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.