Le Mont St. Michel

Arresting view of Mont St. Michel from the road.

My second visit to Mont St. Michel, one of France’s most visited attractions and teeming with tourists in the summer, came unexpectedly, unplanned, and seven years after my maiden voyage during college. Our group was an international mix of French, Mexican, and American. None of us knew one another well at all. Some of us had trouble communicating, but we managed to conquer northern France’s sacred beast of an abbey sitting on a rock in the middle of Normandy’s colorless windswept mudflats, just fine.

The giant abbey in the sky

Claude opted out of touring the abbey (which by the way is absolutely essential if making one’s way all the way out there) because she lives conveniently close and for her, a trip to Mont St. Michel is like a jaunt to the skyscrapers and lakefront of Chicago for me. Almost comparable. While the Mexican couple did an audio guide tour in Spanish, I surrendered to a guided tour in English by a French man who’d lived in England for seventeen years and had the most wicked sense of humor.

Surprisingly tourist-less cloister

Somberly enough, I’ve just learned today from an alumni magazine that the university professor who had taken a group of us to France and Mont St. Michel in 2002 had died this past February. He had been 85 on that trip and had walked everywhere with us. I think, even at 22, I was too young to realize the enormity of the history behind the 1,300 year construction of Mont St. Michel. I wonder if he’d been frustrated with our naïve attitudes, our surface-level comprehension of this extraordinary architectural wonder.

As I embarked on my second guided tour, I couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed at my younger self, idiotically having seen the rooms more through a camera lens rather than my own eyes and fantasizing about the bus ride back and being able to rest, rather than imagining sleep deprived pilgrims who had come from far away, risking their safety to cross the temperamental tides and mud flats dotted with quicksand traps.

This time, I let it all sink in. The guide’s humorous anecdotes certainly helped. We learned that the abbey is in the shape of a cross, so as to remain stable and not crumble down the pyramid-like granite base on which it’s perched. Miraculously, either in order to convince myself that I had grown up a little and could maintain a longer attention span, or because of an unfaltering desire to get my 8.50 EUR worth, one month later, I still remember several “fact or fiction?!” tales from our guide. Because he was so good, I tolerated his perma phrase: ‘you know, the truth is usually stranger than fiction.’

Dragon slaying Saint Michael, after whom the abbey and surrounding bay are named was thought to weigh souls on a balance to decide who went to heaven or hell. Making a pilgrimage to the rock would surely grant one passage into heaven, right? If anything, all that walking would rid the soul of a few pounds. Everyone’s favorite new fact and sure to be story at the first barbecue of the summer was where the word barbecue had supposedly originated. Jumpstarting the snoozing mood from a discussion on the daily habits of the Mont St. Michel monks, our guide led us to a grand fireplace and explained that pigs were roasted from head to toe or more intimately from beard (barbe in French) to ass (cul). When the English speakers arrived, their anglicized pronunciation of “barbe cul” morphed into “barbecue,” unknowingly coining a phrase that is not only practiced, but recognized just about everywhere on earth.

I've become addicted to learning word origins as their birth sometimes occurs so haphazardly. One would think a new word develops from hours of contemplation, brainstorming, and running one’s tongue over its syllables in a kind of scientific trial and error method before announcing the final product. As in the origins of barbecue, this appears not to be the case.

After a quick multilingual picnic lunch on the back doorstep of a tourist shop with a superb view of horse-led guides into the bay, our group made our way down the Mont with the intention of doing something similar. In fact, anyone can wander into the bay or surrounding mud flats sans guide, but as it’s easy to become stranded on an island of quicksand, sneakily enveloped by a strong current of water that seems to appear from nowhere, guides are recommended.

View of the rock from the bay

I wasn’t about to nearly finish my time in France, then end up being stuck there, literally. We departed from the base of Mont St. Michel in rain jackets, shorts and bare feet. My child-like excitement to hike to a distant island 3 km resulted from having no shoes. I was giddy to let my toes and feet sink into Normandy, then pull them out, creating all sorts of onomatopoeic fun.

The bay hike begins

Our guide tested the surprisingly strong bands of water current arbitrarily shaping the mudflats. Bouts of wind blasts and sheets of rain subsequently shaped and re-shaped the looks on our faces like clowns full of expression in a slow motion cartoon. The solitary island turned out to be a bird sanctuary, useful for the birds in case they needed a break from flapping their wings. The wind would easily keep them floating motionless in air.

As desolate as the mudflats appear to be, they are perfect terrain for horse racing. The ground is neither too hard nor too soft. This is convenient, seeing as Normandy has the most horses of any other region in France. They seem to fit into the landscape, the old fashioned mode of transportation giving Mont St. Michel a timeless feel. That is, until a glance at the parking lot pops that imagination bubble.

Horse and rider on the mudflats

Maybe that's why days of bay hikes, races, and getting stuck then helicoptered out are numbered. In order to make Mont St. Michel more aesthetically pleasing, the government wants to permanently fill the bay with water, making the abbey adorned rock a true island, with a bridge providing access rather than the causeway. Considering this idea has existed through Chirac's presidency and that the speed at which the French "get things done" has never been record-breakingly fast, I'm fairly certain we all have a little more time to pretend our feet are being eaten by quicksand in the bay of Mont St. Michel.

Beachcombing and St. Malo

I couldn’t believe this was called work. By now, I knew I had lucked out big time with the family that had chosen me to help them. I was their first WWOOFer ever and they were my first WWOOF hosts. While they were audibly worried that they’d work me too hard after hearing reports of poor drifting kids subjected to 12 hours hard labor each day on Spanish farms, I was silently worried I wasn’t working enough and vowed to do whatever I could to compensate for my trip that was slowly becoming a cultural excursion week.

Getting up, Catherine, Michel, Claude, and François, and I made our way to St. Malo for the sole reason that I’d never been there and needed to see it. Feeling a little guilty, but also secretly excited about my Tour de Bretagne, we happily scuttled westward in the family’s anti-GMO van, picnic lunch and all.

Our one pit stop was at Michel’s parents’ house, situated in a one-lane village, comfortably sidled up next to an Atlantic beach guarding masses of mussels and oysters. While François ran off to photograph birds and the rising tide with his tripod, the rest of us headed for the muddy bay, which unashamedly squelched with each bare footstep, making me giggle every time. Armed with violently flapping plastic bags, our mission was to collect as much salicorne, a green plant that sprouts in the bay, the sea water giving it a salty taste, as we possibly could. When low tide hits, it’s time to pick.

Salicorne can be used with garlic, parsley, and butter to accompany fish, poultry, and red meat. When it's soaked in vinegar, salicorne is a great substitute for pickles used with cold meats, fish, and raclette. Catherine sells the popular plant to campers and market-goers. It remains a very popular sale for her as I assume it's hard to find in stores.

That night, Catherine and I stuffed glass jars full of the crop. I got this one to take home.

While the family got straight to work, grabbing at the stalks like they were in a competition to see who could procure the most disappearing currency, I stood like a motionless fool awed by the jaw-dropping silhouette of Mont St. Michel in the far distance. Apparently cultural excursion week had become infectious making my work ethic even harder to find.

This vast, and I mean vast, windswept beach had been the childhood playground of Catherine and Michel’s children. The postcard perfect balcony from the grandparents’ house looked directly out onto the beach, a blinding turquoise band of water filling the window. Lungs inflated with sea air carried in by assertive winds, I didn’t know how life could get any better.

After comparing my pickings to the rest of the family, it was obvious that I hadn’t been as greedy, or more likely, not as efficient. Whatever the case, we eventually washed our mud caked feet in buckets of water supplied by grandma, while her toy-sized dog Zazie ran ladders for entertainment in the grass. Fueled by the juice boxes and the pre-packaged cakes that grandparents can always be counted on to have, we set off for our final destination, St. Malo.

As stunning as St. Malo is, a fortified city planted on a sandy beach, it’s a tourist trap, almost guaranteeing shoulder-to-shoulder contact with strangers inside the ramparts during the summer. When we arrived, it was nothing of the sort. It was early evening, the sun was a giant orange peach sinking slowly toward the horizon, and we’d just splashed about in the warm water for a bit, something that never fails to give me a natural high.

Waves on a St. Malo beach. The posts are there to break the momentum of the waves so they don't damage houses nearby.

On a lovely act of decisiveness by Catherine, we ate our picnic dinner right on a concrete dock behind a line of parked cars and a massive ship tied to land by a rope the size of a human thigh. Spotted with seagull droppings and stained with oil, it was certainly not the most picturesque setting, but we laughed ourselves to tears as tourists walked by and gave us strange looks for eating our dinner in what was really a seaside parking lot. Later, we made up for it by stopping at a gourmet ice cream shop that had a flavor available in saffron.

Rampart walls hug the city and act as sightseeing loop. Here, one can easily imagine how the fortifications blocked both strong sea winds and English attack. We ended our night in a circle. And undoubtedly slept well.

Market Day and Homemade Cheese

In order to remember details heard and seen on the farm in Bretagne, I made notes every night in a red journal stuffed with Greek paper, a gift from Leslie who gave it to me after returning from her trip there.

For me, the farm was one of those experiences that really make you think, enthusiastically opening the mind in a new direction. On the train ride home, I honestly thought I might be able to change the world. I love that feeling. I don’t love the fact that it’s so short lived.

So to continue the tale of my final farm days, weeks later, from a dying, dysfunctional laptop in the US, mental images not burning so bright, yet with the evidence from a small journal:

As a happy frequenter to markets in Europe, it’s easy to become overwhelmed by the sounds, colors, smells, and sometimes unconventional displays of chow that turning into a meandering tourist who can’t walk a straight line complete with wobbly head looking here and there almost always happens no fail.

When Catherine invited me to help her set up the stand at the Fougères market, I quickly agreed. There would be jam, honey, eggs (that we had collected days earlier), salad, and pigeon for sale. Once I had lined up the display, as shoppers hovered by, the eggs went the fastest. Promises were made, broken, prices forgotten, deals were made for early morning home delivery. It was a flurry of activity that I sat back and watched in awe. All around me villagers had come for miles to sell their wine, herbs, vegetables, cheeses, and meats.

Thinking I might be bored there, Catherine handed me a map to wander around Fougères. I thought it better to be out of the way, but secretly wished I could have worked the market myself.

For lunch, we had galettes, square-like crêpes popular in the northwest made from blé noir (black flour) or what Michel referred to as poor man’s flour. A combination of the fresh air, speaking in French, and navigating the hilly town of Fougères on foot had left me exhausted, but there was still work to do. Picking blackcurrant, I found, was rejuvenating rather than stiffening and monotonous. My thoughts wandered everywhere while I watched the clouds for a possible burst.

Dinner was a bolognaise and afterward the work didn’t cease, at least for the family. Jam cooked on the stove, Michel pitted cherries with a machine, and Catherine stirred milk on another burner to make cheese, a process that takes days. While the milk was heating, she added a few drops of some kind of solidifying agent. The mass was then put into a bowl with tiny holes and left to mutate.

The next day, the cheese was turned over, while a milky white liquid drained away. This is of course added to the chicken feed. Once the mass has completely drained and been flipped, it becomes cheese. The type or name of the cheese depends on the size and shape of the mould it’s put in. Unfortunately, I didn’t stay long enough to taste it, but it was an interesting process to observe.

The little things are really becoming the important ones. One of my favorite parts of the day was taking a shower, rinsing off the day’s work, the skylight open to reveal silhouettes of owl inhabited trees leaning gently in the dark breeze.

Following Le Tour de France

As a result of packing to return to the US and following a few stages of Le Tour, I have to postpone my farm entries until I get back to Chicago.

I will be in Mont Ventoux on July 25th and in Paris on July 26th for the final stage! Vive le Tour!!!! Flying home the 27th...

Ce n'est pas encore la fin.

Day Two: Le Travail Commence

The heat that's been plaguing the Rhone-Alpes really makes me miss the cool mornings in Bretagne and the fresh country air. Opening my windows in Chasse lets in the faint odor of factory pollution and slightly burns my nostrils. I never realized it existed until I left for a farm in the paradise that is northern France.

A glimpse of the farmhouse

Catherine tapped on my door at 8:00am and we had a breakfast of baguette, butter, and jam...the standard French breakfast. Very bready and leaving one hungry again 30 minutes later. Not wasting a crumb, Catherine showed me how to put most of one's leftover food in the bucket for chickens. Chickens, she told me, eat just about anything, while rabbits have very fragile stomachs and will die if they eat the wrong plant. From that moment on, I was terrified to feed the rabbits.

I began by picking cassis or blackcurrant from the dozens of bushes that bordered the donkey pen. It was an incredibly calming activity, making me feel zen-like within minutes. Michel eventually wandered by and told me it was even more serene if done barefoot, the sensation of the earth on the bottom of the feet. He was right. I returned my knee high rubber boots to the shed and disappeared into a world of berries and my thoughts for a few hours, until Claude came out to see the donkeys.

My blackcurrant harvest, Pitchoun keeping me company

She spoke rapid-fire French and I have to admit to nodding and smiling when I couldn't pick up what she was saying. Then, she surprised me by getting on one of the donkeys bareback. The next thing I saw was the donkey bucking and kicking rodeo style, Claude screaming doucement! and seconds later, she was thrown from its back, groaning on the ground. Shocked, I stood still for a good three seconds before reacting. Then dropping my tub of berries, I ran to fetch Catherine who came to her daughter's aid. Saying that Claude was prone to tomber dans les pommes, an expression that means 'to faint,' I tried to explain that she had been at the donkey's mercy instead. After that was eventually cleared up, Claude went inside to rest, while Catherine and I went to go feed the animals.

The guilty holds his head low.

The one thing that bothered me was that every animal we went to go feed would later be killed as food themselves. In fact, we ended up eating an old rooster with chickpeas that night for dinner. It pained me to look at the warbling grey geese and ducks that paddled around in the water, knowing their lives had a foreseen expiration date. Catherine showed me the specific breed of duck that's used to make foie gras. A canard/dinde, or duck with a turkey face that doesn't make any noise when it tries to quack.

After feeding the rabbits and chickens, I spread the dirty hay full of rabbit droppings over a patch of garden, then went upstairs and took a really long nap. The fresh air had happily infected me.

I woke up to the smell of jam cooking on the stove. The scent of the fruit of my labors emanated from the kitchen up the wooden spiral staircase and into my bedroom. Catherine was making jam from the berries that I'd picked that morning. They'd go into glass jars to be sold at the Saturday market in Fougères. Not only was the jam homemade, but so was the glue that held the labels to the jars. Catherine made her own glue with a mix of flour and water heated over the stove.

Groggy from my earlier work, I couldn't believe how she hadn't yet taken a break. After lunch, we'd taken to the garden and removed sick or dead potato plants, then called it a day.

During the evening, I watched a live music program on TV with Michel. Tracy Chapman came on and although Michel hadn't ever heard of her, he was impressed. But as soon as a punk band followed with a Fleetwood Mac cover of White Winged Dove, he turned it off, shaking his head. From there, he unveiled a cabinet full of jazz records and was surprised when I wasn't familiar with the American artists. Not a huge fan of jazz myself, I told him I was open to listening to some it, wondering how he'd gotten into it himself.

The soundtrack for the sunset that evening became Argentinian, Gato Barbieri and Brazilian, Astrud Gilberto. Michel told me that he used to live and work in Lyon during a time of economic prosperity, so he'd treat himself to a concert every week. He'd meet people who introduced all kinds of musicians to him.

I went to sleep that night with jazz notes dancing in my head, wondering what the next day would hold...

Day One at the Farm: Fougères

I owe my reason for WWOOFing to my good friend Kathrin who has done it several times and suggested that I try it while in France. She told me that it was a great way to get to know a different part of the country in an authentic way that's easy on the wallet. I paid for my somewhat expensive train tickets (as they were last minute), packed a bag and set off for Bretagne. The map below gives an idea of my train journey. I left from Lyon in the Rhone-Alpes (17) and traveled to Bretagne (1).

The TGV from Paris sped west through territory unchartered by me before. Leaving the heaving crowds of tourists, the train rolled past open meadows and hills that became brighter shades of green by the minute. My final destination was Fougères, a small ville fleurie with an astonishingly complete medieval castle. From there, the family picked me up in their white van, sporting stickers against chemicals and pesticides. My organic experience was about to begin.

Stone houses in Fougères. The difference of architecture in the north made it feel as though I were in another country.

We drove along small winding roads towards their farm. The family's two children who were in their early twenties had come along for the ride and within twenty minutes we arrived at a large stone farmhouse draped in colorful bursts of flower. I was greeted by a friendly black caniche (poodle) named Pitchoun, a provençal word meaning small, and a cat named Pirate. The interior of the farmhouse glowed from the light wood cupboards, and tables. Jars of medicinal herbs and dried fruit were lined up on the shelves.

The shelf above my bed.

Catherine, the mother, showed me my room, which I absolutely loved as soon as I stepped into it. I especially liked the skylight and the wood paneled ceiling. In order to have total darkness in the room, the woman showed me how to put a painting of Mont St. Michel she did on a piece of wood over the skylight.

After getting settled into my room, Michel, the father, took me on a tour of the farm, and after dinner, the daughter, Claude took me on a stroll through Fougères. She was pretty well-informed on the city, explaining the castle's long history to why the windows were so low to the ground on many houses (so pigs could eat the trash off the streets).

A view of the Fougères castle with stone and timbered houses in the foreground.

Stream running through the neighborhood. To the left are a couple wells (hidden by the flowers) in which women used to wash clothes.

View of Fougères castle from ramparts.

Claude told me that this was one of her favorite places in the city, perfect for watching un coucher du soleil. As you continue ascending the stairs, you can see more and more of the castle, which used to be made entirely of wood until it burned down and took a lot of the city with it. The stone towers were rebuilt, but interestingly enough all during different time periods.

Yellow timbered houses

These houses look like they've come straight out of a fairy tale, but are still inhabited. Michel informed me that the reason why the houses are top heavy or jut out more on top is because the higher one lived, the less taxes one had to pay. As most people weren't rich enough to pay taxes to live at street level, more people lived higher up, needing more space than below.

By the time we got back to the farm, I was exhausted...and hadn't yet worked! That would come the next day...

Gone WWOOFing

From July 2-9, I'll be volunteering on an organic farm in northern France in Bretagne. I have no idea what to expect, but I'm excited to be working outdoors where it'll hopefully be cooler than here in the Lyon area. I'm looking forward to hiking, reading, and escaping Chasse for a week. Will report back soon...

La Fête des Voisins

A mix of all kinds of food is currently sitting in my stomach willing itself to digest. Ok, well the reason I'm sharing is because of a comment that "colleague x" made tonight at our "neighbor party" translated literally from above.

There was a sign-up sheet for "un repas" or meal in the lobby of my building. It seemed casual. We would set up a table outside near the laundry lines and parking lot. I figured it couldn't be much more than pizza, chips, and pop. I figured wrong. This isn't America, it's France, where eating is an art, a regime, a scheduled event with courses, magical baskets of apéritifs, cheeses, bottles of wine, and fresh desserts. Being my last day of teaching, I decided to go easy on myself, and got an apple tart from the grocery store. My dessert never got eaten. Why? There was so much food, so much home-made fresh, delicious food that no one even touched my store bought cake. It's currently sitting in my fridge. It got beat out by an identical apple tart, a home-made apricot cake, and cream puffs drizzled in warm chocolate.

I thought the first course of home-made pizza and salmon/aubergine quiche was it, so I filled up on that, only to turn my head to see taboule, vegetable salads, chicken wings, and bread landing on the table. Cheese was to follow, along with a steady "taste this, taste that!" from whoever was sitting beside me.

Colleague X, a normally quiet man, turned and said to me, "now, you need to tell your new President how much food we fed you here in Chasse so that we have good relations between the U.S. and France."

La Fête de la Musique

Hurrah for the French government! Every June 21st is a musical celebration in France. The streets of every city in the country are open to anyone who'd like to perform. Music goes all day long until 2 a.m and it's all free!

Hearing this, I pictured amateur bands crammed up next to each other, a motley crew of classical, rock, punk, reggae, indie, and pop knocking elbows, their musical equipment tangling and mixing. I suppose it could be like this, but I didn't stick around long enough in Lyon to find out. Sadly, my last train home left at 8.22 and apparently the music really gets going at night.

I met up with some friends in Lyon's Parc de la Tete d'Or to have a picnic. As I was the first to arrive, I planted myself next to a Jamaican music tent filling the cool morning air with happy reggae. We camped out and lazily rocked back and forth to the music until evening when we went to explore whatever musical discoveries were to be had.

It was easy to find music. One just had to perk one's ears up like a dog, listen for music, and walk towards the sound until they became louder. We found a stage next to the Hotel de Ville. The band there was doing a cover of a famous French band called Noir Désir . I had never heard of them before, but someone told me that everyone in France knows who they are. Well, not everyone.

Above: me, Patricia, Indira, and Mia-Lisa in Lyon right before I hopped the metro to get home.

In order to make up for not being able to see bands staked out on every street corner late into the night, I'm watching a live coverage of the Fête in Paris on TV.

Running French Errands

Well, French errands are really just the same as ordinary errands, but generally create a little bit more stress than errands in one's native country.

When I first arrived to France in September, going to the bank, post office, doctor, city hall or even the grocery store were all new to me. Even though I could speak French before arriving and had lived in Hungary and Spain beforehand, these things all required me to pump myself up before stepping out the door and silently recite what I needed to say over and over again in French. A pocketsize dictionary was like a secret talisman in my bag. I would over prepare, bring any paper or identification card even slightly related to the visit, at least four passport photos of myself, and several photocopies of all of this. Okay, maybe not for the grocery store.

This all took time, therefore what would be a short and simple visit to the bank in the U.S. became an entire morning's worth of energy in France. There was the paperwork preparation, the looking up of French bank lingo in lifesaver dictionary, the walk there, the nervous constricting of stomach muscles before approaching the counter, the bizarre look from the clerk at the sound of my first words, then the problem that I forgot one paper, the going back home to get that paper, photocopy it, laminate it, and sign it in gold pen, and repeat.

Now that it's June, I still over prepare and form at least one introductory line in my head, but my stomach muscles no longer constrict in anxiety. After almost nine months of being here, I've either gotten used to it or just don't care if the French freak out at my foreign accent anymore.

Upon finally receiving my green carte vital (medical card), I decided to finally take care of the vaccination suggestions that the doctor in October had recommended I get. My tetanus shot had expired and I had put off getting it in the US, because I had no health insurance. An idle Wednesday morning was the perfect time to discover the Chasse medical building, perched on top of the pharmacy in a neighborhood I rarely venture to.

Sounding the bell, I entered, wondering how it would compare with doctor's offices in the US and Hungary. It resembled both in different ways. The French medical building was more modern than Hungary's as in the US, but the doctor's desk, computer and examination area were the same room as was the case in Hungary. A man that looked to be in his young twenties with a stethoscope around his neck greeted me and was extremely kind, using gestures even when I could understand everything.

An older man, the doctor, appeared full of smiles. They told me to go to the pharmacy to get the "elixir" that would go into my vaccination. It was the first time I've ever had to go retrieve the liquid that was to be my shot. I got a standard check-up and the younger guy took my height and weight while the doctor tried to guess them. It was all very pleasant, and luckily I didn't mind about the weight guessing. When asked why I didn't come earlier for the vaccination, I told him that I had just received my medical card a few weeks ago. He nodded his head in understanding, "ah c'est la France."

Un déjeuner à la campagne

Last weekend, I was invited to have lunch at a colleague's house. Monsieur C, my colleague, picked me up and asked if I had a bathing suit. His family has a pool, and later I was to discover that there was so much more to their nook in the forested slopes just outside of Chasse.

We pulled onto a gravel road that led into the woods and ultimately their house. We were surrounded by trees, not a neighbor in sight.

Although I never got around to swimming, I did make some other observations (ten to be exact):

1. Monsieur C's 18 year old son runs his own chicken business at the house. The boy was so passionate about raising chickens, ducks, geese, and chicken/duck hybrids that I couldn't help but not be impressed. Some of the birds I saw in those forested coops looked like nature's outcasts, never meant to be seen by the world. I saw ducks with chicken faces and a monster pigeon who looked like the head of the bird Mafia roosting in a barn.

2. A goat was roped to a tree nearby the table where we ate lunch and roosters crowed every once and a while, making periodic awkward silences slightly more bearable.

3. Inside the house were stuffed foxes, badgers, and immortalized snakes kept in fluid-filled jars.

4. No matter how hard one tries to fit in as a foreigner at a French lunch, those around will always seem to maintain that regard of parents looking at a child incapable of serving or putting food in his/her mouth.

5. While the French deem it necessary to mix certain foods together in each fork bite, others are not to be mixed. Meat, salad, and pickle can all go together in one stab of the fork, but when faced with an array of cheeses, it's necessary to taste the lightest cheese first, like Brie, then finish tasting with the strongest.

6. There exist tiny treasures called fraises des bois (wild strawberries) that grow to be the size of a peanut and taste like candy. They flourished within the thickets all around the house and while taking a tour, became an instant snack.

7. Pastis with Grenadine syrup is much more tolerable than the pure stuff.

8. L'eau de vie, or water of life, which is used to make cognac and tasted dangerously close to Hungarian palinka, rested in apricot filled jars on windowsills, until Monsieur C's wife got one down for us to try. Tasting the alcohol spiked apricots that seemed to rest innocently in my glass caused my face to contort in odd ways much to the amusement of Madame C.

9. As their house rested on a slope with a lovely view of the Rhone and an enormous factory on the other side, Madame C. informed me that the old stone paths alongside the river were built for horses to pull boats down the river. I was amused by this image, then immediately felt sorry for the horses of yore.

10. When I left, Madame cut me some salad from their garden, so fresh that it still had ants from the earth crawling over its leaves, some potatoes, and cherries. She invited me back saying that she'd make frog legs for lunch next time.

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.