Tag Archives: france

Culture Shock

So I like to think of myself as a flexible creature capable of adaptation to new environments. Luckily for me, my experience thus far in France has proved me correct, but this adjustment hasn’t been without difficulty. Cultural differences can be interesting and engaging, but some of my observations have jolted me with moderate-voltage culture shock.

It’s funny how I never considered myself to be someone with a ton of nationalistic pride. I always said that I will live elsewhere when I’m older; that I’ll raise children on foreign soil- but the grass is truly always greener on the other side!

Thanks to the cushy, ultra-accommodating tourism industry, it is easy to vacation just about anywhere. But to try to live à l’étranger- to integrate oneself with the indigenous- is an entirely different animal. It means having the awareness to allow your biases and presuppositions about what is “right” and how things “should” be done to take a backseat to the way things are in your new territory.

For me personally, one of the most perplexing qualities of living amongst the French is the way that they do nearly everything in the most inefficient, convoluted way possible. They mean it when they say that both teachers and students alike love to form unions and strike (faire la grève), and classes can basically be whatever the teacher decides to make them about. Classes also do not provide syllabi; anything goes. Apparently it is also not rude or unusual that our literature professor didn’t show up on the first day without giving any type of notice.

But the life of inefficiency extends beyond the classroom- I kid you not when I say that the ticket I pulled when waiting in the office to get a tram pass said that I would be helped in 315 minutes!

I also will never understand why it says in our international student guide for success that we should smile less often because people here tend to be somber in public. I interpret that as the human equivalent of having bad weather, but hey, that’s just the American in me.

^ My professor droning on about whatever he feels the desire to… With no outline or visual aid.

^ The beautiful, wildly sanitary university bathrooms where one must squat over a hole in the ground. Three cheers for socialism.

^ French notebooks (represented by the higher one) have many itsy-bitsy lines both vertically and horizontally- perfect for taking notes in Whoville.

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 5

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 5

Le Moiti� // Halfway

Sorry I’ve been unable to update for so long! Unfortunately, my laptop broke since my last entry, and with class, homework, excursions, and a week of vacation, getting on the Internet for something other than homework has been nearly impossible.

Since my last entry, I’ve been to Carcassonne with the program, Prades in the Pyr�n�e mountains with my host family; I’ve celebrated Halloween and my two-month “anniversary” in France. We’re at the halfway point. I’m trying not to think about leaving (or all the stuff I’m going to have to try to fit into one suitcase).

Carcassonne is sometimes called the prettiest Southern French village and houses a medieval fortress and castle. We took a tour of the castle and learned about the different defensive strategies built into medieval towns. We were lucky that the day we had chosen to visit, there was a medieval faire going on– like the Renaissance Fair! There were people dressed up as knights, medieval peasants, ladies-in-waiting… It added a lot of character and ambiance to the city as we toured it! We also ended the tour with a brief visit to a small Museum of Torture displaying instruments from the Inquisition.

One of the stained glass mosaic windows in the chapel of Carcassonne. The rose frequently symbolizes time as a circle. Here, Time is stopped by two smaller circles, symbolizing Eternity.

Pillories were used to punish people who, for example, spoke poorly of their neighbors. Contrary to popular belief, neither tomatoes nor rotten stones where thrown. It tended to be garbage or stones. Ouch.

For the week-long Toussaint vacation, all of the American students were scattered to the four winds. I, however, didn’t go to Greece or Norway– I had the FRENCHEST vacation ever had by any American. I’m 99% sure.

I went with my host family to their vacation house in Prades near Perpignan, about a two hour drive to the oriental face of the Pyr�n�e mountains, where Anysia’s father, Jacques, has a French villa. The villa is nicknamed the “chateau” by people in the village because it is so large, on the side of the river, and was the very first building built in the small town of Prades. It is largely furnished in the style of its era– it’s over 100 years old and has been a “family house,” owned by their family, for 4 generations. It belonged first to Jacques’ grandfather.

We ate lunch every day on a huge stone terrace outside at a large table. Lunch was a huge production, bigger than dinner, and frequently the cousins who own the neighboring villa came to join us. I learned of the French tradition of “l’apero,” which is short for “l’aperitif.” L’aperitif is when you drink liquor and talk before the meal, and it can sometimes last longer than the meal itself, anywhere from half an hour to an hour and a half. Since we were in the Catalan region, there were lots of Spanish olives, Spanish whiskey, Spanish wine.

For lunch, we ate two whole roast chickens with vegetables; one day, we ate a leg of lamb that was the best thing I have ever eaten in my entire life; the third day, we had roast guinea-fowl cooked with oranges and fresh-picked figs from a nearby tree; and finally, our last day, Anysia’s mother (both of her parents come from Strasbourg, the border of France and Germany) made Alsacien food– sauerkraut, sausages, roasts, potatoes, and Alsacien white wine. On the edge of the terrace was a persimmon tree and once, for dessert, we plucked fresh persimmons from the tree and ate them. Don’t even ask me about the cheese; I tried so many different kinds, Spanish and French, that I can’t even recall them all. It was AMAZING.

Finally, at the end of the week vacation, we celebrated a cute little Halloween in our house. Mila dressed up as a little witch. Anysia made her a witch hat out of black construction paper and she made a paper magic wand with golden ribbons and a star on the end. They even carved and lit a pumpkin for me. Then, last night, with friends over for dinner, we broke out the champagne to celebrate my “halfway anniversary,” as yesterday officially marked two months in my host family.

Before dinner, I talked with Anysia in order to have a little “debriefing” on my stay so far. I confirmed that I was not an insufferable bore, unknowingly impolite (“No, you haven’t made any grand faux pas,” she told me in French), or otherwise a burden to live with. I also asked her what she thought about my language skills so far. She said I was already at such a good level when I arrived that the only things that had changed are an increased vocabulary and that now, speaking French was less tiring for me. It’s true that when I first arrived, speaking was a little bit exhausting for me. Now, I can hold extended conversation in French with ease and– this is new– a great deal of confidence. In fact, I successfully mingled at the debut of her father’s art expo in a restaurant, talking about literature and France with complete strangers. I’ve been told that my accent is distinguishable as anglo-saxon but not definitively American. And, at every turn, I meet people who express surprise at my level of French. Last night, a friend of the family’s who was over for dinner told me that it was incredibly impressive that I understand everything everyone says. So, to debrief, I am more confident, more at ease, and at an advanced level in listening. I’d say I’m still at an intermediate level in reading, and am fast approaching an advanced level in speaking. All I’m missing is vocab.

So, now you’re all debriefed, too. I’m going to come back and add pictures of the Prades house, the castles and cave I saw while I was there, the delicious food, and our Halloween hijinks. Au revoir!

Location: Montpellier, France

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 4

HoAdfrenchures: Chapitre 4
Gra(c/th)ias // Bar(c/th)elona

This past weekend, the entire program took a (partially subsidized) trip to Barcelona, Spain. I’d change the title to Adspainchures, but it doesn’t have quite the same charm. We left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday evening. All said and done, I only got 6 hours of sleep for the whole weekend. (Worth it.)

On the bus ride, we were all chipping in our meager bits of Spanish. I realized I could say “Where is…?” but couldn’t remember the word for “bathroom.” The only Spanish nouns I had in my arsenal were “queso” and “azul.” Verbs were impossible and limited to Dora the Explorer episodes: “Vamenos!” I knew please, thank you, and you’re welcome (staple vocabulary in any language). Someone taught me how to say “sorry,” since I’m not graceful and constantly bump into people, but I never wound up using it because before “lo siento” could pass my lips, I had already said “D�sol�e!”

I was a little nervous about not knowing any Spanish; as it turns out, Barcelona is so flooded with tourists that the English was plentiful. All I really needed to know was the address of our hostel for the cab driver at 4 in the morning. (Of course, I was the only one who had bothered to learn it. I am always the mom of the group. You’re welcome.) 33 Passeig del Gracia, for anyone wondering. There was a constant refrain among our group of people saying “Grathias,” mimicking the way “c”s are pronounced. It sounds very different from any of the other Spanish I’ve heard. Many of the signs were also translated into Catalan, which has enough French in it that I could understand without having to read the English signs.

In fact, being in Spain made me realize how much I have begun to think in French. It took exposure to a third, different language for me to notice that, 90% of the time, my brain is functioning in French. While realizing this made me happy at the vast improvement of my language skills, it was also incredibly frustrating because, yeah, hi, not in France anymore, Marie– no one’s going to understand you.

The hostel was large and welcoming– the second floor was a huge hangout space with TVs, computers, drinks, and foosball. There was also a terrace (and accompanying top floor bar) which had an absolutely beautiful view.

We went to Parc G�ell, the Sagrada Familia, and, on the way home, we saw the Salvador Dali museum. The weekend was packed full of beautiful sights, high views of the city, and a survey of Antoni Gaud�’s unique architecture.

Both Parc G�ell and the Sagrada Familia were designed by the Catalan architect Antoni Gaud�, who also designed many houses in the city. More than simply buildings, Gaud�’s creations are standing works of art. They are incredibly intricate, featuring hand-done stonework and mosaics, incorporating a variety of mediums. His style is incredibly distinctive– you could identify a Gaud� house from a mile away.

I think my favorite thing about Parc G�ell was the way the architecture and planning flowed with the landscape of the hill. It didn’t fight against the slop; it used it to build a terrace. At the peak, showing Gaud�’s religious side, was a worn dual spiral staircase up to a cross, where you could see almost all of Barcelona and as far as the ocean.

We all saw Gaud�’s most famous work, la Sagrada Familia. Corinne, a Frenchwoman and one of the program directors, told me it was like Barcelona’s Eiffel Tower. It has been under construction since 1882 and isn’t expected to be completed until 2026; there are cranes and scaffolding in almost every picture I’ve seen of it. Gaud� died when the project was only one quarter completed, so you can see the distinct styles of all the different architects on each facet of the building. Walking around la Sagrada Familia is like walking around at least four different cathedrals at once.

While the attention to detail was almost absurd in its intricacy and the craftsmanship of the building is impeccable, I didn’t find la Sagrada Familia particularly pretty or aesthetically pleasing in any way. Each of the pieces would be beautiful independently, but thrown all together as if by hazard makes the building look confused, overcrowded, and at points a little tacky.

However, my favorite part about the trip was Barcelona’s nightlife. We coerced Corinne, the director, into going to the clubs with us both nights. As they say in France, “on fait la f�te,” (et on l’a fait, en fait!). All of the clubs were right on the beach, so that you entered into the building, went onto the patio, and exited no more than 100 feet from the Mediterranean sea.

Spain has pretty strict dress rules for their clubs, and two of our friends got turned away the first night because of their sandals. At 4 A.M. we watched the waves and soaked our feet in the ocean and wound up tracking back an ungodly amount of sand into our hostel room.

Thanks for an amazing weekend, Barcelona! (And sorry about the sand.)

Location: Barcelona, Spain

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 3

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 3
Pas de Cheval // Horse Step

So between travelling to S�te, St. Guilhem le D�sert, horseback riding, classes, and a CRAZY head cold that leaves me sniffling/coughing/whining/crying constantly, it has been quite the time since my last blog entry.

Due to my cold, I’ve barely slept at all the past three days, because I just keep coughing and wheezing and waking myself up. No amount of soup or my host mom’s tisanes has assuaged it. I’m 99% sure “having an eternal cold” is one of Dante’s rings of hell. So this entry will be less narrative/reflective and more of a r�sum�/summary.

Here’s S�te. S�te is a town about a 15 minute train ride from Montpellier. Half of the fun of going there, for me at least, was taking the train. I love trains. They are my favorite form of transportation. There is something that is swift and yet incredibly manual about trains in a way that doesn’t exist in cars and planes– you can feel the ground pass underneath you, you can see scenery fly by. It’s like a mix of driving and flying.

The town of S�te is cut through by canals, so to get to many places, you have to locate the nearest bridge. It was quiet and sleepy on the Saturday afternoon that we visited. On our way back to the train station, Rachel and I stopped at a caf� where the owner was sitting and talking with his friends outside. He was funny as he put up with our struggling French (there was some confusion over “pressed orange juice” and the particular brand he sold, which was not fresh-pressed).

We sat down and finished our beverages and when we went to leave, he seemed disappointed that we were going so quickly. He asked us where we were from, if we enjoyed S�te, what we were studying. Just thinking about his kindness makes me want to go back to S�te and hang out in his caf� all day.

While the rest of the group hiked the giant hill behind S�te, Rachel and I decided to check out the Regional Center for Contemporary Art in the Languedoc-Roussillon region which was on the other side of a canal. (Languedoc-Rouissillon is the name of our area, which is unfortunately incredibly difficult to pronounce.) We waited 15 minutes for it to open, not knowing what to expect.

We were greeted with the most emotionally striking art exhibition I have ever seen.

Pierre Adouvin, “Helpless.”

The first half of the exhibit was a meditation on childhood, helplessness, anxiety, nostalgia, fairytales, and dreams. The second half provoked questions about entertainment, pop culture, fanfare/celebrity, and memory. Each room was its own exhibit and was deliberately created to invoke certain emotions and reactions. Surprisingly, you learned more about yourself in there than you did about art.

I think that was the point.

In the room in the photo to the right, entitled Le vide remplit mes yeux, there were feelings of claustrophobia, confusion. The room was a blank white, the ceiling lowered to just above your head, with no “escapes” except for two white holes in the ceiling. At first, the holes merely looked like lights, but when you got underneath them, you could see into a bright white room, nondescript, as if this section of the exhibit was merely under construction.

Rachel said she didn’t like this room until she found out there were exits. I was confused and thought it was just a path to the next exhibit or a place under construction. The artist anticipated both of these reactions– it was so bizarre to cross to the other side of the room and read the little plaque explaining the piece, seeing ourselves mirrored back in it.

This past Saturday, we went to St. Guilhem le D�sert, which is not a real desert, but a “spiritual desert,” as our tour guide explained. It’s a well-preserved medieval town out in the middle of the mountains. It only has one main road. There’s a gorgeous church there which used to be a monastery.

If you lived at the “top” of town, nearest the church (and thus nearer to God), you were more wealthy and had higher social status. Later on, Catholics lived “en haut” (up top) and Protestants “en bas” (down low). The tour guide told us that, even today, if you were to ask some of the elderly people who live in the upper side of the village, they would tell you that, when they were young, their parents instructed them not to play with the children who lived “en bas.”

After touring around the town, we hiked a mountain. Then, we went off the beaten path on the mountain in order to check out some unmarked castle ruins at the tippy top of the mountain. I led the way for most of the journey, picking a path out of the underbrush. It was hilarious and fun as we climbed, slid, and shouted to one another from different peaks.

Reminder: I did all of this hiking with a huge head cold. Not pictured here is the mountain of tissues I went through.

Yesterday, a small group of us went back to Grau du Roi and went on a two hour ride through the beach and wildflower fields on horseback. It was probably my favorite trip so far. We rode a kind of horse called a Camargue, which is a wild horse native to France– it’s like the French version of our mustangs. They are pure white (although some are dappled), and my horse was named Bosco.

Bosco was the boss. He did not listen to me.

Bosco, turn right, I’d say, nudging him and pulling the reins. No, Marie, Bosco would reply. You have no idea what the hell you’re doing. Bosco was technically right.

“Bosco, let’s go faster, let’s trot,” I’d say. Bosco would snort, almost as if laughing at me, and he’d be like, “I’d really rather not. How about we slow down, actually? That sounds nice.” So Bosco and I would slowly meander around with the rest of the group while I nudged him faster in vain.

“Bosco, let’s go off the path, let’s just go the ittiest bit to the right of the path,” I’d try to say with the reins. “Everyone else is doing it, it’ll be fun. Let’s go.”

I was trying to get Bosco to think out of the box. He was a very conformist horse. Bosco was having none of my shenanigans. At one point, he actually bent his head and pretended as if he was going right, while still staying on the path. I’d have been mad if it weren’t so hilariously clever.

In short: Bosco was completely, utterly perfect.

By the end of the trip, I was able to get him into a trot at will, and he wasn’t as obstinately sticking to the path (presumably because I’d finally gotten my sh*t together in terms of learning to ride a horse). While trotting is fun, it’s barely faster than walking, and twice as bouncy.

On a long straight away next to the beach, Bosco and I galloped. Galloping is the most beautiful feeling, like being on a train, a cross between pushing against the earth and flying. Instead of all four feet touching the ground, for a moment you are airborne, leaning forward in the saddle, clutching the reins, the horse’s mane brushing against your hand. You’re moments from losing control, or– in my case– falling off the saddle, because holy crap does horseback riding take some serious thigh strength.

I’d never ridden a horse before, but now I understand why Julia and Emily (who have ridden for years) needed to get their riding fix while abroad. There’s something gorgeously addictive about the whole experience.

Well, now you’re all caught up on my latest escapades, albeit not as eloquently as usual. I’m going to go take some aspirin for my fever, cough up half of my lung, take a nap, think healthy thoughts, and have enough soup and oranges to cure twenty sick people.

A tout � l’heure!

Location: Le Grau du Roi, Montpellier, France

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 2

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 2
Jeu d’enfant / Child’s Play

Tea lights flickered in their lanterns, hanging from a fig tree in the backyard. A handful of rowdy toddlers switched off playing with binoculars, a plastic truck, and three heavy p�tangue balls, quite graciously taking turns with their toys. As I stood guard between the kids and the blazing logs of the barbeque fire, Liam, 4 years old, waddled up to me and gave me a stuffed tiger. It was bigger than him, so that when he carried it, the back legs dragged through the grass.

“This is yours now,” he told me in baby French. I accepted the tiger graciously.

“Thanks, I’ll hang on to him for you,” I said, but then he motioned for me to crouch down.

“The tiger’s sick,” he informed me gravely, “His tail is hurt.”

Understandably, I went into emergency mode.

“We need a doctor! Is anyone a doctor? Doctor Mila! Calling Doctor Mila!” I shouted urgently. My host sister ran over, as this was a game we had played before with her teddy bear. (That poor teddy bear keeps getting sore throats.) She more or less tried to stick the binoculars up the stuffed tiger’s butt, and then declared him miraculously cured. She and Liam wandered off to go sit on the swings.

I’ve been spending a lot of time with my host family for this past week. With the start of class at Paul Val�ry and all the new things to do here, it’s left me barely enough energy to do my homework, let alone write this blog entry that’s been stewing in my brain for weeks.
I hope to write more consistently as I get settled in to a schedule and manage to actually attend my courses. I promise not all of my blog entries will be this long!

Last Friday, we went to a friend’s BBQ, where everyone was either under 10 or over 30. Many of the parents were like Anysia and Mathieu with children around 3 years old.

No one was able to truly relax and talk until 22h (10pm), when the kids were put to bed upstairs, the BBQ was finished, and about seven empty bottles of wine* littered the table. Liam gave me the stuffed tiger to hang onto again, so it sat underneath my chair while I ate. It was easier to talk to the kids, as when they didn’t understand me, they looked at me like I was a crazy person. Sometimes adults are too polite.

Over a huge stack of the most delicious barbeque I’ve ever eaten, I mostly listened as the adults talked about their children: the start of the new school year, Mila’s newfound fear of witches and monsters that made putting her to bed difficult, how to tackle the question when a toddler asks you “What happens after we die?” and isn’t satisfied with the response “No one really knows.” In fact, other than the French food and geographic location, this BBQ could’ve been a group of parents in any country.

Eventually, as is apt to happen, the conversation turned to differences between the United States and France. This is generally when I have to take off my listening cap and try to form coherent sentences in another language, so the pressure is on. We talked about the go-to comparison that everything in France is smaller (or, depending on your perspective, everything in the US is bigger). We talked about tipping waiters, and one dad informed me that he found the servers in the US to be one thousand times nicer than those in France.

“You walk in and they say ‘Hi, how are you? Here’s what we have on our daily menu,’ and they laugh and joke with you. Servers in America want to be your friend,” he explained, “It completely shocked us.”

“That explains why when I smile at servers here and ask for coffee, I’m so confused when they don’t talk to me,” I realized aloud. The icy cold blood of French servers was confirmed by the whole table.

But honestly, when it comes to cultural comparison, there isn’t much difference between America and France when it comes to the everyday / quotidien.

France isn’t like stepping into a different world. It’s like stepping into the same world, only you have to pull the flush button up instead of down and use bread to clear your plate instead of leaving it and say “God thanks (Dieu merci)” instead of “Thank God.”

France is like walking into your room only to find all of your things have been slightly rearranged. Your furniture isn’t in exactly the right place and some small things are missing. Maybe a window seems to have popped up on a different wall. But it’s still fairly recognizable as your room. In fact, you find many of the changes useful and don’t miss a lot of the things that aren’t there.

Ryan, who’s Geoblogging from South Korea, asked me to talk about French people’s habits and how they compare to stereotypes. This sensation of simply being in a shifted room has made it difficult for me to narrow down what’s simply human from what’s more ‘definitively French,’ whatever that means.

For instance, Mila cries every morning because she doesn’t want to go to school. We eat dinner around 6:30 or 7:00 and finish around 8:00 or 8:30 every night, which is a little later than in the US. There is no dryer in the house; they hang their laundry out to dry. On Saturday mornings, we go to the local farmer’s market under Les Arceaux and buy groceries. Then we drink “un coup” with friends at the caf� La Cigale, because the market is almost more social experience than shopping trip.

It’s been three weeks, and I can count on only one hand the number of times I’ve had a peaceful tram ride. I am constantly being hit on by French men, something that I seem to be experiencing with greater frequency and severity than others on the program. The French have different body language when out in public– they are cold, uninterested, and bustling. It’s difficult for me to reign in my eyes when I want to look at everything, so the program and I think the problem might be that I’m still adapting to French body language. Loud headphones and a book on the tram have not stopped the requests for my phone number or, that one time, from a random guy trying to romantically tuck my hair behind my ear. Uh, pardon, monsieur. I don’t know you and I just told you, “Sorry, leave me alone.”

Small cultural difference: pepper spray is ostensibly illegal in France.

One difference between the France and the US is the university system. In keeping with my room metaphor, the French university system is as if someone came into your room, exchanged your laptop with one from the early 90’s, and then proceeded to throw all your stuff around as if a tornado had passed through the house.

The course registration process is a nightmare, and that’s where the University of Minnesota study abroad team are absolute life savers. They do most of the legwork and we just leisurely select our schedule out of a compiled list of classes. Erasmus students and other programs don’t have this luxury; they need to show up, in person, at the secretary of every department they need to schedule a class in, wait in line, and physically write their name on a piece of paper. Even then, there may or may not be secondary or tertiary steps for them to confirm their inscription.

I have showed up for three classes this week where I was not able to successfully learn. For the first, the professor did not show up. For the second, the class was permanently moved to a different day and time, without informing half the class. For the third, my contemporary dance class, the professor was two hours late and showed up just in time to say, “Hello, see you next week!”

As for smoking, the critically-thinking PLA member in me just can’t figure it out. The stereotype is that everyone smokes in France. A great number do. If you go out on the streets, you will see many more smokers than in the US (probably, I am literally eyeballing this number).

A ton of people here handroll their own cigarettes with papers, filters, and loose tobacco. My artist host dad handrolls his blond tobacco cigarettes after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and while he’s working in his studio; however, I have seen high school students outside of the Lyc�e Joffre rolling themselves a Marlboro. So the frequency of handrolled cigarettes is another one of those “slightly adjusted furniture” moments.

But is it really that there are more smokers? Or is it that smoking is more socially acceptable in France, so they feel more comfortable smoking out in public, and thus we see them more, providing the illusion of more smokers?

I also can’t figure out if smoking is a class marker in France or not. Generally, in the United States, smoking cigarettes tends to mark someone as of a middle or lower class. (By contrast, smoking cigars is seen as a luxurious, manly interest.) Sometimes, cigarettes serve an aesthetic purpose, going with someone’s “style.”

When it comes to France? Who the hell knows. Definitely not me.

It’s nearly 7pm here and time for dinner. My host sister is sitting next to me, looking at the pictures of a comic book and pretending to read the speech bubbles. Earlier, she put on a “cirque” for me, which consisted of her shouting music-ish-sounding noises and waving around a scarf while occasionally falling onto the ground. She just told me that after dinner, I am reading her a story, so surprise, I have plans! [Later, after dinner (I get to have duck pat� with bread tonight!), I’m meeting some friends to check out Montpellier’s night life.]

Until then, I’ll be diligently saving the lives of stuffed tigers, researching invisibility potions for the tram, and chronicalling my mundane, Western-industrialized everyday adventures. Oh, and probably some pictures from S�te next time– we’re going on an excursion this weekend!

Au revoir!

—

*Split between 11 people.

Location: Les Arceaux, Montpellier, France

Adfrenchures: Chapitre 1

Chapitre 1:
Bienvenue

“sonder: (n.) the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own […]” — The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

“Je vais m’asseoir sur ton lit et je vais te lire une histoire¹,” Mila declared, struggling to get on top of the bed with her tiny legs. I lifted her up and handed her the book: Derri�re le Tracteur, with little cartoon birds following a tractor as it turns up fresh earth, full of grubs. She can’t read yet, but she made up stories anyway as she turned the pages, and I returned to unpacking my massive suitcase.

Here, I have a linguistic cycle– struggling against the language, loving it. Suffering under French, then liberated by it. It is in turns facile and difficult. In a way, I had packed my French away during the summer, like a winter jacket, and now it’s the correct season for me to bring it out and dust it off. (It is incredibly dusty.)

The first week was half-orientation, half-vacation. If I had a cobblestone for every step I’ve taken during our three different Montpellier tours, I could probably reconstruct half the streets of the city. The Meditteranean Sea lacked the murkiness of the Atlantic and was five times as salty. I have met people at the fountain called Les Trois Graces in the Place de la Comedie more times than I count– it’s the most important part of the city, a wide open space that somehow also seems to carry an incredible amount of weight and density.

It was our first full day in France, walking through the Place de la Comedie as a huge group of jetlagged Americans, when someone said something that struck me: These people spoke French before we showed up and will continue doing so after we leave. While blatantly obvious, I think the very physical and complete comprehension of this sentiment is the beginning of “global citizenship.” Of course, I believe that these people exist when I’m not around (I’m no solipsist), but there is a certain je ne sais quoi to the final, genuine comprehension of what that means and all of its implications.

In a way, this recognition is described by the imaginary word “sonder,” made up by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. In France, I am a foreigner who briefly and poorly asked for coffee; that girl who totally tripped getting on to the tram; the back of a head that exited a classroom; or, to Milla, for instance, I will simply be an idea: “notre invit�e who stayed in our apartment when you were 3 years old,” and 13 year old Milla will put on her sunglasses and say, “Oh, I don’t really remember. I was so little then.”

In terms of intercultural understanding, thinking of oneself as a background character is actually quite liberating. I am unafraid to stop and ask for directions, speak halting French with the Monoprix cashier even though the line extends out the door, and tell the homeless man who tried to touch my face that he was crossing some serious boundaries and, very sternly, Bonne journ�e, Monsieur. In France, I am a footnote in the lives of others– as the defintion says, “a lit window at dusk.” And others are my lit windows, a kind smile and a finger pointing on my tram map, someone bumping elbows during classtime, my near-death experiences when trying to cross a road. (Seriously, driving in France is borderline suicidal.)

Being a background American also means I get to try every kind of cheese and not be embarrassed about not having had it before. It means I get to ask really, really stupid questions, like “This is embarrassing, but how does the toilet work?” (You have to pull the button upward instead of pressing it.) According to my two new friends Irina and Deborah (Lithuanian and non-descriptly francophone, respecively), being American is also somehow glamorous or cool. It also apparently means that I am constantly honked at, catcalled, hit on, and aggressively stared at by French men. It also means I get to do a few touristy things like go to the final “L’�stivale du Montpellier” wine tasting festival of the season, then dance as if no one’s watching.

Now, our orientation-vacation has ended, and it’s time to get down to business with courses. Even after a week, I can tell how much my French has improved. My goal for next week is to make at least one French friend, since now I have new American, British, Lithuanian, and Francophone pals.

A bient�t!

— Marie

Location: Montpellier, France

On y va: An Adfrenchures Prologue

Bonjour! My name is Marie Heller, a junior who will be studying abroad in Montpellier, France for the Fall 2013 semester. I’ll be blogging here about my French adventures– or, if you will indulge me: “Adfrenchures.” I am an English and French double major, with a minor in Teaching English as a Second Language.

This is my face.

More importantly, I am a first-generation, low-income college student. I’d like to thank Penn State’s fantastic Schreyer Honors College, the Presidential Leadership Academy of which I am a member, and the College of the Liberal Arts. Without these organization, France could never be a reality for me. My gratitude is immeasurable.

My foremost goal while studying abroad is fluency in the language. I collect French slang the way some people collect quarters or stamps, so I’m very excited to get to live immersed in everyday French language. I’m on the intermediate level when it comes to speaking, but my listening and reading comprehension are quite advanced. I hope to be able to better express myself in French (and, ultimately, be fluent) before I come back to American soil.

My second goal is to become engaged as a global citizen. Due to my family’s financial situation, my experience with international travel is basically nonexistent. I stay updated on international news through the Presidential Leadership Academy’s (PLA) subscription to The New York Times and my own monitoring of BBC and France24. However, contact with foreign news sources does not a worldly traveler make. It is the mistakes, faux pas, triumphs, and journeys of actually living abroad that make an individual into an engaged, mature global citizen.

My third goal is to examine my own leadership in relation to a global context and a foreign cultural context, while also learning about what it means to be “a leader” in France. As of right now, this is my most murky goal. Though sustained reflection, I hope to make clearer my ideas of what it means to be “a leader” as they are transformed throughout my study abroad experience.

I leave for France in 3 days. This has still not entirely sunk in, despite the luggage littering my bedroom floor. The next time you hear from me, I’ll be across the Atlantic!

A bient�t, mes amis!

Location: On a bus through the Central Pennsylvanian countryside

Edinburgh & Paris weekend trips, plus everything in between!

For the 10am (I think) train, Amber and I arrived at King’s Cross railway station early and (un-)fortunate enough that we were standing on the wrong side of the information boards. As we were standing there waiting for the rest of our group, we spotted the infamous Platform 9 and � minus a huge queue! We took advantage of the opportunity to take photographs of ourselves with the trolley stuck in a thick brick wall.

To say that our train ride was interesting is an understatement. The group of 4 men who sat on the table seats adjacent to us were very entertaining. Not sure if that was intentional though. At first they were playing cards–SpongeBob cards. At one point, they all emerged from a restroom wearing funny masks and animal onesies and just sit there and enjoy the rest of the train ride!

It was first time I stayed at a hostel but it wasn’t as nasty as I expected it to be. The hostel provided clean bed linens but no towels. The cabinets and shower room floor were somewhat questionable but everything else was okay. I stayed for 2 nights with 3 other girls. It was actually fun to sleep on bunk beds! It made me think of the days when my sister and I used to sleep on our own bunk bed.

The place is called Budget Backpackers with a donkey logo. It is very conveniently located. All the major attractions, including many of the spooky tours, Arthur’s Seat, Camera Obscura and Edinburgh Castle were IN WALKING DISTANCE. We literally walked to ALL of these places (although we didn’t visit Camera Obscura).

We arrived on Friday evening and right after the check-in, Fatima, Amber and I walked around the area and ate late lunch/early dinner. Then we came back we all took a nap until around 6 by which time Randal arrived. We were supposed to go to a free pub crawl organized by the hostel staff but since we had time, we went to Ciao Roma, an Italian restaurant, for a nice frozen treat before going to pubs. I ended up going to only 2 pubs though, because I did not bring my passport with me to the trip as I did not plan to drink.

The next morning, we climbed to the top of Arthur’s Seat, the volcano near the hostel. That day we were blessed with sunshine and we had too much fun picture-taking and ended up not going to Gilmerton’s Cove which was about 15 minutes away from Edinburgh on a bus.

After the mountain climbing, I joined Team Goldsmiths for a hike up the stairs to the magnificent Edinburgh Castle while the girls I went mountain climbing with were passed out in the hostel room.

I enjoyed the Castle visit very much. While it may not be considered conventionally ‘fun’ to take a walk in a centuries-old castle, but I found it fascinating. I personally like historical sites in general, especially ancient buildings and ruins. I don’t know if my dad (who is an architect) has to do with my fondness with old buildings at all but those are the things we love to talk about.

Then at 6 we met up with the rest of CIEE gang for a group dinner. During dinner somebody mentioned going to a haunted tour. My “roommates” wanted to go so we (I was VERY reluctant) decided to join others for a spooky night out. Our first choice–allegedly the scariest of all–were all booked so we got tickets from another tour, the Mercat Hidden & Haunted Tour. The guide was pretty awesome, and the tour was, um, bearable. I’m usually not a haunted-anything person so I was relieved that it wasn’t too intense. But some people were disappointed that it wasn’t scary enough.

On the way back, Amber insisted on going to a nightclub and we complied. We had a few drinks and danced for a while. Then outside of the nightclub were a bunch of canopied tricycle taxis, just like the ones in Shanghai. But my Americanos found them very amusing and wanted to get on one even though our hostel was literally 2 seconds away. I initially backed out, thinking it was overpriced. In Shanghai, you could hop on them for a fraction of the cost you would be asked to pay in Edinburgh. I told the driver that for me that kind of vehicles are nothing new. But the driver said it would be the same price for the two people as three. I hopped on. The ride was brief but the driver indeed did his best to impress me.

On Sunday we left Scotland for London at noon. I slept better on the train back. It was a lot of walking in just 2 days so I wasn’t surprised.

As much as I’d like to transition smoothly into my Paris trip but I thought it would be better to bring us back to the night before I left and the days that followed my Edinburgh trip leading up to Paris briefly.

As I said a few paragraphs ago, I did not take my passport with me to Edinburgh. I tucked it away in the safe in my dorm room along with my laptop.

When I returned on Sunday, the safe refused to open. I swear I never changed my pass code but it kept telling me I was using the wrong code. I complained at the housing office and they said they’d look for the key.

The next day, I went to the office again. They told me they were still looking for the key.

Tuesday they promised they’d check up on my safe regardless around 5 in the afternoon. No one came.

Wednesday I told them I needed my passport back immediately for my upcoming Paris trip.

Thursday the dorm staff filed a formal complaints on my behalf.

Thursday aka. the day I was scheduled to leave London, the handymen from the company which manufactured my safe came in the morning. They were able to open the safe after 15+ minutes.

I took a bus to Paris from Victoria Coach Station. The coach station was a few minutes walk from Victoria tube station. I wasn’t aware of this until I asked someone who was working in the tube station kiosk.

There are screens in the entrance of the coach station on which I’d find my itinerary and I would just go to the designated gate and look for a check-in desk for my bus carrier (I took Euroline which was the cheapest option I could find). The whole procedure was similar to checking in for a plane flight minus tossing the luggage part but the station itself was more chaotic.

The bus driver stopped a few times for bathroom breaks, immigration inspection and a ferry ride. The passengers and the bus would hop on the same ferry but on different floors.

And as soon as the ferry is done crossing the Channel, the passengers get back on the original bus and continue on their journey.

I arrived in Paris Charles De Gaulle Airport on Friday morning at 7:20. My Penn State friend Victoria came to pick me up. We rode a train to her dorm which was in suburbs of Paris.

We caught up on each other’s stories since Winter Break and then I took a nap in her room while Victoria left for her morning classes.

Around 11am, Victoria’s neighbor barged into the room where the sink is (two rooms share one shower room and the shower is located in between the rooms, so her neighbors come in from the shower-room door quite often). His voice woke me up and I got up and checked in on what has happened and he assured me he wasn’t aware I was there and that his name is Felix who lives a few doors down. Felix kindly invited me to dine with “the rest of the boys” to which I politely declined because I was supposed to have lunch with Victoria. But I did come out to say hi to my friend’s fellow residents, who happen to be all male.

After Victoria came back, she took me to the cafeteria which “does not open that often.” Diners could choose one side, one entree and up to two desserts but I was already full with one dessert.

Then we got back and took a walk in a park with Felix and his friend Chris who is visiting from Germany. We went back when it started raining and went back out for a nice dinner later.

On Saturday morning, Victoria, Felix, Chris and I took a train to Paris and visited Notre Dame de Paris. I really liked how intricately it was built. It was quite overwhelming to think of how much energy, calculation and planning had gone into every single detail to make this exquisite building a reality. And needless to say the engineers back in the days didn’t have cranes to lift those stones up!

But Victoria and I ran into walls on another church. Turns out pretty much any tourist attraction in Paris requires visitors to show their passports in order to earn eligibility to enter (a passport alone does not guarantee free entry).

Bummed, Victoria and I went separate ways from the boys. We went to a crepe place to have our breakfast! But I think it was one of the best decisions we’ve made. We ate our crispy crepes right by the Seine. It was surprisingly peaceful down the bridge despite being so close to busy streets.

We walked around for a while afterwards before popping into an Indian restaurant called Safran for lunch. We both had the same 3-course meal which consisted of tomato-based chicken curry which I really adored! The wait staff gave each of us a packet of free bindis after the meal and one of them blurted out “Arigato!” to which we giggled (I’m technically Japanese on the paperwork but I’d identify more with being Shanghainese/Chinese, and Victoria is Chinese American). The bindis were such a pleasant surprise though. I’m looking forward to sporting them in my future performances with the Penn State Belly Dance Club 🙂

Then Victoria and I went to Sacre Coeur. The white of the basilica against the azure sky was truly marvelous. Outside of Sacre Coeur were tourist “bracelet” scams, marathon runners and portrait/caricature artists.

As the sky was darkening, we took the metro to Tour Eiffel and on the way to the iconic tower, we stumbled upon the Japanese Cultural Centre in Paris (Maison de la culture du Japon a Paris). There was a special exhibition documenting the 2011 earthquake, its aftermath and journey to recovery. It was actually funny that all of the sudden our positions are reversed in which I was the one who could understand what was going on while Victoria became clueless in the middle of Paris.

Somehow on the way from Sacre Coeur and Tour Eiffel, Victoria’s favorite circle scarf went missing and we could not find it. So we turned to Champs Elysees for a scarf hunting. Plus it was right on the way to Arc de Triumphe.

We tried unsuccessfully to go to the rooftop terrace at Gallery Lafayette to see the beautiful city lights but the store’s shutters went down as we were about to cross the street. We gave up and waited for Magnus, a friend of Victoria’s, for dinner and call it a day.

On my last day, we went to Musee du Louvre. The place was HUGE but I’m happy I got to see Mona Lisa, Nike of Samothrace, Venus de Milo and the Code of Hammurabi in person. Bear with me, but for a history/archaeology/museum junkie like me, it is such a powerful experience to go and see the actual things that you read in books standing RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.

Overall it was a very productive weekend in Paris! I feel so accomplished in squeezing so many landmarks in 3 days 🙂 Many many thanks to Victoria and friends who showed me around 😀

Pictures to follow soon! Promise!!!!

Location: London, UK

It has officially begun

So I have been in France since Friday and Besancon since Saturday. I was really nervous to meet my host family on Saturday because in their email they said they could speak a little English. However, I did not know what “a little” meant. It could mean they can say “hello” and “good bye” or hold some basic conversations. So when I met my host mother on the tracks of the TGV in Besancon, I was not sure what to expect. My host mother is actually rather fluent in English because her mother was an English teacher. She told me she would speak to me in English for the first week so I could get used to the flow of things in the house. However, she warned me that her husband, who is a 5th grade teach, won’t speak to me in English because I am in France to learn French.

The area here is beautiful. Besancon is located by the Jura mountain range and is surrounded by the Doubs river. It is located about an hours ride from Switzerland. The streets in the city centre are very close together and are lined by buildings in the typical French architecture. The streets are just wide enough for the Ginko (their form of the CATA) to drive down the middle of the road. The center of town has many shops and boutiques for clothes and shoes. However, it also has a Claire’s and a Subway, and I smile every time I walk past them. The United States’ influence has reached even the rural east side of France.

The city has a citadel which looks over the city. There are frequent bus rides to the top of the mountain to visit the citadel which has different museums. It houses baboons, ostriches, lamas, and has an aquarium as well as a museum on the Holocaust.

On Monday, I took my placement test to see which level of French I should be placed in. I have always tested bad in French in high school and in college so it was no surprise when they placed me in the easiest level of French, A2.1. Since Monday, I have moved up three levels to A2.3, which fits much better. The entire class is in French, and since living with my host family, I find that I can understand more and more of the spoken language. In my class, there are Americans, Saudi Arabians, South Koreans, Italians, Lebanese, and Turks. Our only common language for the majority of the people is French. I hope to learn a lot from these students about their culture and language and become proficient in French.

Location: 25000 Besançon, France

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous: The French Riviera

I spent this past weekend in one of the most beautiful places in the world, Côte d’Azur also known as The French Riviera. It is also one of the richest places in the world. The cars, the hotels, the palaces, the boutiques, and even the restaurants all showed the wealth and glamour of this part of the world. The coastal landscape was absolutely breathtaking and the blue water looked so refreshing. It is too bad that the water was too cold to swim in…

My adventure started on Thursday night when I boarded a mini-bus headed from Barcelona to Nice, France. The trip was through EuroAdventures, a travel company that organizes bus trips for students studying abroad in Europe. We were on a mini tour bus, but it was kind of uncomfortable. Luckily, we had 4 movies to entertain us on the trip up. With the movies, the 9 hour bus ride did not seem that long at all. Interestingly, in Spain there are a lot of rules restricting bus drivers and truck drivers. For every 2 hours on the road, the driver had to stop for a half hour or so. That got a little bit annoying, but at least it gave me a chance to stretch my legs and grab some food. We arrived at our hotel at around 3:30 am.

The next morning we caught a train to the second smallest country in the world, Monaco. It was about a half hour train ride, but the train tracks ran right along the coast so I had spectacular views of the landscape for the whole ride. The first thing we did in Monaco was take a bus to the Prince’s Palace and the Cathedral of Monaco. Unfortunately the Cathedral, which was where Princess Grace Kelly married the former Prince of Monaco, was closed due to construction. Not only did the construction restrict entrance to the Cathedral, but it also was an eyesore to an otherwise elegant building. The Prince’s Palace was also under construction, but the grounds and the building were still very regal. The view of Port of Hercules from the Prince’s Palace was unbelievable: fancy, expensive boats and yachts floating in incredibly blue water surrounded by cliffs and the Mediterranean. From there it was only a short walk to the Exotic Gardens, which were very pretty. The gardens contained statues, flowers, fountains, and birds, and opened up to a great view of the Mediterranean Sea. After the gardens, we walked around Monaco a little bit before heading toward the highlight of the day, playing Roulette at the Monte-Carlo Casino. It was €10 just to enter and they made us bag-check our cameras and phones so we were unable to take pictures of the inside. I wish I could have had my camera; the inside of the casino was extremely elegant with ornate chandeliers, paintings, and gold everywhere. It was so cool being inside such a stylish casino, surrounded by the rich high-rollers. That day was the first time I ever saw a €500 bill. We played a few slots, but once again, I hardly won anything on the slots and I went through €10 very quickly. So after some observation, I headed over to the roulette table with the lowest minimum bet at €5. I wanted to play some blackjack, but the minimum bet was €25 and I am terrible at blackjack. I spent a lot of time at the roulette table, having my ups and downs, but always staying around the break-even point. In the end, after the ball landed on “0” a few times, I found myself down €20. My roommate on the other hand won €175 with his last chip. I walked out of the casino down €40 in total (10 to enter, 10 at the slots, 20 at roulette) which I didn’t think was too bad considering where I was gambling. For example, one guy at our table was betting at least €800 on every spin. Whew! I one of my €5 chips as a souvenir of my gambling experience at the Monte Carlo.

After losing money at the casino I hopped on a train and headed back to Nice to grab some dinner. We were told that Nice had excellent seafood and pizza. Anybody who knows me will surely know what my vote was. We went to a pizza place right near our hotel that had one of the best pizzas I have ever tasted in my life–and I’ve had a lot of pizza in my 21 years. I got a chorizo pizza, which is like the European equivalent of pepperoni, and a glass of wine. I was in heaven. The cheese and the thin crust and the chorizo were perfect. After the pizza, the guys at EuroAdventures offered all of us students free champagne at the hotel before exploring the Nice bar scene for the night. I realized that night that I am spoiled with the originality of the bars in Barcelona. In Nice, the bars had excellent live bands that played popular alternative music from the US and UK, but the drinks were very expensive and the bars themselves were very plain.

On Saturday we took the morning train to Cannes, the site of the famous annual film festival. Once again, the tracks were right on the coast, so the ride was full of stunning views. When we got to Cannes, we headed to the Cannes Palais des Festivals et des Congrès which is a giant convention center/auditorium where the Cannes Film Festival is held. Once again, due to construction, the building was closed. We were not allowed in the back lot because they were setting up for a gaming festival that was happening the following weekend. That was ultimately disappointing. I was looking forward to seeing the building and maybe seeing a famous director or something. I guess it was just wishful thinking. There was a miniature “Walk of Fame” in the area surrounding the Palais with famous movie stars’ and directors’ hand prints in the concrete. After spending some relaxing time enjoying the sun on the beach and on a dock extending out towards the Mediterannean, we looked for a place to eat along the famous Promenade de la Croisette. On the Promenade, we passed many expensive shops, boutiques, and hotels such as Chanel, Gucci, Prada, and about a hundred other fancy looking designer boutiques that I had never heard of because I don’t know the first thing about fashion or trendy clothing. We eventually found another pizza place aptly named “La Pizza”.

I have to say it was the name that most attracted me to the restaurant. In the states, an €18 ($24) pizza would have turned me away in a heartbeat, but I’m only in France once. This pizza, heated in a brick oven, could have even been better than the first one. The chorizo was very spicy, and the cheese was extremely flavorful. It was very filling but very delicious. After eating so much fantastic pizza in France, I hope to make a trip to Italy to try some original Italian pizza!

From the pizza place, we ventured up a hill to an archaeology museum that had an ancient tower with a panoramic view of the city. I think I mentioned this in another blog entry, but I am very interested in archaeology and ancient artifacts so I enjoyed looking through all of the rooms, especially a room filled with Egyptian and Christian sarcophagi.

The view from the top of the tower was stunning. On one side there were snow covered mountains and on the other were golden sandy beaches and bright blue water. It was awesome. I could have spent the whole day up on that tower just taking in the view and appreciating where I was.

After sneaking onto the train back to Nice because I lost my train ticket, we got some inexpensive kebabs for dinner. I couldn’t believe it when I found out they had ranch sauce for the kebab. Of course I got it and it didn’t disappoint. Then we got ready and headed out to the Carnival parade. It is hard to explain how cool the parade was. Of course it was crazy; there was silly string and confetti flying in all directions.

I was covered in both within 5 minutes. There were thousands of people packed into the streets as giant, ornate floats drove through the crowd. I have seen the balloons at The Macy’s Day Parade in New York and I have seen floats in many other parades, but nothing compares to the floats in Carnival. The people are decked out from head to toe in colorful costumes, so much so that they don’t look human at first. The balloons were huge and the floats depicted scenes from French culture and historical figures from Nice. It was a long, fun night that culminated in getting lost in the streets of Nice after the parade ended.

The next morning I met up with Morgan and Renan who I had met the night before. They live in Nice and offered to show me around the city for the day. I had a blast walking with them to the Castel, which offered fantastic views of Nice and the port. From the Castel, I followed them all around the city, taking pictures, and they told me about French culture, French people, and about the way of life in Nice. We got lunch at a bar by the port and I ordered a delicious pasta dish. In the bar on the TV was the music video of Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow”. It was a little bit surreal seeing my hometown on a TV in a small bar in Nice, France. They were incredibly nice, friendly people and if they read this I hope they know how thankful I was for the experience that day. Morgan even gave me delicious croissants and pain au chocolat for the bus ride home!

I was surprised at the friendliness of the French during my visit; not only Renan, but also all of the people in the stores and people that I asked for directions. A lot of people talk about the French hating Americans and about the terrible experiences they have, particularly in Paris, with the locals. I had no such experience. I was also shocked at the amount of people who spoke English in the French Riviera. However, that could be due to the tourism aspect of the area…

The bus ride home seemed to drag on longer than the ride there, but that is usually the way these type of things go. Luckily, it was still light out for most of the ride back so I had an opportunity to see some of the landscape of France and Spain that were very different than what I had seen so far. After 9 hours and 4 more movies, we arrived in Barcelona around 1:30 am. Lucky for me I still had a Spanish essay to write, so it was a long night to end a long, exciting, enriching, beautiful, breathtaking weekend. I had a great time in the French Riviera and experiencing Carnival!

Hasta Luego!

Sean

Location: Nice, France

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