Toussaint

It has come to my attention that the French seem to really appreciate the art of (and numerous health benefits that result from) multiple vacation periods.  In fact, as I'm writing this, after having been at "work" for a mere three weeks, I'm currently preparing for Toussaint (too-sahnt:  All-Saints' Holiday), a ten day vacation to celebrate the fact that, at one time or another, France used to actually be Catholic.  The holiday lasts from the 24th of October to the 4th of November, which happens to be exactly six weeks before the next vacation, which comes exactly six weeks before the vacation after that, which comes four weeks before the vacation after that... you get the idea.


Unfortunately for me, my first well-earned French ten day recuperation period is going to be more an exercise in patience than pleasure.  Sadly, it's been a pathetic three weeks since I've traveled beyond the town limits of La Côte Saint André, and - for reasons far beyond my realm of comprehension -  my French bank account still hasn't been opened properly, meaning je n'ai pas d'argent (jah n-aye pah dh-arh'jahnt: I have no money).  So, unfortunately for this vacation, I believe I'll be spending much of my time staring out the window feeling sorry for myself and day dreaming about the day that I can have my échappe belle (eh-sha-ppe bell: narrow escape) to Grenoble, Vienne, or Lyon for some much-needed city exposure.  Give me another couple of days of this stir-crazy period and I may just end up crawling to the nearest nightclub I can find.


In the meantime, I'm without Internet.  Encore (on-core: again).  So if I'm still sane the next time you hear from me, you'll have witnessed un miracle (uhn meer-ack-luh: a miracle).

Bon anniversaire

With two anniversaires (an-ee-vers-err: birthdays) to celebrate this weekend, I've been meditating over two very important thoughts: first, merci à Dieu (mehr-see ah dee-ue: thank God) for Skype, Facebook, and the Internet in general for reminding me of birthdays and letting me get in touch with people overseas; second, I and everyone I know are getting old(er).

Let me explain.

Saturday I waited around until a decent California hour to wish my boyfriend's mom a bon annivesaire (bohn an-ee-vers-err: happy birthday).  While talking to her about party plans, I also did my usual Skype multi-tasking ritual of Facebook stalking when I came across a very useful tidbit of information: Sunday was the birthday of my Italian colocataire (co-lohc-a-ter: roommate).  So thanks to the infinite wisdom of Facebook to inform me of every single bit of information that my Facebook friends would otherwise not want me to know, I was able to have a little birthday surprise setup for said roommate when she woke up and walked into the kitchen this morning.


Sitting around the kitchen table watching the birthday girl blowing out her lone bougie anniversaire (boo-gee an-ee-vers-err: birthday candle) while comparing lesson plans and paychecks, I couldn't help but briefly be terrified by the fact that here we were, a birthday girl and her new-found friends eating pasta and chocolate eclairs and discussing our work lives.  I couldn't help but think to myself: how did I get so old?

Sure, me and my roommates are still in the "young" as far as it goes, but when I told my class of high school students my age they gasped in horror.

"What?" I asked, "Is that old?"

"Yes, if you want to know the truth" a student responded.

"Umm, well... thanks for being honest."

And to think that just three years ago I couldn't even drink a glass of wine legally.  One of the perks of being older?  Now I have the power to flunk that student if I want to.

La Côte St. André

L'automne (luh tohm: Fall) seems to have arrived overnight in the small French village of La Côte St. André (la coht sah-nt ahn-drey: the coast of Saint Andrew), the place I'm calling home for the next several months.  What used to be a humid haze sitting over the valley everyday has developed into a crisp, clear blue as threatening storm clouds in the distance make their way to Grenoble a few miles down the road.  And the locals, including myself, have retreated indoors, trying desperately to come to terms with the fact that, for the next seven months, it will be impossible to leave the house without thermal underwear, scarf, and anorak.

Despite the biting cold, there  are some perks to living in La Côte, aside from the fact that even though the town only has 5,000 inhabitants, there are still six bars and four bakeries.  From one window in my bedroom, for example, I can see the steeple and hear the bells ringing in the hour of a church that has been in town since the 1300s.  La Côte St. André might be a sleepy little town, but at least it's been a sleepy little town since le Moyen Âge (leh moy-ehn ah-jh: middle ages).  From my other bedroom window I can see the Alps shooting up in the not-so-distant east, and if I'm feeling deranged enough I could, theoretically, wake up and watch beautiful sunrises creeping over the mountains every morning.  And right from the comfort of my rent-controlled apartment no less!

But perhaps it's the people in this town that, despite wanting to pluck my eyes out from boredom, still endear me to this place.  The other night, for example, I was sitting in one of the randomly-placed benches in town when a car pulled up in front of me and paused for several minutes.  As I decided to start reaching for my pepper spray, the driver--a high school rap artist wannabe-- ran out and clipped some roses from the hillside, jolted back into his car and sped off to what could only be his acne and teenage angst-ridden French lover down the lane.  Then of course there's the fact that the famous chocolate museum in town offers free samples of all their goods, and every time I walk into the corner grocery store a few blocks away the owner greets me like we're long lost friends.

I have to admit, sometimes, when I'm stuck indoors at 7:00 at night, watching dubbed episodes of The Family Guy and French soap operas, I can't help but wonder what excitement I'm missing out on by not making the move to Grenoble.  But part of me knows I made the right choice. Ok, sure, this town might not have the excitement of a grande ville (grahn-d vee-l: city), but I have a feeling I have a much better shot at making my way into the hearts of the French people here.

Faire la Chasse

 

"Be sure not to hike alone in the woods."--Teacher
"Why?"--Me
"Because someone might mistake you for an animal and shoot you."--Teacher
"Haha, right."--Me
"I'm not joking."--Teacher
"...oh.... holy crap."--Me

This conversation took place a couple weeks ago and I had nearly forgotten all about it until this past Sunday, while hiking alone neck-deep in the beautiful forested hills behind La Côte St. André.  What started out to be a pleasant, sunny hike on a Sunday afternoon quickly turned into a scene out of Bambi when a sudden round of rifle shots went off in the distance.  One shot!  Then two!  Three! The whole time bloodhounds are barking excitedly and in chorus, making me wonder why some birds are still chirping merrily over my head.  Shouldn't they fly out of town as fast as their wings will carry them, scared for their lives?!

Hunting for pleasure is as foreign to me as the idea of escargot (ess-cahr-go: snails) being a delicacy or spending 250 euros on a piece of lingerie.  But for the French, faire la chasse (fehr la sha-sse: to go hunting) is not just a national sport: it's a national art form.  Practically every large mass of forest in this country isn't deciated to preserving wildlife, but to hunting it.

No matter where you are in France it seems to be that everyone is either on the hunt or eager to be hunted.  For instance, the teenage boys in my English classes eagerly shoot out cat calls, hunting for some sort of female attention, while the girls in my class seem to be hunting more for attention, admiration, and an escape from their annoying male classmates.  The French Peugeots (poo-joe: a French car company) that zip around town (practically maulling everyone down at every crosswalk) are really just innocently hunting for the best parking spot.  My French landlord who walks into my aparetment on a daily basis unannounced (and uninvited) is really just hunting for a way to get away from his femme (fah-m: wife).  The old newsboy-cap wearing Frenchmen sitting in bars, nursing a glass of cognac for hours are just hunting for some friendship and social interaction.   And I, as well as everyone else I see strolling around downtown La Côte on a Sunday afternoon--despite all the shops and bars being closed--are really just docile animaux (ahn-ee-moh: animals) waiting to be hunted by some stray bullet of juicy gossip or interesting news so that we have some exciting piece of information to share around the dinner table later that night.

Of course, no matter what pays (pie-ee: country) you go to people will be hunting for activities to fill in their day.  In this way, French people are no different.  What stands out to me is that, in France, no secret is made about the hunt.  Everyone is either the hunter or the hunted, and every French person seems to be born with the inherent kowledge that the more cunning, quick-witted, and mysterious you are, the better your chance of survival.  What I find fascinating is how quickly I fit myself into the "hunted" category.  Just call me dead meat.

Mon St. André

I would just like to take a minute to write a little devotional to mon Saint André (mohn sahn-t ahn-drey: my Saint Andrew). Not only is this particular saint incredibly unique, handsome, and loving (as well as a charmer of animals big and small), but we've also had the opportunity to get to know one another pretty well these past few months and--I think it's safe to say--we're pretty crazy about each other too.

In part because of this new-found André obsession, I think it's fitting to be living in a town whose patron saint is St. André. Every day I pass by numerous streets, buildings, and parks which--literally--have "Andrew" written all over them. 


From my bedroom window I can hear the church bells of l'eglise St. André (leh gleez sahn-t ahn-drey: The Church of Saint Andrew) ring every 30 minutes, reminding me of all the times Andrew has called me on the phone with a caring and supportive (or, sometimes, fight-inducing) word to say. I pass by le bar St. André (leh bahr sahn-t ahn-drey: Saint Andrew's bar), watching couples sipping wine and coffee together as I think back on all the wonderful dates and discussions Andrew and I have had over a bottle of wine (or absinthe cocktail). Then, of course, there's the massive bouquet des fleurs de lys (boh-kay dh flhur dh leez: lilies) Andrew had delivered to my door today. Now, even as I breathe in and out, the aroma of the flowers is a reminder of how romantic and caring Andrew has always been to me. If Andrew was ever in doubt over whether or not I think about him, he shouldn't be worried. How could I possibly forget him?! He's everywhere!


Long distance relationships are never easy. I don't think either Andrew or I pretend to know where our future together lies, but in the meantime it's nice to know I have a friend and lover out there, somewhere, who is thinking of me as much as I think of him.  When I was single for ever so many countless years, I had faith that a good, sweet, romantic, beautiful man was something that only existed in fairy tales. But, what do you know: Andrew exists in real life.  My life.  And that, I think, is something worth shouting "hallelujah" to.

Now can I get an Amen?!

Autrans

After a week of sulking and wasting away in France, the arrival of October meant that it was finally time for work to begin.  "Work" of course being a three day orientation in a ski resort town in the Alps, where the entire weekend was spent speaking English, exchanging phone numbers, and getting so plastered that the enitre camp suffered a collective massive hangover the next morning.

What, did you expect any less?  I mean, I am in France after all!

Autrans (oh-trahn) is the Alpine foothill town where all this drunken debauchery took place.  While this quiet village once hosted numerous Olympic events during the 1968 Winter Games, I'm pretty sure the surge of international language assistants into the local liquor store the other night was probably the most excitement this town had seen since... well, 1968.  But the town certainly is beautiful!  Spiked mountains surround the area like massive soldiers, and the lush green pastures in the town's valley still have plenty of promise left before they're blanketed with snow and become heavily trafficked ski runs in a month's time.

Unfortunately, the youth camp (not the fascist dictator kind of youth camp, but something strikingly reminiscent) where all the language assistants were being housed for two nights didn't seem to reflect much of the region's beauty.  The camp was a mix between a run-down youth hostel and a summer camp horror film (not what I expected out of la belle France, thank you).  All the food was some sort of variety of beige, and the fact that I was a vegetarian seemed to annoy the chef so much that he could only muster up the effort to make me half of an omelet... for every single meal.  True to the stereotypical French bureaucratic style, every activity was disorganized, even to the point of bed arrangements: I was misplaced in my room and spent both nights trying to fall asleep next to the sounds and smells of five drunken males.  Thankfully, all the guys were really nice so I actually lucked out.

Despite the less-than-romantic appeal of the place, the weekend itself turned out to be genial (geen-ee-al: brilliant).  I met lots of really friendly people from all over the world who had come to Grenoble for the same exact reason I had: to learn and fall in love with la culture française (la kwul-tuur frahn-saiz: French culture).

Comparing notes with other assistants in the area, I learned that I'm not the only one stuck in a small village in the French campagne (cohmp-an-yah: countryside).  Far from it, in fact.  This, for some bizarre reason, made me re-think the whole "move to Grenoble" bit and give living in La Côte St. André another shot.  Of course, learning that my town is famous for its chocolate didn't hurt either.  All-in-all, good news for the official start of my life en français (on frahn-sayz: in French).

L'Internet

Today was my first day as une assistante d'anglais (euhn ah-seez-tahnt dh ahn-glay: an English assistant).  I'm tired, hungry, thristy, and I'm pretty sure I've crapped my pants out of nervousness somewhere along the way.  However, I'm still vivante (veehv-ahnte: living), though barely because my apartment doesn't have l'Internet (the Internet).  It's rare that I'm even allowed to log into Facebook or Blogger, let alone acutally post pictures or blogs or do anything remotely interesting.

While I'm hoping to change this situation soon, I did want to say that I've survived my first day on the job and have a week full of work ahead of me.  Also, I've decided to stay in my big apartment in this small town, to give life in a French village a shot.  After all, even life in a French village is still la belle vie française, non (lah bell vee frahn-sayz, no: the beautiful French life)?

Keep tuned, and let me know of any exciting news in your part of the world!  I haven't been able to check into Yahoo! headlines for about a week now, which (I'm sad to say) has been my connection to the rest of the world since I arrived in France two weeks ago.