Grenoble

You can't say I didn't try.  I gave it two months and a lot of hope, but last week I finally decided I'd had enough of small town living.  I'm a city girl at heart, and after spending an amazing weekend with Andrew exploring Lyon and Grenoble, I decided to move into a quaint and quirky French apartment near the Stade des Alpes in the center of Grenoble, and along with it a big cut in my spending money.  Mais tant pis, c'est la vie en la belle France (may tahn-t pee, say lah vee on leh bell Frahn-s: But too bad, that's life in beautiful France).

The truth was, I was afraid that if I didn't move soon no one would ever want to talk to me again.  Life in La Côte Saint André brought out a whole new breed of pessimist in me that I didn't even know existed. So, I'm really thinking of my relocation as a mental health investment.  Don't get me wrong: La Côte is just as full of friendly people and pretty rolling hills as it ever was.  But I've spent my entire life in small towns.  I needed a change of pace.  I'm one of those people who gets a secret thrill out of over-crowded shops, busy traffic, and strangers walking down the street who never wave or say hi.  Unfortunately, this sort of high-quality lifestyle is usually reserved for high-population areas, and definitely doesn't exist in small-town France.



This sort of urban gruffness does exist in Grenoble, however.  In fact, Grenoble is one of those rare cities that makes up for in character what it lacks in size.  The entire city is surrounded by desolate mountain ranges that, at this time of year, are covered in neige (neh-j: snow).  Luckily this makes for amazing views out your window no matter how crappy the rest of your apartment might be.  The ancient stone cathedrals, Drac and Isère rivers, and la Bastille (lah bahst-eel) guarding over the city are all within (reasonable) walking distance, and no matter which street corner you're standing on, you're never far away from a glass of wine or cup of coffee in a toasty warm café (kaf-eh) offering reprieve from the frigid cold.


My own personal favorite part of being a new resident of Grenoble?  In a matter of the three days I've been living here, I've managed to get all my Christmas shopping done at Victor Hugo Square's fabulous marché de Noël (marsh-ay duh no-ell: Christmas market), which is basically a crowded smorgasbord of Alsace-inspired wooden looking vendor's booths selling random knickknacks and, more importantly, mulled wine.


Of course, as any true dorky francophile would, I also christened my new place with a bottle of cheap champagne I bought at the local Casino supermarket down the street.  And you know what I realized as I toasted to my own smart thinking at becoming a Grenoblois (gr-uh-nob-lwa: inhabitant of Grenoble)?  Drinking a glass of champagne in my apartment while listening to drunken teenagers stumble down the street and grumpy French drivers crash into each other never tasted so good.  Vive la France (veev lah Frahn-s: long live France)!

L'arrivée

After two long days of no sleep and lost luggage, flirtatious immigration officers and cobblestone streets, I arrived on Wednesday afternoon a bit shell-shocked.  I was in France, but my feelings were a bit numb...

But let me back up a little.  The whole reason I'm in France is to be an English assistant for junior high and high school students in La Côte St. André and Le Grand Lemps, two tiny towns in the Rhône-Alpes region of France ( that's on the lower-right side of the map, for those of you who want to know).  I knew when I Googled these towns that they would be small and I might not like them, but I figured I'd give living on campus a shot, given the fact that looking blindly for housing in French didn't exactly appeal to me as a golden travel experience.

On the ride to the town the teacher, Claudie ( a sweet femme (feh-mm: woman) in her fifties who invited me to dejeuner (deh-juhn-eh: lunch) at her place on Sunday) told me how depressing the town was, how quiet, how isolated... I wonder if she could see my chest pounding with terror.  Walking around, though, I realized there was no denying it: La Côte St. André really was a true petite ville française (puh-teet veel frahn-sayz: small French town) where everyone may know your name, but what does that matter when everyone is locked up in their houses by sundown?

Alright, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic (note: alone in big apartment in small French town make Leith go crazy)  but after carefully surveying my options I'm secretly looking for another housing situation.  I can't deny it: I'm a city girl and the beautiful Alpine dirt, noise, and inflated prices of Grenoble are calling to me like a scene from The Sound of Music.  I can't wait until the Italian assistant arrives on Monday.  Maybe she can talk me down from the ledge.  You never know, maybe in a month I'll fall in love with this town.  It could happen...

In the meantime, I'm really enjoying speaking rudimentary, bastardized French to the locals.  You say you're from California and they're willing to forget the fact that you accidentally just asked if you could hump their goat.  In fact, mention you voted for Obama and they're willing to throw a cookie into your purchase for free.