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.