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.