Joyeux Thanksgiving!

Here's the "hand turkey" that I made and used while teaching Thanksgiving this week. It turns out the French have very little practice saying or thinking anything like, "I'm thankful for..." It was a new concept! But like good Americans-in-training, they still loved the turkey and made their own versions. Enjoy your turkey and pumpkin pie!

I'm cold...

...and I finally feel justified seeing that the temperature is closer to 0-degrees than it should be.

A Franco-American Family Dinner

On Friday night, I was invited to have dinner at the house of two of my students, Hugo and Celeste. After hearing that I was from Minnesota, Celeste slipped me a note from her mother one day after an English class. Their mother, Liz, is originally from Rochester, Minnesota and then lived in Minneapolis for many years after school. After a few emails, it was decided that Liz would pick me up at La Poste at 6:00 pm after grocery shopping with the kids to take me back to their house in the country for dinner. Upon my arrival at La Poste, I met Liz, Celeste, Hugo, and cute little Emerson, their 5-year-old brother.

Hugo and Celeste go to Pierre Augier, the larger (and my favorite) of the two schools where I teach. Hugo is 9 years old and is the quieter of the two older kids, while Celeste, at 10 years old, takes the role of “oldest sibling” and “only girl” very seriously. All kids speak both French and English, switching flawlessly between the two languages with an ease that will forever confound me. Since Liz speaks very little French, she and the kids speak only English among themselves. Patrick speaks French to the kids, but he speaks to them in English if he’s saying something that he wants to make sure Liz hears, too. It was fascinating listening to them all! The funniest and most mysterious thing was that the kids speak English with a little bit of an accent that’s not French. Their words are shortened and have a nearly indiscernible lilt to them. Another funny thing about their speech is that they frequently use French words in place of English words (for instance, using crayon instead of “pencil” (a true faux ami) and recreation in place of “recess”). I can’t place the accent or figure out why this would happen, but it’s cute!

I couldn’t wait to hear Liz’s story, and so on the way to the family’s house, I asked her about herself. She told me that she grew up in Rochester and in several other small towns in southern Minnesota, and then she went to college for one year at Wisconsin-La Crosse before realizing that partying is an expensive major and subsequently dropped out. Moving to Minneapolis, she worked in the art world in different capacities: first in frame shops, then helping to set up exhibits at the Science Museum in St. Paul, and finally working at the Walker with new and traveling exhibitions. While at the Walker, she traveled extensively around the world with the art. In fact, she told me that when she accepted the position at the Walker, she was told that her first assignment was flying to Tokyo the next week! While living in Minneapolis, Liz happened to meet Patrick, a Frenchman visiting his French friend who had moved to Minnesota after marrying an American man. When Patrick returned to France, he and Liz began a correspondence that lasted several years until he moved to Minneapolis to be with Liz. They lived together for 6 years before having Celeste and then a year later, Hugo was born. Shortly thereafter, they decided that they would rather raise their children in France, and thus they moved to Pertuis, the same region where Patrick spent his childhood. Five years ago, Emerson made his entrance into the world to complete their Franco-American family.

Patrick is a professional beekeeper, so when they moved back to France, land and the necessary resources were a crucial piece of the equation to decide where they would live. The family found a position as gardien of a mansion in the country outside of Pertuis, and they snapped it up. A wealthy Parisian couple owns the estate and rarely comes down except during vacations and sometimes, for long weekends. When Liz and Patrick first moved in, they told the Parisian couple that they would commit to being guardians for a year and then would probably move out. Eight years later, they’re still there! Living on such a sprawling estate, Patrick is able to make many different varieties of honey, from lavender and rosemary to a rare, dark-colored kind of which I can’t remember the name. From the stories I heard and the food I ate, Patrick’s entire family seems to be a stereotypical French people of the earth, as his brothers make homemade walnut oil and nougat, and his father recently visited them and made homemade wheat bread, which we ate along with Friday’s dinner.

Their apartment is warmly decorated, full of chic art and colors that just make you feel toasty inside. Much to everyone’s delight, Liz had prepared a veritable French feast for dinner. Appetizers included a few kinds of fresh green and black olives, hummus and pita bread, pretzels, and peanuts. While appetizing at the kitchen island, the kids flew around telling me stories and showing me everything, including pieces of crabs found at the beach and knots of wood they found in their forest-backyard. Upon sitting down at the dinner table, I noticed that Liz had even printed a rustically-styled menu listing the courses in both French and English. I had the privilege of sitting in between Emerson and Celeste for dinner, where Celeste filled my ear with the myriad stories of 10-year-old life and Emerson precariously squirmed around on his high stool, begging the whole while for the nougat that would come at the end of dinner. The first course was a salad dressed with homemade walnut oil (thanks to Patrick’s brother) and sliced bread (thanks to Patrick’s father) topped with baked brie (so, so delicious). Along with a good red wine, the second course was soupe aux cèpes, a mushroom soup of the region that must have been invented with autumn in mind. The next course was boeuf daube provençal, a slow-cooked beef stew with carrots; the beef was so tender that when we ate it, it nearly melted in our mouths. *sigh* protein! Also included in that course was a dish of roasted potatoes and carrots sprinkled with rosemary. I was unbelievably full at that point, but perseverance is an important trait when eating these endless French dinners, so I stayed strong for the sake of the food.

We then took a short intermission during which I heard a piano recital from Celeste and a clarinet concert from Hugo. Liz, too, had played the clarinet when she was little, and when I told them that I had played for many years, Hugo brought me his cork grease to smell to stimulate the memories! It was so funny that he did that and knew how that distinctive smell would bring it all back. After the musical interlude, the cheese course marched into our lives and included a heart-shaped Neufchatel, a plump little chevre (goat’s cheese), and a slab of blue cheese along with slices of Grandpa Frenchman’s bread. A bowl of clementines (strangely, a staple of French dessert) was served next along with the highly-anticipated Uncle Frenchman’s nougat, spongy and delicious candy made with fresh almonds and honey.

After another short intermission (this time, we looked at the comic books the kids had just gotten from the library), I was ready to throw in the napkin when they started roasting chestnuts in the oven, and then who could say non to roasted chestnuts? Pas moi, monsieur! Emerson, however, content after having finally eaten the greatly anticipated nougat, collapsed on the sofa and didn’t wake up for the rest of the evening, despite the continued chatter and noise. After dinner, Celeste and Hugo showed me nearly everything in their rooms: we carefully examined all their art projects, photos, toys, books, and their carefully ordered Christmas lists, before they put on their pajamas and gave me les bisous to say goodbye.

Because it was dark when I arrived and when I left, I wasn’t able to see the house or the property very well, but as Liz drove me back home to downtown Pertuis, I got a feeling for the enormity of the estate: the driveway is two kilometers long and being as it’s on a hill, the twinkling lights of the region spread out before our eyes as we drove away from the house. As I was leaving, Liz and Patrick loaded my arms with American and British magazines and a jar of homemade lavender honey. :) Miam-miam!

My French Birthday

A pretty autumn day

Surprise birthday pastries! Merci, Whitney ;)

"Un boeuf" at Hakuna Matata

Fighting the Funk

A few weeks ago, that initial glittering, romantic splendor of living in a foreign country wore off, and I experienced my first slump. I had forgotten how living abroad sweeps away your regular emotions and replaces them with an unpredictable carnival ride, full of the highest highs and the lowest lows, leaving you not much in the way of regularity. Talking to some of my other assistant friends, I’ve discovered that almost all of them were feeling stuck in the same depressive state as I was. Whitney and decided that we would just have to take matters into our own hands and make ourselves be happy. This included going shopping at H&M in Aix (always a weakness), jogging several times a week (endorphins are free, a beautiful--although sometimes painful!--thing), eating lots of chocolate and wine (not so free but still worth it), and otherwise keeping busy.

Staying occupied is one of the toughest things here in Pertuis. It’s a small town, and since we work so few hours during the week, it’s really become necessary to find hobbies. I got a library card and have started reading French books, and I went to La Maison de la Culture et des Associations, where I picked up a list of the clubs and classes offered in Pertuis. I think I’ll eventually sign up for an art class, and I’ll hopefully find a low-commitment volunteering gig, too. My life today stands in stark contrast to my years immersed in the perpetual busy-ness of college life and then the scheduled insanity of corporate life at Target. While it’s sometimes tough to live without much structure in a foreign country, it’s a good lesson in self-reliance and the importance of being able to make yourself happy. I’ve decided that while I’m here in France, I’m going to pursue my art more consistently in addition to writing more often and reading French books with regularity. It’s good to have projects and goals, despite having broken the shackles of life according to an Outlook calendar!

It was my 23rd birthday on Friday the 14th, right in the middle of a low spot. Receiving all the great emails, packages, and letters wishing me a joyeux anniversaire was the best antidote, so thanks to that and Whitney’s wonderfulness, I had a great birthday! I spent almost the whole sunny day with Whitney: we went for a run in the morning, went to the weekly outdoor market in Pertuis, and then we made dinner together at her house (roasted chicken and winter vegetables, sheep’s-milk cheese, a whole bottle of wine, and fancy French pastries for dessert!) and went to a “jam session” at a café/bistro called Hakuna Matata. It was a quiet and relaxing birthday, and now I’m old.

Other than that, I’ve spent the past couple weeks actually working and staying busy! There are no more vacations until Christmas, when I’m planning to go home for a week and after which I will be returning to France to welcome visitors for a few weeks. For the moment, though, I’m getting settled into a routine and appreciating the quietness of life here. The weather has been getting progressively cooler, with the temperature getting down to freezing at night. For the past few days, we’ve also been getting a taste of the infamous Mistral winds of Provence, which blow with a strong regularity for periods of 3, 6, or 9 days at a time during the winter months. Walking through town, I’ve often been startled as the usual quiet has been broken by the noise of shutters slapping houses and laundry flapping like rabid birds on the line. But the good ol’ southern sun still shines every day, working its magic and making people happy.

Dinner in Jouques

On Monday night, Pascale invited Whitney and me to her family’s house in the nearby village of Jouques. Pascale lives with her brother, sister-in-law, and their three kids in a spacious house near the center of town but still far enough away that they have a terrace and a little garden. Because of her transient lifestyle, Pascale explained to us that she doesn’t own a home but rather, during her time in France, has lived with either her mother or her brother and his family. She picked us up from La Poste around 7:00 pm, and we drove the half-hour through the dark countryside to Jouques. I enjoy these little car trips, because not only is it a good opportunity to speak French with someone who understands our language barriers, it’s a great way to see the villages around Pertuis. We passed through several small, quiet towns en route to Jouques, and Pascale explained to us that we were in true lavender country. During the summer, the fields surrounding us are full of lavender, and you can smell the flowers wherever you go. Particularly in her town, lavender is a part of life, and one can buy very inexpensive lavender oil at the tourism office since it’s made just a short promenade away.

When we arrived at Pascale’s brother’s house, we were greeted on the terrace by a jovial black lab named Lilou, whose tail couldn’t whip around fast enough and whose tongue couldn’t give us enough kisses. Pascale led the way into the house, where we were greeted with bisous and bienvenues from Mirelle (her sister-in-law), Thierry (her brother), Sonny and Robin (her 12- and 11-year-old nephews), and one little bisou from Julie, her 4-year-old niece. >>>Before we begin, I must say that these children are strikingly cute, all of them, and they get along really well with each other. It was a little overwhelming. <<< We were invited into the living room, where the boys were watching a huge TV and Julie was playing with her princess dolls. Thierry offered us a choice of whiskey or vodka, and both Whitney and I chose whiskeys (he gave us a lot! Even with the addition of three whole ice cubes, I was a little unsteady on my feet when I stood up later for dinner.). While we chatted with the boys, Mirelle brought out baked cheese puffs, chips, and cornichons as an appetizer. She retreated to the kitchen with Pascale to talk and finish preparing dinner.

Back in the living room, Thierry was very interested in hearing about our impressions of France, as he had spent several years working in recycling factories in bother Louisiana and Texas about 20 years ago. We told him how shocking we found it that perfect strangers in the street regularly ask us about our political views and religious inclinations, how French women appear to be colder than American women, and about our hometowns in America. Sonny, the blond 12-year-old brother, had just gotten back from a week in New York City with a community group from France. He had had a wonderful time and wants desperately to go back, so we enjoyed talking to him about America. Robin, the dark-haired, bambi-eyed 11-year-old brother, loves learning English and has skipped a grade because of his hard work and intelligence. He talked about his frustration with how, in school, his teacher ignores his raised hand because he often knows the answers. When we spoke English later at the dinner table, I discovered that he really does have a gift for language learning, as his accent was excellent and didn’t include the typical French-sounding vowels. I excused myself for a while to chat with Julie about her adoration for all things “Disney princess”; while it’s difficult to clearly understand the gurgling, bubbly French of little kids, when I just smiled and asked her little questions, we bonded without a problem. Julie’s room brims with pink, princesses, and all things that shout “little girl!” Some things, including Disney princesses, are an international language, I guess.

After a half-hour of chatting, bonding, and whiskey-drinking, dinner was announced. We all marched into the warm kitchen, where I was instructed to sit on a bench between the two boys and Whitney directly across the table so that we could all easily speak English together after dinner. Dinner consisted of a first course of soup and two choices of bread, a second course of the most delicious oyster-stuffed-salmon I have ever tasted and steamed green beans, a cheese course of Camembert and a few types of chevre, an apple tarte and a raspberry tarte with whipped cream for dessert, and the obligatory espresso at the end of the meal. We also drank a sweet rose wine from the Bordeaux region throughout dinner; Pascale had picked it up on her drive back from Dordogne, where she had been visiting her mother a few weeks ago. Even the boys were poured generous glasses of the wine - so French! I wished I had had four stomachs to eat truckloads of everything, but alas, I was forced to settle with taking a little bit of everything. Sonny was so kind as to finish the remains of the fish that had been heaped upon my plate by the ever-generous Pascale.

While we sat at the big wooden table in the kitchen over coffee, Thierry and Mirelle decided that the time had come for a little bit of English. Thierry had wanted to speak English to see if he still had a knack for it after 20-some years, and both parents wanted their sons to practice the language. At this point, Julie had spread out across the table her dozens of Disney-princess refrigerator magnets and her Disney-princess telephone through which you could speak to Blanche Neige (Snow White) or Cendrillon (Cinderella).When we switched to English, her hazel eyes got big and she looked at us with surprise. What on earth were we doing with our mouths?? Thierry’s English was good but a little rusty after so many years, but Pascale was impressive with her language skills. She’s nearly fluent! Having lived and been steeped in the rich culture of Provence and Marseille, Mirelle knew less English, but even the boys were excited to try out their language skills. While Whitney discussed French social security and unemployment pay (in France, the government pays too much for both, believe it or not) with Thierry and Pascale, the boys pulled out their English workbooks and we made fun of the stuffy, strange English taught in their school. They thought it was a riot when I read the dialogue aloud, doing voices and accents, and then they tried, too. We spent a few hours at this informal English lesson, with intermissions of princess play with Julie and refills of espresso, and Mirelle videotaped and took many pictures. By the time the boys put their English books away and turned to finding American points-of-interest on Google Earth, it was nearly midnight. Whitney and I had offered to teach private English lessons to the boys once a week, and it was decided that Mirelle would drive the boys to Pertuis on Wednesdays for English conversation.

After a little while, we all ended up back in the living room while Pascale showed the family where she had lived in Mexico using Google Earth, Thierry found CNN on their satellite TV, and I played a sock-tossing game with Julie. Despite the late hour, Julie wasn’t slowing down and was just getting more giggly. While we alternated throwing her little pink socks over the back of the sofa, she nearly fell down laughing and kept slapping her forehead with the fun of the flying socks. :) When Lilou got involved and decided that she, too, wanted some pink-sock action, things really got exciting. I tried telling Lilou to drop Julie’s sock and to sit, but it turned out the dog doesn’t understand English so I had to settle for chasing and lunging at her instead (to no avail). I eventually collapsed on the couch with Whitney to watch CNN’s coverage of Obama’s transition, while Julie brought us a parade of butterfly wall decorations, her Minnie Mouse princess doll, and an Alice in Wonderland dress her brother bought for her in New York. By the time we said our “merci”s, gave our bisous, and left their house around 1:00 am, we were completely exhausted and happy. Like Disney princesses and the appreciation of good wine, families, too, are an international language.

Whitney, Pascale, and me during our weekend at Pascale's house in Frejus.

A view of the hill town of Bonnieux, France at twilight.

The results are in...

The election results are in and Barack Obama has been voted as the 44th President of the United States. Nearly all of France is overjoyed, and the French have adopted Obama's triumph over McCain as an international victory for everyone to celebrate. On Wednesday morning, I finally found one working station on my radio (besides the station called “Nostalgia”, which doesn’t count as a working station), and so I was able to listen to the French interviews and perspectives of this momentous election. They interviewed Kenyans in Obama’s father’s old village, who were rejoicing (all of Kenya has a national holiday tomorrow in Obama’s honor), and they interviewed many people in Paris who are of African descent, many of whom were crying tears of happiness.

It’s interesting to note that this particular radio station focused almost exclusively on Obama’s race and the fact that he is America’s first black to be voted into the White House. Does the media focus on this issue as much in the United States? When Whitney and I were in Flunch on Wednesday evening, a Frenchman of Arab descent approached us to discuss the outcome of the elections. He told us that he thought that nothing much was going to change, but that he’s heard that Americans’ lives have changed a lot since Bush has been in the White House, particularly in that we are now more afraid to travel internationally than ever before. He also said that whatever happens in America, the rest of the world feels, so he hopes fervently that good change will come from the new president. Whitney had been at Flunch for a few hours longer than I had, and apparently, two older French gentlemen had approached her as well to talk about American politics. People are very interested and are, for the most part, very pleased that Obama has been elected President.

Many of my co-teachers have also struck up conversations about the new American president. One teacher in particular was eager to discuss the politics of the moment. He told me that Europe has been granted the gift of hope thanks to the Americans electing Obama; Europeans now see that it is possible for a people pull themselves out of the muck of stagnant politics and unholy wars. Again, the teacher iterated the recurring theme: the French are pleased as punch that Americans have gotten past the worst of the civil rights battle and have elected an African American as president.