La fête du basket

One day, during la grisaille of the December winter, a colleague named Serge asked me if I would be available May 2nd for a basketball game. Why would my presence need to be secured that far in advance? I thought it a bit bizarre, but then he told me that a professional basketball player from Villeurbanne (Tony Parker?) would be there and could I help with interpreting? With nervous laughter and a sceptical glance, I agreed. I can never be sure if he's joking or not.

The months passed, and eventually a hot and windy May 2nd rolled around. Thankfully, my friend Leslie was visiting that afternoon, so I pleaded with her to come with me. We ventured over to the Chasse gymnasium wondering so many things. Who would the player be? Would I actually have to interpret with a microphone in front of loads of people? My French is nowhere near good enough to interpret, especially with a huge crowd. So I tried to adopt the attitude that is necessary with most situations in foreign countries, which is to shrug, go with it, and hope for the best.

I learned so many things about Chasse that day. Number one being that the nondescript, weathered building attached to the gymnasium is actually a bar. Leslie and I were escorted in and served hot tea in beer mugs. Sipping the tea slowly, I questioned whether or not I should have asked for an alcoholic drink instead. Before I could change my mind, a car rolled up and Serge screamed, "He's here!" A stampede of my students scurried after him, while Leslie and I set down our half-full tea mugs and followed the mass.

Originally from the USA, Chevon Troutman, plays for the professional team ASVEL based in Villeurbanne, France. Serge led Leslie and me to Chevon's car for introductions. The only interpreting I was to do for the entire event occured in that moment. It consisted of me telling Chevon that I was a colleague of Serge and there to help interpret. At that moment, Chevon's interpreter stepped out of the car. I was done, even though I didn't know it at the time. While we were talking with him, I glanced to my left and saw a half-moon of parents, kids, and other townspeople snapping pictures of us.

As Chevon was ushered into the gymnasium, everyone followed. Leslie and I weren't sure of the itinerary, so we simply sat on the bleachers with some of my students, teenagers, parents, and other randoms. Chevon responded to most questions in French (did he even need an interpreter?) and was presented with a medal by a tiny little blonde girl. His interpreter and I received one as well. That was the hardest "bisous" (double cheek kiss) I've ever had to give, as this girl couldn't have been more than five years old and so short. Meanwhile, I got a double thumbs up from Leslie on the bleachers.

Yes, this pic is slightly lame, but they went through so much trouble to give it to me, that I thought it deserved some limelight in cyberspace.

We watched Chevon pose with my students, shoot hoops in flip flops with some older men, and then sign autographs. Leslie and I observed, trying not to breathe in the acrid odor of a French gymnasium. Below, he's high-fiving the girls' basketball team. Chasse is in green!


At the time, the whole afternoon seemed chaotic and awkward, but I realize now how important and special it was for some of the kids to see an athlete who plays on a professional French basketball team. As there is not much going on in Chasse, any event that comes, be it the circus, a fair, a flea market, or a basketball player can be inspirational to the kids.

I left the scene to walk Leslie to the train station, then returned a few hours later to see the end of a basketball match between two girls teams. It brought me back to high school, seeing the scoreboard and parents in the bleachers. I don't remember who won, but I do remember it being quite unexpectedly enjoyable to watch my students run around the gym shooting hoops, swing on ropes, and see them outside the classroom. And best of all, I wasn't in charge of controling them.

I sat alone on the bleachers, because I didn't know anyone. Returning without Leslie was like walking into a battlefield without a gun. But all of a sudden I didn't care and silently laughed at the uncensored Eminem song lyrics coming from the speakers while kids ran around and no one had any idea what awful words were filling the gymnasium.

My worst behaved students were the ones that came up to me, did the "bisous," said hello and ran off. I found it interesting how polite they are outside of class, but not when in it. For quite some time, I sat on my own, sometimes dribbling a small basketball, smiling and waving at my students, until one mother finally took pity on me and walked over. Her son was in my class and she asked why I had such a small basketball. I guess all you need is a prop for someone to come over and talk to you.

When the gymnasium finally got boring, I headed to the bar, where as soon as I walked in, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I didn't think it could get any more awkward, but somehow it had. The only person I recognized was Serge. With a simple bonsoir I tried to integrate myself into his group. I was offered a drink and took it willingly, knowing that a drink in hand can only make things less awkward.

After the men had run out of things to say, I wandered over to the slideshow set to music that was playing on the TV screen on the other side of the bar. I was slightly appeased by seeing a picture of Leslie and I giggling on the bleachers while Chevon shot hoops with the kids. Then, after seeing the entire thing about three times, I started to get restless. A random person walked over and brought me another drink, then left. First, I was suspicious, then just drank it. All drinks at the bar cost one euro and were served in plastic cups. I suddenly loved the small town feel to the place.

It took another awkward half hour before people started getting drunk enough to talk to me. I was just waiting for dinner, which was supposed to have started two hours earlier. And which was why I came back. But instead of forks, knives, and plates being set up, dance lights started turning and music started blaring. A disco was stealing all hope of me eating anytime soon.

After the music started, I started making friends. I met the old director of the school who started telling me stories of my colleagues, began planning a going-away party for me, and discussed the differences between a dromedary and camel for way too long. Finally dinner came, and I met Serge's wife who was incredibly sweet and invited me to their house for lunch. I had barely finished dinner when I saw Serge in a hula skirt and gold tinseled wig, while many of the parents were on the tables chanting and cheersing to something I couldn't understand.

I tried to leave after dinner at 12:30, but a mother of one of my students grabbed me by the arm and led me out onto the dance floor where Yelle's "A Cause des Garçons" was playing. Suddenly I was dancing with my nine year old students and their mothers, then the old director of the school, who insisted on waltzing around the floor with me.

I enjoyed the familial atmosphere of the party, where mothers were dancing with their children and everyone was having a good time, but the whole thing had me exhausted and after my waltz, I walked across the street back to my apartment and a good night's sleep.

Une Semaine en Provence: La Fin

It's been over a month since les vacances d'avril, meaning warmer weather, and the month of May, which may not have its own two week vacation, but a handful of individual holidays that have come to be charmingly referred to as ponts. If a holiday lands on a Thursday, the Friday then becomes a day off too, constructing a "bridge." This makes "four day weekend" sound so unoriginal.

On a late morning walk today past the Chasse cemetery, post office, and train station, I crossed a bridge over the highway. It was the same road that my parents and I took down to Provence. Unlike today, we hadn't faced lanes of nearly stopped traffic all heading south. The news has warned travelers of the bouchons (the word in French is "cork" or in this case, stoppage) that all the "bridge" traffic has created.

As for me, I'm heading north for the weekend, but conveniently by train. Not as if I have a choice. I'm really anxious to see Strasbourg and a different region of France, unexplored by me.

But before I jump into the future, I'll revert back to the past in order to close the saga that has become "A Week in Provence" with my parents. Our final destination on a whirlwind tour of Provence was the walled city of Avignon.

After finding a parking place in a pitch black garage (parking in Avignon during Easter week is no easy feat), we made our way to Les Halles or Avignon's indoor market. I personally like the wall flora that makes the building look more like the entrance to a botanical garden than a mecca of charcuterie, olives, cheeses, and provençal sweets. It was here, that our trio met Allison and her parents, thus beginning our combined effort as tour guides.

Taking away a bag of black olives, some cheese, and calissons, an oval-shaped sweet made from almond paste, we snacked outside while taking in Avignon's sights.

We all had lunch at an outdoor cafe that offered une formule du jour consisting of either steak or simply "aioli" which I took to mean the garlic/olive oil sauce combined mixed with spaghetti. At least that's what it was in Spain. In France, it arrived in the form of a fish, vegetables, and snails with the aioli sauce. Complete surprise. But I don't mind culinary adventures as long as what's on my plate is not moving. Or, in this case if I stuff it in the bread to mask the slimy texture. This is precisely how I ate my first snail. My tastebuds just aren't that mature yet.

From lunch, we went to Le Palais des Papes or the Pope's Palace, of which a camera absolutely cannot capture its monstrous size. It takes quite a long time to see the entire place, and the view of Avignon and its pont from one of the towers is a nice breather from the string of enormous rooms. According to About.com, the 14th century palace (home of the pope in the Middle Ages) is the size of four French cathedrals.

Above is a view of Le Palais from Le Pont d'Avignon or Pont Saint Bénézet. There is a combined ticket that visitors to Avignon can get that permits one to see both the palace and the bridge at a discounted price. Therefore, unlike my earlier visit to Avignon in the fall, we walked out onto the bridge, still windy as ever, but beautiful, as storm clouds were floating nearer and nearer. I learned that villagers did not actually dance sur le pont (on the bridge) but sous le pont (under the bridge). I can see how the two words could sound similar when sung, but from what I read, the bridge was too small and narrow to be danced on.

Avignon is unique, because it's a walled-in city, seemingly medieval, yet still a functioning city with modern stores where people live and work. I'm lucky to have had the chance to visit it several times and never lose interest in its charm. That afternoon, my parents and I said au revoir to Provence and drove approximately two hours back into the Rhone-Alpes, where we'd stay in hotel chez moi for the night in Chasse.

One of my favorite things about France is being able to discover a new part of the country so easily. Within an hour, it's possible to go from the prairie, to the mountains, then to the sea. In the U.S., especially in the Midwest, it's too far to find that much diversity.

Hike to L'Abbaye de Sénanque and Borie Village

One of the things that I couldn't wait to do once I got to France was hike. Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to do much, as good hiking areas are a bit far from the factory choked section of the Rhone where I live and it's almost necessary to have a car in order to reach trailheads.

Equipped with our diesel-only-eating rental car, my parents and I had decided to do a hike from the center of Gordes through the undulating hills, still greyish lavender fields, past the Abbaye de Sénanque, and back into Gordes. Unfortunately, even though the guidebook gave almost step by step directions, we still managed to get lost and turned around every few feet. I'm still not entirely sure we went the way we were supposed to.

After going for what seemed like hours of walking uphill past people's yards and through fly infested forests, we broke into a wonderland of lavender puffs and mountain views.

This is what lavender looks like in April. It's at its most purple in July and August. One of our most repeated comments was, "yeah we're not here when the lavender's purple, but at least we are avoiding the crowds and heat. Can you imagine what that would be like?" We didn't pass another soul until lunch time and yes the provencal path did feel like our own, even if we had to search for the washed out lavender fields that seemed to blend with the mountains.

The lavender-keeper's house?

L'Abbaye de Sénanque

After some wrong turns and lunch we reached a view that I've seen many times before on a wall in my parent's house in the form of a painting. The Abbaye de Sénanque was built in the above valley by Cistercian monks in 1148. While taking a break from hiking in the gift shop, I tried to get some information on the place by reading some of the guides. I particularly liked how much the monks rely on the earth and let nature dictate the ideal place to build a monastery. Valleys are usually chosen because of the fresh resources found there.

The sun shines down upon L'Abbaye de Sénanque.

Our hike continued along the road leading up one side of the valley, giving us a phenomenal bird's eye view of the place. It's barely visible from the picture above, but it was laundry day in the back courtyard.

Village des Bories, Gordes

After returning to our car, we drove to the Borie Village, just outside of Gordes. This is essentially a preserved village of rural homes that date back 3,000 years. And people actually still inhabited them up until the 19th century. The stone huts were built without any kind of mortar. This is amazing and scary. I wouldn't have wanted to be sleeping in my borie bedroom worrying about the strong mistral blowing the rock roof out of place and onto my head.

"I'm Sunny Tired"

At the beginning of every class I teach, I ask, "how are you?" to my students. This way, they get used to one of the most common questions used in everyday dialogues. Looking over the fact that they're twelve years old in a town where no one save l'assistant américaine would speak English with them, someday they may need to answer this question correctly.

It's one of the most boring parts of class, because mostly the students tell me that they're 'appy. Let's face it, sometimes happiness is boring. After a string of these, and me overexaggerating the aspirated 'h' in what looks like teacher having an asthma attack, the first five minutes of class have disappeared.

Yesterday, I got one of those answers that will forever be a gem of a response. It was one of the first hot days of the year and the kids looked winded. (Thank you heat for draining their energy) One girl responded, "I'm sunny tired" to my usual question. I asked her to repeat, not following. And when she told me in French, "je suis fatiguée à cause du soleil" I got it. Having retrieved the only word for "sun" that she knew from our daily weather reports "It's sunny, cloudy, blah blah blah..." she was able to tell me that she was tired from the heat.

I was proud of this girl, for even though my students don't know how to communicate very well in English, they try. And that makes me 'appy.

Heading West: Aqueducts, Cassoulet, and Castles

After a few days in Provence, my parents were ready for a change of scenery, so we set out early in our car to spend the morning at the tallest of all Roman aqueducts, Le Pont du Gard (The Bridge of the Gardon River) and continue on to Carcassonne, one of France's finest preserved medieval cities, in the afternoon.

A drive-by shot of vineyards along the road.

Because a good map can help orient, this mediocre one should give you an idea of Carcassonne's whereabouts in France. The region of Provence is to the slight northeast.

Before cruising to Carcassonne, we made our way to Le Pont du Gard, somewhere between Avignon and Nimes. The aqueduct itself provided water from fountain springs near the town of Uzes to the Roman city of Nimes. I was never before interested in aqueducts until I saw some. Segovia's aqueduct in Spain is smack in the middle of the city and really shows that juxtaposition of old and new. Whereas, France's Pont du Gard lies in the middle of a sprawling forest over a river. The symmetrical wonder of aqueduct arches that act as a leggy support sometimes blind the viewer to what it actually does. It must be slightly tilted toward the place where the water needs to go so to keep the canal of water moving at the very top.

We had to walk quite a way down the path to fully capture it.

My mom, dad, and I couldn't resist hiking up a rocky path that stemmed from the main one. It was so peaceful here in the morning that anticipation of an amazing view guided us easily into the woods.



Voila, the water canal in the sky. I was surprised to find the very top of the Pont du Gard from the trail. I took this picture through a gate that stopped people from walking any further. The park also contains a garden trail where vegetation and farming techniques used centuries ago are still in practice. Separated chunks from the remainder of the aqueduct can also be found along the way.

Even though we were content to stay in the Pont du Gard park for longer, we had to move on in order to reach Carcassonne that afternoon. Driving out of Provence, the temperature dropped as we skirted Montpellier and got a view of the Mediterranean from the road.

The walls of Carcassonne's fortified city.

We had to be quick as not to miss déjeuner. In France, it's possible to completely miss lunch, never to get it back that day. The window of lunchtime exists from between roughly 12:00-2:00 to 2:30. And we were close to missing it. Parking the car, running out of the parking lot and into the medieval city, allowing ourselves a few gasps of wonder at the castle towers, we flew through the streets in an attempt to find a relatively non touristy place that would serve a good cassoulet, a hearty regional specialty made with white beans and duck or goose meat.

Finding anything non touristy in the medieval city proved impossible as the entire place exists for tourists, however we did manage to find what appeared to be a family run restaurant that had a good priced menu. In other words, a starter, main dish, and dessert set at a fixed price. We ordered salads, cassoulet, and slices of cake for dessert. The cassoulet arrived boiling hot and warmed our stomachs. That day was strangely freezing and part of me had wanted to stay in the underbelly of the restaurant where my empty bowl of cassoulet sat instead of braving the cloudy skies and bitter wind outside.

Distant view of Carcassonne's fortified city

We pulled ourselves from our chairs and went to the extremely fortified castle (Château Comtal) that was built inside the fortified city. Carcassonne once protected the French border. Despite the freezing wind, it was nice to simply walk around the city and look up at the lurking towers and spot all the different types of defense systems built into the architecture. The entire fortified city was restored in the 19th century.

After seeing a dog who was tied up to a pole outside the Basilica shivering, and not being able to escape the unprepared for cold inside the gothic building, we decided it was time to return to the more friendly temperatures that we had experienced in Provence.

However, before leaving, I persuaded my dad to drive into the non medieval part of Carcassonne so that we could get a distant view of the fortified city. I especially liked the old bridge with lamps hanging overhead. Below is the bridge from the side.

Stops in Arles and St Rémy

By the middle of the week of our family trip to Provence, everyone was starting to establish routines, particularly with food. We adopted the Fromenterie on the corner of a street in L'Isle sur la Sorgue as our breakfast go-to. My dad had his croissant and orange juice every morning, while my mom and I varied our choices, but ultimately stuck with les triangles amandes (croissant-like and triangle shaped with powdered sugar and almonds spread on top).

After a day spent touring little villages, we decided to explore Arles, well-known for its Spanish influence, Arènes, ancient theatre, and various scenes painted by Van Gogh. The train station attendant in Chasse had recommended that I go to Arles before leaving France, because it's an ideal place for taking photographs, due to the light. Just as Van Gogh had first arrived to Arles covered in clouds and snow, we arrived in the midst of on and off rain showers. No infamous arlesian light in sight.

However, the yellows and oranges in this ex-hospital courtyard that Van Gogh painted during his stay there definitely brightened up the atmosphere. This was one of my dad's favorite places in Arles. Copies of the artist's paintings are set up next to the corresponding scenes, creating one of those games where the goal is to find the tiny differences in two very similar pictures: the painting and the current landscape.

After some sufficient wandering, we found Van Gogh's Night Cafe. I nearly got plowed down by a bicycle while getting this shot. Unfortunately, the actual scene, which is busy and touristy, is a bit of a let down compared to the painting, where the cafe appears so much more quaint and personal.

Above is the disco bull we found in an exhibit off of la Place de la République. There were several creative bull heads here, including a purple fuzzy one and a zebra bull among others. Because of Arles' close proximity to Spain, there exist some customs like bullfighting that take place in the Arénes (below). Bull lovers will be happy to know that the animal is only killed during the Easter season. Otherwise, the sole objective of the "matador" is to grab jewelry from between the bull's horns with a long fork.

From Arles, we drove to St Rémy, not really knowing what to find there. The first challenge: finding a place to park. After several circles around the city center, we found a cramped space. The couple seated on a bench right in front of our spot informed us in a combination of French/Spanish all of the parking rules in the city. We were safe. With reassurance that our car would not be towed, we set out to explore the place. Sometimes it's nice not to have a sightseeing plan, but just happen upon things instead. This is my preferred method of seeing somewhere new, especially after trying to find so many sights in Arles.

Wouldn't it be great to walk to school on this street?

I just liked the red color of this patisserie/glacerie and its name, "A Summer in St. Remy of Provence."

We stumbled upon the birthplace of Nostradamus...

...and some bears people-watching from a window.

Although we didn't stay long in St Rémy, it was a nice stop to simply wander, look in shops, avoid stepping in piles of dog crap, and notice the little things. I got the idea that that's what Provence is about.