France; it is one of the top two most consumed cheeses in the country. The other is Camembert.)

There is even a kebab galette. A crêpe filled with kebab meat, tomato, lettuce, onions, harissa, and yogurt sauce. I was really excited about this when I first got to St. E. On one of our kebab outings, I remarked to Corinne that these kebab galettes reminded me of burritos. They come wrapped in tinfoil, which you peel back as you eat them in order to avoid them getting cold.

Those of you who know me well can see where I'm going with this.

Corinne immediately shot down my brilliant idea for "French burritos."

Me: See, you use the crêpe, but you fill it with, like, red beans, rice, and carne asada and stuff.
Her: ...
Me: Frex-Mex!
Her: Um, no.

And then, there's the matter of the crêperies. Which are ubiquitous in France. Conveniently located on street corners, charging no more than 2-3 euros for the most basic crêpes. But since there is no universal crêpe recipe, there is zero guarantee that the crêperie you happen upon, as you make your way to the movies or come back home from work, will be any good.

I've learned this lesson the hard way. Through trial and error, I found the best place to get a crêpe fix in St. E., just two blocks away from Place du Peuple (and a mere 10 minutes from my studio).


Since January, I've bought at least a crêpe a week at this little tin shack. And always the same one: a crêpe beurre-sucre. One euro and eighty centimes. Something about the batter kept me coming back. The crêpes managed to be soft and doughy while maintaining their lightness. I'm not a fan of crispy crêpes, nor do I enjoy heavy Hummer crêpes that you regret eating about halfway through. My perfect crêpe tastes rich and filling but leaves you feeling light enough to eat another. And then another. This crêperie delivered with admirable consistency. To such a degree that, to be perfectly honest, I've actually gone about three times a week in the past month.

Until just recently. When ownership of this crêperie changed hands. From a kindly brunette crêpe master to an equally kindly but woefully inept blond crêpe novice. Gone is the batter I've grown to depend on. And it isn't just me. Corinne, too, has been deeply affected by the loss. Between the two of us, we've sampled the other streetside crêperies, to no avail.

Corinne 5:34 PM: I just tried the last crepe place that i know of, not that great. what am i going to do!?

Somewhere, I read that you need to let the batter rest for a couple of hours before frying up the crêpes. Or maybe it's a different ratio of eggs-to-flour-to-milk. Or a lack of some secret ingredient.

The situation remains unchanged. And my belly remains brokenhearted.

Happy Birthday...over, and over, and over, and over again...

Last week, in anticipation of my 26th birthday, I made a pact with Kim.

"We're gonna celebrate every night that I have left as a 25-year-old."

She put up zero resistance.

After all, me "celebrating" my birthday night after night meant that she, too, would be celebrating. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional week-long bacchanalia?

We began Wednesday night at the Dirty, gulping down Snakebites as we played drinking games with the pack of cards Morgan managed to score from the bartender.

A pack of Tarot cards.

First, I taught them how to play one of my favorite childhood card games, Culo Sucio (Dirty Ass in English). Essentially, I explained with animation as I had, by then, already been topped off for the third time, we leave one Joker in the deck, distribute all the cards, and discard them as we accumulate pairs. One player draws a card from his neighbor, and around and around we go until only the Joker remains - in the hands of the unfortunate player who is henceforth dubbed "el culo sucio." When I used to play this game with my father, he insisted on maintaining a roll of toilet paper at the table in order to give the "dirty ass" his or her due - "Anda a limpiarte el culo," go wipe your ass, he would exclaim to peals of laughter from all players save the poor, mortified "culo sucio."

After my detailed explanation, Kim deadpanned:

"Katie. That game is called Old Maid. It exists in the U.S. too. It's the lamest card game in the world."

Feeling just a bit deflated, I nonetheless insisted that we had to, HAD TO play it.

Which we did. For about three rounds, all of which Kim lost (Kim, as it turns out, has a fierce competitive streak hidden behind that doe-eyed goodness of hers).

After that, the night exists only in bits and pieces.

We played Ride the Bus, a brilliant suggestion of Kim's. Morgan and I squared off while Kim observed, horrified either by our butchering of the game or our extreme consumption of alcohol (likely both).

Then I attempted to teach Morgan a hand-slapping game.

One, two, three

My momma takes care of me

Ooo, ahhh

Wanna piece of pie

Pie too sweet

Wanna piece of meat

Meat too tough

Wanna ride a bus

Bus too full

Wanna ride a bull...

The night led us to la Mine (the Mine), the most happening non-techno club in St. E. It is appropriately named, as you have to climb down a set of dark and vertiginous stairs into a basement to enter (also, St. E. is, or at least was, a mining town).

Dancing ensued. Among the fifteen people out at la Mine at 2 am on a Wednesday. One of whom, quite magically, turned out to be Nico, a bartender at...you guessed it. The Dirty! Nico is a native stéphanois who "knows people," including the resident DJ at la Mine who is actually a Smiths fan and played "This Charming Man" on my request. Nico and I danced like teenagers (awkwardly but furiously), and I managed to avoid the usual embarassing music-related commentary (e.g. "I wanna DJ my own wedding!").

Friday night, we drank in (what else) my birthday at Kim's apartment in what turned out to be the most memorable night of crazy yet.

The company: 3 parts American (me, Kim, and Corinne), 3 parts French (Mathilde, Jean, and Morgan), and 1 part German (Ilka).

The drinking event: a power hour using a Snakebite-inspired concoction, not beer.

The power hour is a treacherous drinking game. Minutes stretch into hours, you lose track of your shot count and wind up drinking double or triple. Neither the Frenchies nor the Germans had ever seen, let alone done, anything like it before (oh, American drinking culture, be still my heart, by strong my liver). But Math, well, Math was the star.

After seven minutes: Yous a slut beach! (her attempt at "slut bitch")

After eleven minutes: Putain! Ça fait combien d'heures qu'on joue ce jeu? (Fuck! How many hours have we been playing this game?)

After twenty-six minutes: (singing and playing the guitar)

Mr. Jones and me tell each other future.

We steer at ze beautiful womens.

She lookin' at you?

Ay, nah nah, I don't fink so, she lookin' at me.

Ladies and gentlement, I give you the Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones," covered by Mathilde Grand.

That night ended, once more, at la Mine. With a brief stop at the Dirty because, well, it's become a compulsion.

Finally, on Monday night, I was surpised with the birthday cake of my dreams. Corinne baked me one of the most magnificent and truly personalized cakes I've had the pleasure of devouring in my adult life. If you want more details on how it was prepared, check out her blog.

Yes, what's that you see on top? Nothing other than Kinder Buenos! The crispy wafer, chocolate-covered, hazelnut-filled candy bar that haunts my thoughts when they turn to chocolate.

And that frosting? Could it be? Well, yes, it's clearly chocolate. But what sort of chocolate, you might inquire. There's chocolate and then there's chocolate. Corinne made her ganache frosting out of Lindt milk chocolate. Only the finest (in my opinion) milk chocolate in the world.

The ganache also served as filling to the cake, yellow cake to be precise, found underneath the blanket of milk chocolate. Moist and dense, the perfect consistency.

C'est pas normal

The other day, Kim and I went for a drink at our neighborhood dive bar, Dirty Old Town. Modeled after an Irish Pub, the Dirty (or Dirty Old Man, as we call it) is a dark, wood-paneled refuge plastered with Irish paraphernalia. Flags of Ireland, green clovers, and signs hailing past and future Saint Patrick's Day celebrations provide the main decor inside, while a chalkboard by the entrance lures potential carousers with a bit of Irish wisdom: "A Guinness a day keeps the doctor away."

It is, hands down, my favorite bar in Saint-Étienne.

Kim and I sat there, deep into our Snakebites (made here with a shot of Cassis syrup) and mused over Saint Patrick's Days past. She told me about her (mis)adventures back in Milwaukee, like the time she was accidentally cast on the evening news as an early bird Saint Paddy's Day drunk ("I was at the bar at 9 pm! Not 7 AM!"). I related the traditional 24 hour pub crawls back in Boston, and how I've (sadly) never participated in a single one. And how I wanted this year to be different.

We looked at each other and had the same thought: what better venue could we possibly have for this year's Saint Patrick's Day than the Dirty?

Clearly, none. Kim whipped out the tiny agenda she carries with her everywhere to plan her life (I think she puts me to shame) and flipped to the week of March 17th.

"Normally, I don't have any class that day! You know what that means!"

No. Stop, I said. Do you realize what you just did? You said the N word. In English.

She paused, and laughed in full realization of what she'd done.

I'll explain.

If there's one word, one phrase in particular, that upsets me in its French use, it is the word "normal" and it's frequent attachment to the prelude "c'est pas."

C'est pas normal. It's not normal. Or C'est normal, it's normal. Or Normalement... Normally...

In English, we tend to say "usually." Or "typically." Or "most of the time." To invoke the word normal in statements about our daily lives feels very, very wrong to me. If something is "normal," then its opposite is "abnormal."

Synonyms for abnormal: deviant, aberrant, bizarre, gross, queer, weird...

Normal or abnormal, it all feels like judgment.

It works in certain cases. For example, a French rap group called the Neg Marrons have a great song entitled "C'est pas normal." It begins with the refrain:

On prend la parole pour délivrer la vérité
Pour tous ces gens qui vivent dans la précarité
C'est pas normal, c'est pas normal, non

(We take to words to deliver the truth
For all the people who live in precarity
It's not normal, it's not normal, no)

The song is about the dire straits of the immigrant poor in France, and I wholeheartedly agree that their situation "is not normal." The context merits use of the word "normal" because the situation, as it stands, is an aberration.

Meanwhile, when I showed up to the prefecture earlier this week to pick up (at long last!) my carte de sejour, I was informed that my medical examination had somehow been misplaced.

C'est pas normal, the attendant assured me.

I stared at her, blankly, trying to mask my anger at the situation. And at her response. I'm glad it's not normal, I shouted in my head, otherwise I'm not sure how you would manage to run the goddamn country!

Or, take for another example, the ski getaway I indulged in last weekend. When I arrived late Friday evening with my ski mates, Ilka and Corinne, we waited outside the welcome center while the trip coordinator fetched room keys for all. Only the room keys weren't matched with the rooms they belonged to, so we were forced to wait while the coordinator tested each key on the rooms available. Upon receiving our room assignment, we were informed that, due to a lack of space at the resort, we had been placed in a room for six with two complete strangers. Normally, one would expect to have advanced notice of such a drastic change, especially given that we had paid more for a 3-person suite. The coordinator offered the following by way of apology:

C'est pas normal.

(We also later discovered, after having been reminded various times by the travel agent of the urgent need for us to bring our bathing suits to take full advantage of the slope-side swimming pool, the pool was actually closed on Saturday night. The only night we could have possibly used it, that is. When we reported back to the travel agent, she shook her head and said, regrettably, C'est pas normal.)

Morgan, a French friend of Kim's and native stéphanois, has told Kim that her accent in English, well, "It's not normal!" Kim's English sounds a bit like Fargo-speak: undeniably hilarious, but not what you would consider a deviant form of the language.

Well, alright then, two can play at this game! I've observed a few things myself that are "not normal." Like the advertisement below for Orangina.


Really, Orangina? A buff, naked bear, licking his chops and thrusting his pelvis at a bottle of your beverage? C'est pas normal, okay?

Or the local creep who frequents the bars in the Place les Martyrs des Vingres, Saint-Étienne's happening late night square.

C'est pas normal.

I begged Kim to erase that word from her vocabulary. We must hold fast and fight the Frenchification of our language skills! We've been in France for four months now, so I suppose French is bound to impact our English to some degree. It's normal. But...

Crap.

In which I am exposed to the perverse nature of adolescent French boys

I had my first all-boys class last week at Terrenoire. A group of troisièmes, ranging from 14-16 years old. Now, I usually rely on the presence of at least 2 or 3 members of the fairer sex to neutralize the boys' raging hormones. Just a couple of girls can provide the temperance necessary to survive 50 minute sections relatively unscathed.

The morning in question, however, Lady Luck absconded and left me to the wolves. The wolves being young French boys of various sizes and in various stages of physical maturity, some sporting traces of facial hair, others with smooth-skinned, angelic faces, all possessing the same distinct smell. French boys of the collège age secrete a noisome scent, a cross between onions and the stink of crotch. It's not just in my head: my teachers have told me repeatedly that it's necessary to air out the classrooms after each class. Even in winter, after each bell goes off and students pile out, you'll find windows thrown wide open as teachers gulp up the cold, fresh air.

I've already related the banana story which set the bar pretty high for pubescent perverts. I haven't written about the countless times I've witnessed a male student performing air fellatio while holding an imaginary penis in his hand, all for the enjoyment of his buddies, but much to his chagrin and embarassment the moment he realizes I've spotted him and understand quite well what the gesture means, thank you very much.

There's also the time I had a group of students create rules for a series of scenarios. One group was assigned "Freedom Beach," a fictitious, nude beach. I thought prompting the students with something slightly scandalous would provoke amusement and a more enthusiastic engagement with the task at hand. I didn't foresee the possible rules that might surface.

Rules for Freedom Beach:
You must take of your clothes.
You must tan.
You musn't be gay.
You musn't rape.
You musn't fucking.

I explained to the students that "You musn't fucking" wasn't really an elegantly phrased rule. "You musn't have sex" would be more appropriate. As for "You musn't be gay," I vetoed that rule immediately.

(As much tolerance as I might have for the sexual innuendo and jokes, I can't deal with homophobic adolescent boys. Or homophobic anybody, for that matter. Duh.)

I suppose, in retrospect, my all-boys class could have been a lot worse. They were all genuinely nice, if not a bit oversexed.

Random student: Do you like Yan's hair?
Me: Who is Yan?
Random student: (pointing) Yan is there. Do you like his hair? It's very nice, yes?
Me: You think so?
Random student: His hair is nice and he love you. He think you are very beautiful.

Yan looks like he's 18, incidentally. He does have gorgeous, flowing chestnut locks, complemented by smooth, tan skin, a good build and stature, and a winning smile. And he will probably grow up to be an attractive man. Once he learns to stop scratching himself in public.

When I asked the boys what they had done over the weekend, one of them, Yassim, told me he bought a girl.

Yassim: I buy a girl on Saturday.
Me: What? What do you mean? You bought a girl?
Yassim: Yes I buy her.
Me: Is she a prostitute?!
Yassim: (laughs with buddies) Noooo, nooo! She is a girl!
Me: ... Okay, how nice for you.

Yassim is in love with Jessica Alba. He and another student had a 2 minute argument in English over who is "most sexy": Jessica, or Megan Fox.

The boys also kept bringing up "The big Momo" throughout the entire class. I have no clue what or who the big Momo is. I was too sketched out by what the explanation might be, so I didn't ask for specifics.

At the end of the class, after the bell rang, a soft-spoken student named Joris approached me. Joris is one of the angel-faces still stunted in prepubescence. He is a boy of diminutive proportions (especially compared to his peers) and wears glasses that occupy a good third of his face. He always goes out of his way to say hello and good bye, and I make a special effort to let him talk in class (since the bigger, more brazen boys tend to dominate most conversations). I think he might have a bit of a crush on me.

Joris walked up to me as the others threw their bags on and shoved each other out of the classroom.

"Je suis desolé pour le bordel, Madame."

Translation: I'm sorry for the mess.
(Alternate translation: I'm sorry for the brothel.)

Brief hilarity

You all remember, right? Tom and Jerry. The cartoon we (or at least I) grew up with, before Pokeman et. al. Tom chasing Jerry. Jerry outsmarting Tom. Formulaic but entertaining.

Well, the French kids remember Tom and Jerry. Quite well, in fact.

I'll explain.

Cindy, one of the English teachers at Terrenoire, showed me some test results this morning. The troisièmes took a cumulative exam before the break, testing what they've learned so far this year. On the exam was a section on past continuous. The section was quite simple: a series of images in which two cats wait outside a mousehole, presumably for a mouse, then set a trap, but ultimately the mouse gets away. Students were meant to describe the photos using the past continuous, i.e. While the cats were setting a trap, the mouse waited.

Fine.

The performance of most students was pitiable. It's unclear to me how so many of them could have obtained a 1 out of 9 possible points on this section.

But that's not the funny bit. The funny bit is this: a good half of the students could not find the word for mouse in English.

Instead, they opted for "The Jerry."

The Jerry was eating cheese while the cats waited.
While the cats were waiting for the Jerry, the Jerry escaped.

And so on and so forth.

Oh, and a couple of students chose "The Mickey" as their English word for mouse.

Snapshot of Paris: Barbès - Rochechouart

The Barbès - Rochechouart Metro stop is on the 2 and 4 lines which appear, respectively, as blue and hot purple strips on the Plan de Metro. Populated in large part by immigrants (seemingly north African), this is not the Paris of the Trocadero or Champs-Élysées. The streets are mobbed with vendors peddling wares that range from cheap Malboro cigarrettes (smuggled by the Eastern European mafias) to Dolce and Gabbana purse knockoffs. It provokes the sensory overload you might expect at a giant outdoor flea market, with men shouting "Malboro! Malboro!" and pressing the red and white boxes on you, while others stalk you for a full block trying to sell you a fake Fendi watch. I had an older man, cloaked in the charming scent of alcohol and stale cigarrettes, approach me without anything to sell. Nonetheless, he struck up a slurred conversation. Upon learning that I was American, he bent over and confessed that he loved me.

"I loooove youuu."

I thanked him and went on my merry way.

I had made my way over to Barbès on my friend Gaby's suggestion. Gaby, having spent a year living in Paris recently, was chock full of good ideas for exploring the "other side" of Paris, the part that tourists rarely see or even imagine. Me, having already done the tourist circuit of Paris, well, I was favorably inclined towards his suggestions.

So after finally dragging myself out of bed at 1 pm, I ambled over there last Tuesday with Linda, who was visiting for New Year's. We decided to make a lunch of it and enjoy some delicious and cheap ethnic food while in the neighborhood. Which we did, entering a small establishment (read: hole in the wall) that promised a 6 euro menu consisting of just about every food group.

Of course, we were the only women in sight. But aside from a few surprised looks and modest head turns, the attraction we drew was most welcome, offered by the only waiter (and, perhaps, owner) of the joint.

He launched immediately into an explanation of the menu which I tried to decipher with little success. Fast and truncated, Parisian street French is hard enough to understand when it is spoken by the French. When the speaker is an immigrant with a heavy accent, it is near is possible. I repeated the few words I could make out - couscous, soupe, et poulet - and hoped for the best.

The waiter then brought out a heaping plate of couscous, a steaming bowl of vegetable stew, and a roasted chicken leg. I ladled the stew onto the couscous, adding some harissa for a kick, and tucked in. The food, served in generous portions and prepared like a home cooked meal, was excellent.

I washed it all down with an ice cold Coke.

Linda and I parted from the restaurant after thanking our waiter. Warm and stuffed, we waddled back to the Metro station, where I was accosted not once but twice in the span of about 2 minutes.

First, a group of men and women bearing palms full of Metro tickets approached me, offering to sell the tickets at a greatly reduced price. The word "offer," however, falls short of describing their gestures and cries. And of how they actively cornered me by the ticket machines, where I remained until Linda rescued me.

As it turns out, I didn't need the ticket after all. In the crowd of people trying to squeeze through the bottleneck that is the entrance to most Paris Metro stations, one particularly aggressive gentleman behind me decided not to wait for me to insert my ticket. He simply popped his in and pushed us both through the turnstyle. I can't say I was displeased.

Following the turnstyles, a series of stairs leads down to the trains. I flitted down the stairwell, and in a most becoming and graceful moment, lost my balance and took a tumble.

In less than 5 seconds, a herd of Malboro men flocked to me. I had picked myself up, dusted myself off, and was about to thank them for their concern and wave them away. But they beat me to it and opened their mouths first.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle... Malboro?"

The ANAEM and Falling in Love

The ANAEM is the Agence Nationale de l’Accueil des Etrangers et des Migrations. Translated roughly to English, it stands for the National Agency for the Welcome of Foreigners and Migrations. The ANAEM has a dual mission: to welcome and support aliens when they move to France, and to assist French nationals and workers when moving outside France.

This friendly and welcoming agency is where all of us non-European language assistants are required to pass a medical exam. The exam is one of the requirements for our carte de sejour, which allows us to remain in France for the duration of our work contract.

I don't need to devote much time to how the purported importance of this medical exam escapes me, given that I've been in France since late September, and I only just received my summons to the ANAEM two weeks ago. Let's just say that if me and the other American assistants had arrived in France with tubercular lungs or smallpox, our students would already have been irreversibly exposed to whatever horrible disease we might be carrying. And having our lungs x-rayed at the ANAEM in December would do little to save the poor little buggers.

Kim, Corinne, and I were all schedule for the exam on the day of our first major snow storm in Saint-Etienne. Our little city was receiving a healthy dusting of snow when we boarded the train, and everything looked pristine and white. You can imagine our chagrin when stepping off the train and onto the platform in Lyon only to discover cold, wet rain.

Unfazed, we popped by Lyon's Marché de Noël for a warm cup of vin chaud before heading to the ANAEM. The irony of drinking before a medical exam is not lost on me. However, I wasn't particularly concerned that I would have to pass a sobriety test in order to be allowed to remain in France.

The ANAEM was closed when we arrived at about 20 minutes before 1:30 PM. We stood at the entrance as employees returned from their lunches, huddling close and rubbing our hands together for warmth on the off chance that they might let us into the building early. Apparently, rain, wind, and cold are not good enough reasons to let "foreigners" into an empty building before reopening time.

Once inside, I was reminded once more of how much being inside French government buildings feels like being in hell. Or being in a scene out of the movie Brazil (not that there's a difference).

"Sorry, I'm a bit of a stickler for paperwork. Where would we be if we didn't follow the correct procedures?" And such.

The bureaucracy alone makes my head explode, and the architecture seems intentionally designed to intensify the explosion.

The exam was simple and brilliantly executed. One doctor asks you questions about your health, another doctor x-rays your chest, and a final doctor reviews the x-ray and signs the form that will enable you to go downstairs and obtain a final signature before taking the form back to the Saint-Etienne Préfecture. Which will then enable you to wait a month before passing once more by the Préfecture to pick up your shiny, new, plastic-wrapped carte de sejour.

Only we were all rather nervous about the x-rays. Or sex-rays as they were dubbed. Being left shirtless in a room with an unfamiliar French woman spewing commands at you rapid and only semi-comprehensible French (almost as if on purpose) is not the most comfortable experience.

We all came out with our forms signed and varying tales.

On my turn, the x-ray doctor had me lift and hold my hair up off of the nape of my neck, leaving me in a topless pose that I tend to reserve for bedroom seductions.

Corinne, wearing a necklace, was told to put the necklace in her mouth (shocking, I know).

Finally, Kim, topless Kim, Kim who also had on a necklace, was told to take it off while the doctor wrapped the protective lead pouch around her waist.

"You guys, when she wrapped that thing around me, it felt like we were in love!

The Biennale Internationale Design (and a valuable lesson in moderation)

A few weeks ago, Saint-Etienne held the 2008 International Design Biennial, intended to "make design more accessible by bringing about meetings, exchanges of ideas and discussions between audiences of all kinds." Knowing little about design myself (but having numerous design-inclined friends for whom I am writing this post), and enticed by the prospect of "interacting" with design, I headed to the Biennale during its last weekend, Kim and Corinne in tow.

We hit up the Crousty Sandwicherie (or "sandwich hole," as I accidentally called it) on our way to the expo. The Crousty is a a metal shack in Place Jean Jaures, situated practically on top of the Tram road. It's always crowded, with people descending from the Tram and elbowing each other to get their hands on any number of different sandwich permutations, crêpes, and galettes (savory crêpes).

So, why the Crousty? For starters, it's on the route that I tend to run around Saint-Etienne, which has given me the opportunity to scope the place out. And every time I pass it, I observe the same phenomenon: a throng of customers, and the almost unbearably sweet and warm smell of fresh made crêpes (when I run on cold nights, I summon my deepest reserves of inner strength in order not to cave to the smell, order a crêpe, and take the Tram back home). I'd finally tried a Crousty crêpe a few days before the Biennale. As I had waited there, holding my breath and biting my lip, I observed the sandwich that would haunt me for the next few days until I had the chance to return and sample it for myself.

The Crousty man, wearing a smudged white apron, tossed what looked like close to half a kilo of Emmenthal cheese straight onto the hot plate. That is, the hot plate which is typically used to prepare crêpes. I watched the Emmenthal melt and crisp, breathing it in, before he tossed on another half kilo of sliced chicken. The cheese and the chicken merged into a solid block that could well have been eaten as a sandwich sans bread. But he quickly transferred the mixture into a pre-sliced baguette, slathered on some mustard, and placed the sandwich onto a panini press. Five minutes later, he slid the flattened sandwich into a a flute-shaped paper bag and handed it off to one happy looking customer.

Emmenthal and chicken. Emmenthal and steak. Emmenthal, steak, and egg. Le Parisien. Le Lyonnais. Le Roma. L'Allemand. Le Volcan. Le Campagnard. Each sandwich featuring a variation on cheese (Emmenthal, Provolone, Mozzarella), meat (ham, steak, salami, tuna, egg, pâté), and miscellaneous items (tomatoes, cornichons, anchovies). Etcetera.

All for the bargain price of under 5 euro.

"You guys, you guys! We HAVE GOT to eat at the Crousty!"

Which we did. Very enthusiastically. Until we made it through a little over half of our sandwiches. In our hungry and excited state, we'd failed to process a rather challenging problem with the Crousty sandwiches. They are, in fact, served in a baguette. Not a part of a baguette. Not a half-baguette, or a flute. A whole, Crousty baguette.

I am a champion eater. I have an iron stomach. I can eat an entire bar of Lindt milk chocolate and still have room for dinner.

But I'd never eaten this much cheese and bread in one sitting before. Not even on fondue nights back home.

We rallied, bursting at the seams, but determined to make our way to the Biennale.

This is the first exhibit we flocked to. The City Eco-Lab, which seeks to explore and (potentially) answer the following series of questions:

1. What would life be like in a sustainable city? How can design help us to achieve this?

2. What kinds of sustainable food flows can we achieve?

3. How can we achieve sustainable mobility in an urban environment? What means of transport - whether existing or requiring improvements - can we use to bring about truly intermodal uses and services?

4. How can we suggest the presence of water in the city? What new (and less new) practices should we be moving towards?

The Eco-Lab was, hands down, my favorite part of the expo. Of particular note were its interactive components: a Germoir, or Seed Tray, and the "Tool Shed," in which all visitors could reference and contribute to books, maps, cards, films, high environmental performance materials, regional know-how, and a choice of software platforms and matrices for new economic models.

"La cantine moins de 80 km de City Eco Lab:"

City Eco Lab's cafeteria, serving strictly local food and drinks.

Big and meaty mushrooms growing in the Germoir.

As I strolled around the Eco-Lab, taking in exhibit after exhibit on moderation and sustainability, I considered the growing pangs in my stomach. In fact, after about 20 minutes, the pangs were all I could think about.

I would love to report back on the details of the many, fascinating projects on display, and how they made me reflect on my carbon footprint, etc.

Instead, I reflected on how foolish I'd been to consume all of that cheese and bread. I contemplated how my stomach was struggling to digest about a kilo of cheese and chicken, and an entire baguette. And I meditated on how likely it was that I would be able to lie down somewhere, anywhere, in the near future.

The remainder of the expo was a blur of furniture and random objects whose purpose was all too often unclear. I managed to sneak a nap on a comfortable but lumpy sofa (not pictured here, because frankly, I don't need another photo of me passed out in an unfamiliar place).

Sexy design chairs.

This reminds me of Ikea.

Lego chair! I used to have a Lego phone!! Remember, Zac?

In conclusion, this post was really much more to do with my overly ambitious feasting than the Biennale. But maybe you'll be happy to know (although you probably won't give a shit) that when I run by the Crousty now, I feel nothing.

Wait, actually no. That's a lie, and it plays down the roller coaster emotions that the Crousty and I shared.

Perhaps it would be more fair to say that I feel a slight temptation, inevitably followed by a twinge of nausea.

Some days are better than others, and viceversa

Today was viceversa.

I'm in Paris right now, in the 15th arrondissement. Writing from my uncle Mario's laptop in the Ikea-furnished apartment he and my aunt Liliana have rented for their weeklong stay. Which just so happens to have coincided with my taking the GRE. In Paris. (If you take it in Paris, it's more glamorous. Okay, not really.)

This morning, at 11 am, I walked over to the Plaisance Metro station and hopped the M 13 over to Saint-Lazare. From there, I took a grimy Transilien (trains that go to the Parisian banlieue) in order to get to my test site in Courbevoie.

I don't usually listen to my mp3 player when I'm heading from point A to point B. Like all the pod people that have taken over cities. You see them everywhere, on buses and trains, on sidewalks, sometimes even on bikes, telltale wires dangling from their ears, and zoned out looks on their faces. Each insulated and quarantined from their fellow man. Who said technology would bring us all closer together?

But today, I took my mp3 player. I wanted to be in my own blissed out bubble before the exam. I wanted to get pumped by listening to ABBA and Prince. I did not want screaming babies and annoying conversations to fuck with my cool. Only I forgot that the downside to cutting yourself off from your environs can prove risky because, well, you're cut off! And you don't notice when, for example, your somewhat aggressive handling of the ticket machine and curses muttered under your breath (which, as it turns out, are actually much louder than you had intended) draw the attention of a swarthy train operator. Who proceeds to give you a withering look before lecturing you on the correct way to purchase your train ticket (the French really, really love to lecture you on how to do things correctly).

At last, sitting on the Transilien, I tuned in to Cat Power and tried some deep breathing exercises. Breathe in for five seconds, exhale for five seconds. I got about as far as 2 cycles of these before I realized that the air I was inhaling had a strong hint of stale amonia. More likely than not derived from human piss. I then decided I'd rather smell myself for the remainder of the ride and drew the top of my sweater over my face.

My arrival at Bécon-les-Bruyères, the final stop on my pilgrimage to the GRE test site, was marked by an intense desire to buy something to eat. I knew I wouldn't have time for lunch beforehand, so I'd counted on buying a Snickers bar to munch during the exam. Snickers bars being packed with chocolate for energies and peanuts for proteins. Lucky for me, there was a vending machine selling Snickers by the pair, right at the train station! Two euro would buy me two whole Snickers, to keep my belly full and my mind at ease. I parcelled out two euro in assorted coins, and dropped them into the vending machine. Made my numeric selection. And then, I lost it. Because the machine ate my coins, delivering nothing in return but a bruised fist (as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to ¨get aggressive¨ with inanimate objects that disappoint me).

I left the train station, my mood already dampened, and discovered that I was lost. The directions to the test site were clear as far as transportation. But once in the right neighborhood, there was nothing specifically directing me towards the Rue Armand Silvestre. I wandered around, trying hard to bolster my spirits with positive observations ("Look at the cute creperie," "My God, I'm in the city where Borges and Cortázar wrote, a Mecca for writers!"). Until I finally asked a young épicier to help me get my bearings. Which he did very succesfully.

Once oriented, I looked for a grocery market to buy a snack. And I found one! Kind of a dirty looking store, selling disheveled products under the glare of fluorescent lights. I grabbed an assortment of nuts and fruits marketed as Apperifruits! and made a dash for the cash register. I was third in line, behind a gray-haired man sporting crazy eyes. That he kept fixing on me. I avoided eye contact, but to no avail. He kept turning around and looking at me. And then he opened his mouth to speak.

I couldn't understand a word coming out of his mouth, only that he was making sounds that aren't usually characteristic of human speech. Whizzing sounds. And clucking sounds. Yes, like a chicken.

I think this was the first time in France that I've felt truly alone. Standing in line, next to this strange man who would not stop looking at me and clucking in my direction, I almost cried.

It dawned on me he most likely had Tourette's. And, glancing at the contents of his grocery basket which consisted of nothing more than a head of lettuce, canned ravioli, and a couple of green apples, I felt the saddest I've been in a while.

The day is over, and I'm late to meet a friend at the Bastille. The important thing to keep in mind is that the GRE is over. No more standardized tests. Ever! I hope.

Who needs a drink?

Do you like bananas?

Okay. I'm stressed about the GRE on Friday, so I won't be posting this week.

Except for the following. Which I will keep short and sweet.

I had a new class last Wednesday at Portail Rouge. Initially, I was le pissed off about having to wake up at 6 am to make the trek over to the school in time for an 8 am class, after which I was to turn right back around and go home.

That's right, one hour of class. They asked me to come in at 8 am for one hour of class. My schedule will only get worse come January, but I grin and bear it in the hopes that it will pay off when I want some wiggle room for my vacations.

Back to class. A group of quatrièmes (the equivalent of 8th grade). A boisterous crowd, with tons of questions:
"Have you got any brothers or sisters?"
"Have you got any pets?"
"Have you got a car?"
"Have you got a flat (apartment)?"
The teacher had asked them to be prepared to quiz me on my background, and boy were they on their game.

Only there were a few "troublemakers" in the crew. Les pénibles. One, in particular, who decided it would be appropriate to tell me what he thought about me. You know, physically.

Kid: Madame, you are verrrry beautifullll and sexiii.
Me: awkward laughing
Teacher: angry yelling in French

Following this, I got questioned at great length about my relationship status:
"Are you married?"
"Are you single?"
"Why are you single?"
"Why haven't you got the boyfriend?"

I took it all in stride, smiling and laughing as I tried to explain that I am very happily on my own in France.

Until I was asked if I like bananas.

Other kid: Do you like ze, em, bananes?
Me: awkward blushing and incredulity

The teacher refused to let me reply.
(She also apologized profusely after the bell rang and the students vacated the classroom).

Thursday, when I returned to Portail Rouge to school more chillun, the Assistant Principal approached me and assured me that each of the students responsible for the "inappropriate behavior" had been sentenced to a lengthy detention. And that I should not hesitate to report this type of behavior should I ever encounter it again. And that this type of behavior is rare, so to please not worry (as if the kids' behavior would drive me away from my teaching job).

I graciously accepted his regrets and decided not to admit the part about how the kids' "inappropriate behavior" had made for, quite possibly, one of my favorite classes thus far (by virtue of the pure ridiculousness they had demonstrated). I'm not sure such an admission would be considered "appropriate."

Marché de Noël: First Impressions

Today is December 1st.

As of this past weekend, the countdown to Christmas has begun. While Americans raced to the stores on Black Friday to shop for presents (or, you know, trampled an ill-fated Wal-Mart temp), the French celebrated a quainter, more charming tradition.

C'est le Marché de Noël! The Christmas Market!

From what I've gathered, the killer Christmas Markets are in the Alsace region: Strasbourg, Mulhouse, and Haguenau, to name a few towns. Tourism is strong this time of year in the Alsace: to pass by any travel agency or tourism office is to be tempted by glossy photos of snow-frosted pines and half-timbered houses with triangular, red brick roofs.

But, and here's the good news for moi, we have our very own Christmas Market here in Saint-Etienne!

I've already been there twice since the weekend.

So here's what I'm thinking: I need a recreational goal for the month of December. Next Friday I take the GRE in Paris, and I'll be rid of standardized tests forever! Or at least for a good long while, although I said the same thing back when I had to take the FCAT - Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. And then the PSAT. And then the SAT, and then the SAT IIs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: standardized tests are crap. You can't measure intellect through a tool designed for the sole purpose of testing your ability to produce an outcome, correct or incorrect, with no regards for the process whereby you arrive at your answer.

Goddamnit I've gone off topic again. My recreational goal. I've decided that in the coming weeks, I will sample every food product that is available for purchase at the Christmas Market.

But Katie, isn't the Christmas Market about buying, well, Christmas presents?

Yes. But this doesn't really interest me in the slightest.

Yes, you can find artisan-made crafts like glass mosaic plates, wood carved wine holders, wool knit scarves, gloves, and berets, and ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a pair of intertwined lovers. And while I appreciate the time and skill (and in most cases, the tradition) that goes into manufacturing these articles, I'm more enticed by products that I can smell and taste.

Like churros.

What you see above is a paper wrapped bouquet of sugary churros, fresh out of the frier. The clown's sentiments echo mine exactly: HUMM...C'EST BON! The last thing I expected to see at a French Christmas Market was churros, but I'm definitely not complaining. They even serve them with a small container of Nutella (for dipping, of course), perhaps in an effort to mimic the Spanish tradition of dipping churros in hot chocolate.

I opted to dip my churros in an authentic French specialty: vin chaud.


Oh, dearest vin chaud lady! By the end of December, you will know my face as well as your own flesh and blood! Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is something I've built up since middle school French class. In it, you'll typically fine red wine, lemon, orange, sugar, and cinamon. Some recipes call for the welcome addition of nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. This concoction is heated up and ladled out on chilly nights. Although I could easily make this myself, I like having an excuse to go to the Christmas Market for a 2 Euro cup of vin chaud. This particular booth also sells marron grillés (roasted chestnuts), crêpes, and homemade preserves and marmelades.

What haven't I tried yet? A lot more than you might assume. I have as of yet to déguster the crêpes at the Market. The waffles, too (these are gauffres of the Belgian persuasion - yes, Boston crew, like the ones at the Belgian Beerfest).

Then there are the more region-specific delicacies, like the Tartiflette.


Tartiflette combines three of my all time favorite ingredients: potatoes, cheese (reblochon), and ham (or bacon). My friend Rebecca has told me repeatedly that she can't justify eating Tartiflette unless she has been out all day hiking Mont Blanc or skiing or running a marathon (or some comparable activity outdoors). I say, Rebecca, suck it up and put on your eating pants. The saucepan you see above is about as long as me. This particular booth also provides fresh made Raclette, the very simple and delicious combination of boiled potatoes with Gruyère cheese, popular in Switzerland and the French alpine region.

Then there are the bite-sized treats, like candied fruits and Christmas chocolates, featured below.

Candied kiwis, pinneaple, strawberries, figs, apples, pears, bananas, and apricots, to name about half of the fruits represented. Then there's the marzipan (or almond paste). And the artisan-made chocolates filled with gianduja, pistacchio, milk chocolate, chestnut cream, and more, each finely wrapped in shimmering gold, silver, green, pink, purple, and red-colored foil.

Last, but certainly not least, is the Ferris Wheel of Saint-Etienne.


Stay tuned for updates!

"Teacher, I lost my shit."

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.

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.

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

Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: Place du Peuple

Place du Peuple literally translates as "Place of the People." In Saint-Etienne, the Place du Peuple is democratic not only in name but also in nature. It holds together the triangulated intersection of the Rue Gambetta, Denis Escoffier, and the self-titled Place du Peuple street. Three tram lines converge at the Place, one traveling to Hôpital Nord, another to the Gare Chateaucreux (our main train station), and the third to Bellevue. At night, the Place is a dead zone, with few if any people idling by. When it gets late enough, the trams stop running, and the Place starts to resemble a small town mock-up at Disney World. You wouldn't be at all surprised, for example, if a mustached Donald Duck poked his beret covered head out of the brasserie across the street. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!"

But during the day, if you live in Saint-Etienne, you inevitably find yourself passing through the Place to get to where your going. So it is a predictably good observation point. The stéphanois seem fond of lingering around the Place by day: businessmen and women alike, young mothers with their strollers and babies swathed in blankets, hunched over old ladies, even skaters. Especially skaters.

The Place du Peuple is a skater hot spot. I still haven't figured out why. It's teeming with people (except during nocturnal hours), and it's not like there are any particularly hair-raising stairs or ramps. You know. For a wicked awesome obstacle course. Perhaps it's because skaters, like all others, are tolerated at the Place.

The other day, I was privileged to an unusual spectacle. I was walking by the Place at around 5 in the afternoon, en route to Paul to restock on bread. Did I forget to mention that there is a Paul is located directly across from Place? Good bread and good people watching might explain why I'm so irresistibly drawn to the Place du Peuple.

Anyway, I noticed a wizened man sitting in the Place. Actually, he was more than sitting. He was drinking. Heavily. The man held a bottle of white wine in his knotted hand and was taking swigs of the stuff like it was the goddamn water of life. I slowed down to get a better look: I've seen a lot of things in public spaces before, but this was the first time I'd encountered an old man, clearly a drunk, with such a classy poison.

And then it happened. A lone skater careened by the Mr. Drunkles, flipped off his board, and landed back first in front of our classy friend. It was a nasty spill, and everyone in the Place du Peuple started visibly, some people even getting up in the skater's direction. To sort him out, make sure he was alright. They needn't have bothered. Old drunk had the situation covered. He eyed the skater with concern, looked down at the bottle in his hand, and immediately proffered it without hesitation.

I didn't stay around long enough to see if the skater accepted. Instead, I smiled and walked on.

The magic baguette

If there is such a thing as a magic baguette, I think I've found it.

Let me explain.

Last Wednesday, I had my first demi-groupe at Portail Rouge, a half group of students entrusted to my care for a 30-minute language section.

I wasn't prepared. At all, really. At Collège Terrenoire, I've been enjoying my "observation period," shadowing teachers and learning students' names and language levels. Not so at Portail Rouge, it would seem, since I showed up to my 9 am class and was informed that 15 students would follow me into a classroom of my own to receive their "lesson."

So I improvised. What with? Well, I wracked my brain for something simple and relevant that might engage the students. The election? Maybe for high school English, but the middle schoolers I've met so far have lacked the vocabulary and grammar necessary to debate "Obama v. McCain." Let alone learn about the American electoral system.

I flashed back to a chat I'd had earlier in the week with Kristin. Kristin has been good enough to ship me a few extra things I left behind in Boston (I apparently overlooked many, many important items during my manic packing spree).

Kristin: You may have other American candy soon. You just may.
Me: Are you my American candy?
Kristin: Just that Halloween is coming, and you might get some American candy for Halloween.

Halloween! Of course! Brilliant!

I improvised a Halloween language activity: first, review Halloween vocab (words like Pumpkin, Ghost, Vampire, Trick or Treat, etc.), and then reinforce with a Halloween scary story game.

And so it went. Lucky for the students (and for me), French Halloween vocab is remarkably similar to English Halloween vocab. All except one term in particular. One which a hefty cinquième student in my 9-10 section (perhaps named Thibault?) presented with great enthusiasm.

Thibault: Madame! Une baguette magique!
Me: What? I'm not sure I know what that is. Can you try in English?
Thibault: Bahhhh... Yes! It is a magic baguette!
Me: hysterical peals of laughter

The other students, encouraged by my uncontrollable giggles, chimed in, laughing generously for a good thirty seconds. I think they were just enjoying my violent reaction, not actually mocking their poor Thibault, since it seems unlikely that they could fully comprehend the levity provoked by his comment.

It took only a few more seconds before I was able to understand: Thibault had very correctly tried to translate the French term for magic wand (prompted by our previous conversation about Harry Potter, obviously).

The magic baguette.

It got me thinking. Or rather, probing my memory. With the tip of my tongue. The baguette may have esoteric connotations in French, but to me, it has always conjured a certain texture, a thick crust cracking beneath my hands, giving way to soft, dense insides that taste of real butter and flour and yeast all together, and it just smells like my fantasy kitchen in the country on a Saturday morning! To me, the baguette's magical properties have always revolved around its versatility: whether it's butter and jam, emmenthal and ham, tomato, basil and mozzarella, or paté and pickles, the baguette complements, nay, it elevates your food selection. You can even harness the baguette's power for dessert by simply slathering it with Nutella. Granted, Nutella can make anything taste good. But thanks to the baguette's unique texture and hearty taste, it can both play second fiddle to a culinary prima donna (like Nutella), or headline its own show (I mean, who hasn't emerged from a bakery, baguette in hand, only to discover ten minutes later that they have already consumed half of it?)

Magical indeed.

Well I've found the magic baguette in Saint-Etienne. And I'm somewhat embarassed to admit that it is baked by a CHAIN! That's right, Paul's pains rustiques et de fantaisie (rustic and fantastical breads) have won me over.

Paul officially dates back to 1889; it currently serves around 5 million customers each month. The owner, Francis Holder, is involved as much in the baking of Paul's breads as in the growing of the raw materials: all the wheat he uses is grown sustainably by French farmers, who follow his strict specifications to harvest the perfect grain. The breads are also all baked with traditional methods. Even the aesthetics of Paul's stores, built of brick and wood, serve to mimic a "country style," emphasizing tradition and the baker's place within it.

Paul offers a dizzying selection of breads: the Camp Rémy, country bread, wholemeal bread, rye brea, six grain bread, white bread, bio (organic) bread, faugasse, and of course, the baguette. Seasonal delicacies (which I will soon sample) include bread with figs and bread with chestnuts.

Did I mention Paul's is also a patisserie? Craving a pain au chocolat? Want a macaron au praliné? Need a gourmand fix with a gourmandise?* Have no idea what I'm talking about, but still bewitched by the seductive French words for just about anything edible in a bakery? Just walk into your local Paul franchise, take a deep whiff, and follow your nose. When in doubt, you can always summon your magic baguette.

*A macaron is an elevated version of the American whoopie pie. Only French. So, yeah. And the gourmandise is my new favorite: imagine a flattened croissant filled with cream and bits of chocolate.

Tonight, I will dream in bread.