Thanksgiving à la française

Where: Chez Alex, director BCA Strasbourg

When: last Saturday (no, we didn’t get a Thanksgiving break)

Invited guests: Turkey, mash potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes in brown sugar and marshmallow, corn, carrot cake and pumpkin pie. All the fixin’s!

Why: Ask Charlie Brown, he’ll tell you in 25 minutes of pure Pilgrim propaganda.

Special highlight: American football, Alex’s four sons (all under age 8), and the Beaujolais nouveau wine!

PS. Don’t forget your Indian feathers!

Tis the Season

Student General Assembly, Marc Bloch University, Strasbourg

Getting around France isn’t easy these days: the SNCF (national train company) has gone on strike again (second round in a month’s time), protesting Sarkozy’s pension plan reforms. The facts:

Workers in France can retire at the age of 60. SNCF employees can retire at 50. Why this disparity? Because running a train used to be hard work! Although the work is no longer as physically exacting as it use to be, workers still retire at 50, then take on other paying jobs while gaining the SNCF retirement. Sarkozy, insisting he was elected on a reform mandate, is trying to bring the retirement age for SNCF employees in line with other sectors.

Beyond that there is much detail, speculation, and political play. Suffice it to say that the SNCF is striking against this reform, running at less than half capacity and losing hundreds of millions of euros. Not to mention inconveniencing a lot of angry French, especially the Parisians.

Because (you guessed it), not only did the SNCF go on strike, but also the Paris metro system! Some lines are hardly disturbed, while others (like the line between Paris and Charles de Gaulle airport) are hardly running. The papers keep reporting how many hundreds of kilometers of traffic jams there are around Paris each day. The latest number I saw was 300 kilometers…but then, that’s only twice as many as normal.

It gets better. This strike is what they call ‘reconductible,’ a nice way of saying ‘never-ending.’ The SNCF announced it as such well in advance, but few thought it would last this long. It started last Tuesday, and although it’s followed less and less every day, it keeps going.

And the more the merrier! Part of the reason the SNCF strike may have lasted so long could be because those on strike want to join up with the civil servants, who go on strike tomorrow. Civil servants make up quite a chunk of the French population, and include government offices, the Post, and all teachers including university professors. I’m not sure why they’re all going on strike, or how well-supported this strike will be, but it’s possible some of my classes will not take place tomorrow.

And the students, oh the students. They are quite up in arms about university reforms. The government proposed raising the tuition prices of under-funded masters programs (so a year’s tuition would cost, you know, 900 euros instead of 500). The students rallied against it with leftist cries of biased selection by financial means. Then the university was forced to close down the masters programs which lacked funding. Well, the students wouldn’t stand to have their peers thrown out on the street without having the chance to complete their academic training. So, someone in the university administration offered the idea that private institutions could donate money to universities to keep these masters programs afloat. Sensing the strings attached to private funding, the students protested against any sort of ‘McDonalds/EuroDisney degree.’ What’s a publicly-funded government-controlled university to do? Why, request autonomy, that’s what! Autonomy for each university to make its own decisions on site. But, the students remind them forcefully, all universities in France are supposed to be equal, so that everyone in any region has a chance at the same education. How can they be equal if every university makes its own decisions?

A twist on the French motto

They’re hard to please, they are! In fact, the student movement has been building in Strasbourg, with student General Assemblies almost every other day. It hasn’t happened here, but elsewhere in France students have blocked off whole campuses. Last Thursday, students camped out in one of the amphitheaters (for what purpose I’m not too sure), then were removed by the police. In the process, somehow, one of the curtains caught fire, and then the building was closed to students through the weekend. Twice my classes at the university have been interrupted by student announcements of another General Assembly or a biased reporting of what ‘actually happened’ (for example, that the administration set fire to the curtain to chase the students from the building…hmm).

Tomorrow I’m going to check out the 9:30am student manifestation, followed by a very important General Assembly. I’m not complaining—this is all very sociologically interesting.

This sign posted over ATM machines reads: Welcome to the University. Coming soon: For a license (undergrad), insert your debit card. The machine will charge you 3000 euros. For a masters, insert your debit card. The machine will charge you 5000 euros. For a doctorate, insert your debit card. The machine will charge you 8000 euros.

I’m just glad the French students don’t know how much my university costs.

And I’m glad I’m not traveling by train either!

A last note, just in case you aren’t baffled enough: In December, AirFrance employees are going on strike.

Vive la France!

French and American University Systems: Two Extremes

It’s true that I pay too much for my university education, and that the French students pay too little. It’s true that private money is too powerful in US universities, and that private money could go a long way in improving French ones. I have experienced the two extremes of the same university education system. Sounds like a paper! But honestly, I can only give observations. In these last few weeks, I’ve heard a lot of communist rhetoric, met people who look and act like they should be in a smoky café talking revolution, and noticed the really pitiable state of the Marc Bloch campus. Like I remarked before, what I wouldn’t give for a grounds crew! Or even grounds to keep! Also, the profs can be quite distant, not engaged and personal like at Manchester (Although Manchester in this respect, to such a degree, is quite rare. I try to explain to other French students that I am friends with my professors, and they nod and smile and ask questions, but I don’t think they believe me.). On the other hand, if the ‘substance,’ the quality of education, counts the most, I don’t feel at all slighted at Marc Bloch University. My professors know the material and even succeed at explaining it! No easy feat when talking of arborescent representations of syntagmes nominals. I make for quite a poor English linguist, when all the terms I know are in French! Someday I will post a picture of my linguistic lecture notes: They’re very pretty, with lots of word trees and arrows and plus signs. And whatever happens tomorrow, I will try to take pictures to give you all an idea of what’s going on.

A wine shop in a hospital?! Only in France…

A week or so ago we BCAers visited the Hôpital Civile, the Strasbourg Municipal Hospital which has existed since the fourteenth century. Back in the fourteenth century, according to the guide who showed us around the cave (wine cellar), people paid with what they could, including property. Eventually, the hospital came to own a scattering of vineyards across the region, and in the cave are kept hundreds of immense casks of these wines. The largest cask held 26 000 bottles of wine. The oldest cask held wine from 1472 (we smelled the stopper…I wouldn’t want to taste it). My favorite cask was the one that held the average amount of wine consumed by a 4-person Alsatian family during the course of a year. After the visit, we had a wine tasting of Crémant (champagne of Alsace), Pinot Gris (classic Alsatian white wine), and Gewurztraminer (Alsatian white dessert wine), all with bread and kugelhopf (a dense bread, often with nuts and bits of ham baked in, and with a very particular shape. A successful visit, I’d say.

Mozart, Mmm!, and Mom

And lastly, I spent a lovely Sunday arranging my room (I’ve actually accumulated enough papers, bottles, and stuff worth cleaning and arranging and nesting, one of my favorite pastimes!), watching Mozart’s Idomeneo at the National Opera (for 5.50 euro, thank you student Culture Card!), and dining at the Ancienne Douane, a very old restaurant dating from 1358, right on the river bank.

And here I rest, well-fed, well-entertained, and just generally well.

Except last Friday I had my first real episode of homesickness. In the middle of a difficult conversation, I realized how much I missed having people around who know me, who have been part of my life already. At the beginning it can be liberating not to be known, not to be pigeon-holed into what you ‘are.’ But it can also be exhausting as you must continually explain/create yourself and your history. Then you just seek understanding, and you think about that whole community you left of people with whom you have that understanding.

The first sentence I sobbed out was, ‘I miss my mom!’

Classic.

I miss you mom, and everyone else with whom I feel at ease, at home, myself.

How to Build Global Community

Think of no one as "them"
Don't confuse your comfort with your safety
Talk to strangers
Imagine other cultures through their poetry and novels
Listen to music you don't understand
Dance to it
Act locally
Notice the workings of power and privilege in your culture
Question consumption
Know how your lettuce and coffee are grown
Look for fair trade and union labels
Help build economies from the bottom up
Acquire few needs
Learn a second (or third) language
visit people, places, and cultures--not tourist attractions
Learn people's history
Re-define progress
Know physical and political geography
Play games from other cultures
Watch films with subtitles
Know your heritage
Honor everyone's holidays
Look at the moon and imagine someone else, somewhere else, looking at it too
Read the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Understand the global economy in terms of people, land, and water
Know where your bank banks
Never believe you have a right to anyone else's resources
Refuse to wear corporate logos
Question military/corporate connections
Don't confuse money with wealth, or time with money
Have a pen/email pal
Honor indigenous cultures
Judge governance by how well it meets all people's needs
Be skeptical about what you read
Eat adventurously
Enjoy vegetables, beans, and grains in your diet
Choose curiosity over certainty
Know where your water comes from and where your wastes go
Pledge allegiance to the earth
Think South, Central, and North--there are many Americans
Assume that many others share your dreams
Know that no one is silent
though many are not heard
Work to change this

Exhausted

5 November 2007

I think that’s about all I can say. I’ve learned some lessons about travel, and the way I prefer it: 1. Don’t leave as soon as possible Friday morning and return 11 days later just before classes start. It’s exhausting. 2. While walking a city for eight hours does constitute ‘seeing it,’ it doesn’t necessarily equal ‘enjoying it.’ Plus, it’s exhausting. 3. It is difficult to eat well while traveling on a budget, especially if you’re not settled long enough in one place to cook for yourself. Eat well anyway. Otherwise you will be too exhausted. 4. Enjoy hospitality wherever you find it, and when you return home, give it freely. Hospitality is a good cure for any diagnosed exhaustic disorder.

As you may notice, I’m back-dating this posting as well. I was just too exhausted to write before!

Bon Voyage: Dublin

Dublin is a spectacular city, and if your travels ever take you there be sure to see the Book of Kells at Trinity College, spend an afternoon at the park St. Stephen’s Green, and eat at The Boxty House in the Temple Bar district. Firstly, the Book of Kells is a very old manuscript containing the four Gospels in Latin, copied around the year 800 and kept during the medieval period at the Abbey of Kells in Ireland. What makes the book so extraordinary is the calligraphy and decoration: the beginning letters of chapters are so ornate and colorful. Considering the materials used to give the color (the semi-precious stone lapis lazuli used for blue, and a crushed Mediterranean insect used for red, if I remember correctly), which had to be imported from all over Europe, I couldn’t help but be amazed. I saw the Book of Kells! My favorite part of its story is that, in 1009, the book was stolen from the monastery, then found by a farmer a few months later, in a canvas bag, minus its jeweled cover, buried at the bottom of a field. What luck!

I’ve also come to appreciate parks, green oases in big cities. It’s not ‘nature’ by any means, it’s not solitude, and it’s not adventurous, but it’s not bad either. I like to go to parks like St. Stephen’s Green because it is at parks that you see the city take a breath, relax, and enjoy itself.

The city also enjoys itself in the Temple Bar district, but in a different way. This is where Dublin gives birth to life—night life, that is. I only had one night to explore it, and ‘lively’ is a very appropriate adjective. It is there you will find The Boxty House, a boxty being a sort of large thick crepe folded around whatever filling you choose. I chose chili, because I miss chunky stews and because it came with cheddar cheese, which I also miss (despite all the wonderful cheese France can boast, there’s nothing quite like cheddar).

Another highlight of Dublin: I met up with my friend Danica, who is from my hometown in Michigan and is studying abroad at Royal Holloway near London this semester. I actually went to visit her later, and it was purely coincidental we were in Dublin the same weekend. Good thing she told me! Imagine how awkward it would’ve been to run into a friend from the States that I was planning to see a few days later…in another country. As it worked out, when I was walking toward her hostel to find her, I missed the street and soon came face to face with her walking back! What luck! It was good to see a familiar face at the beginning of the travels.

Practical advice for Dublin:

Don’t try walking out to the coast. It is farther than it seems.

Pay attention to the arrows on the streets: they tell opposite-side-of-the-road-driving pedestrians which way to look for cars. Very useful.

Bon Voyage: Galway (Gallimh in Irish, rooted in Gaelic, the country's language along with English)

Holy hedgerows! I took the bus Saturday afternoon from Dublin to Galway, and I’ve never seen a countryside so divided. I have a feeling the property lines marked by the hedgerows have existed for many many years. In fact, the most average things in Ireland have generally existed for many many years. Take the dolmen in this photo:

It is a thousands-year-old burial site located in the middle of the Burren, which looks like this:

It is very rocky.

I found the Burren on my day trip by bus tour around Galway Bay to the Cliffs of Mohrer. It was amazing—what else can I say? The Cliffs look like this:

The ocean is breathtaking, much like Lake Michigan, which made me miss home more than I expected. I looked out over the sea and thought of all of you on the other side. The distance doesn’t seem real, nor does the fact that I’m here in Europe. Sometimes I just forget and life continues normally; sometimes I realize where I am and what I’m doing and it seems quite surreal.

Galway is another BCA site, and so while I was there I stayed with two other BCA students. They’re only staying the semester, and my visit marked the half-way point, and they were very excited to think about heading home. I can’t imagine preparing to leave right now. I just got here, didn’t I? Am I fully here, even?

Ireland seems given to reflection.

Practical advice for Galway:

It is always windy. I have no advice for how to deal with wind.

Carry an umbrella, because the weather can change very quickly, and it always rains. No, instead carry a really good rain jacket, because umbrellas usually become casualties of the wind, and then people just drop them on the sidewalk, leaving a trail of crippled umbrellas. I call them roadkill.

Take a day tour on a bus! You will get to see much more than you could otherwise and get an earful of the lovely Irish accent from your tour guide.

In Galway, you don’t say it’s raining. You say the sky is soft.

Don’t try walking out to the coast. It is farther than it seems.

Bon Voyage: Cork

I can’t make a faire judgment of Cork, seeing as an hour after I arrived in the city, I left it to visit Blarney Castle, and then twenty hours after I arrived, I left on a plane for London. Of course I recommend the visit to Blarney Castle, and not just to kiss the Blarney Stone (which I did, obviously, given my prolific writing as of late…). The highlight of Blarney Castle was the Garden Close, a fairyland of overgrown paths around Druid ruins, rushing waterfalls, and ancient trees. In Ireland the fairy mythology is still current and strong, and the evidence is in the land: If you see a lone (bothersome) tree right in the middle of a field, it’s because a fairy lives there a the farmer won’t touch it; If you take the new road from Shannon Airport to Galway, you’ll notice that it goes quite out of its way in spots, avoiding fairy forts. Garden Close at Blarney is full of fairies—I saw them.

The pubs of Blarney (there are two in the village, which couldn’t be more quaint), however, are full of good solid Irishmen. It was there that I spent my last evening in Ireland, chatting with a few locals and trying my first Guinness (which was…bearable). I couldn’t have chosen better.

Bon Voyage: London

London was a blur. I came in Wednesday, celebrated Halloween that night at my friend Danica’s university, then spent a quick afternoon exploring the city the next day. We spent a good deal of time at Westminster Abbey, which is a place you pay to enter so you can say, ‘Wow…I’m standing near/next to/opposite of/on top of suchandsuch famous person’s body!’ It was overwhelming to think of how many important people have passed through or been buried in the Abbey, and visiting ‘Poet’s Corner,’ where many famous writers are buried, is especially astonishing. Charles Dickens, T.S. Elliot, Handel, Elizabeth I, Darwin, Newton, Chaucer, Samuel Johnson, Thomas Hardy…an impressive collection of corpses!

Of course we walked along the Thames river, saw the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben (which is actually the bell, not the tower or the clock), Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge and London Bridge (which was not actually falling down, at least when I saw it). Visiting London was a time of great silliness and fun—It was a nice break to have a travel buddy. I learned on this trip that I can travel alone: the comfort of having the other person is, in case something goes wrong, you’re not completely on your own; but having the other person doesn’t necessarily prevent things from going wrong; and if both of you are equally lost when something does go wrong…

But for awhile, it was good to have a travel buddy.

Practical advice for London:

Avoid the pound whenever possible. The exchange rate from the dollar to the euro is bad enough.

Watch for Tube rats, the friendly little creatures that show up along the rails of the underground subway and also carry the Black Plague. Sorry, Europe, rats, I can’t think otherwise.

Visit Westminster Abbey!

I hear Brick Lane has the best Indian food. We wanted to try, but ran out of time. It is certain I will come back to this city, even if it is ridiculously (3 pounds—6 or 7 dollars—for a bagel sandwich), ludicrously expensive.

Bon Voyage: Paris

Did I mention I never have good luck in Paris? Well, during the days leading up to my return to France, I started to worry that maybe I would have forgotten my French. But it was trial by fire when we arrived and, though I’d reserved and confirmed, the hotel had no room for us. Finding out why, negotiating a new room at another hotel we were moved to, differentiating the very chic Hotel Magenta Paris at 38 Boulevard de Magenta from the ancient but acceptable Hotel Paris Magenta at 48 Boulevard de Magenta…I quickly regained by French skills.

And the first thing I did upon arrival? Buy a baguette, of course!

Then I proceeded to walk around Paris for eight hours. Here’s the route for any of you who know the city and can appreciate the distance: Gare de l’Est to Notre Dame Cathedral, past the Centre Pompidou and the Hôtel de Ville; along the Seine River past the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, and the Jardin de Tuleries (park); up the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe (which you have to pay to stand under!); finishing up at the Eiffel Tower (which sparkles on the hour every evening); and all the way back. It was a good trek, and the city is incredibly beautiful at night. Paris is redeemed, I’d say.

Don't ask me what it took to get this picture of the Champs Elysees.

The next morning before catching the train back to Strasbourg (home! Finally!), we visited the Moulin Rouge. Now, for those of you who know Danica and me, this is about the culmination of our shared lives. We are ardent fans of the film (you have no idea…), and to stand there together in front of the Moulin Rouge, in Paris, in France, in Europe, together…Well, it was surreal. And incredibly exciting. And what do we do when things are surreal and exciting? We take pictures!

When I saw the tower of the Strasbourg cathedral…

I was very relieved to be home. Simple as that.

I know, it was long. But I told you: I kissed the Blarney stone!

I survived my first grève!

21 October 2007—catching up a little

Grève may not be a word you’re familiar with, even in translation. It means ‘strike,’ as in, ‘In France, there’s always a good reason to go on strike.’ Grèves are quite common in France, though the first major grève I endured happened just last Thursday when the SNCF, the company that runs all the trains in France (which are much better routed, equipped, and utilized than in the States) went on strike against the reforms President Sarkozy is proposing concerning retirement. It near-paralyzed the country, for one because something like forty out of 700 trains were running, and also because every other transportation organization decided it was also a good time to grève for reasons ranging from ‘social upheaval’ (Paris metro) to ‘bathroom breaks’ (Strasbourg public transport). But before you snicker condescendingly or giggle ludicrously, here’s what one French person observed to me: In the US, people are afraid of the government; in France, the government is afraid of the people. What power! Grèves don’t happen without reason (keep in mind that standards of what is ‘grève-worthy’ are a little bit broader here), and they’re very well-organized. Effective? I can’t say much on the history, but I know the SNCF is planning another grève for mid-November, this time indeterminate: the people won’t stop until the government gives in.

How did it effect my daily routine? Well, I don’t take the train or bus daily, so one would think surviving the grève wouldn’t be difficult. One would think. But of course, for one week, I decided to take advantage of my Fridays without class and plan a day-trip with a friend to the neighboring region of Lorraine and its main city Nancy. The grève was set to end Thursday night, but Friday morning the trains were slow to recommence. Moreover, we’d planned to take the bus to the train station, but had to scrounge for last-minute bikes when we found out that the Strasbourg public transport had gone on strike too. But we made it, and without much shifting of schedule, we made it to and from Nancy safely. In Nancy…

They call it Stanislas because L*&%dz#$*#ski is just too hard to pronounce.

The center of Nancy is the Place Stanislas, named after the eighteenth century king of Poland/duke of Lorraine. Off this main square are several prominent streets, each with its own attractions. We visited the art museum (which contained a nice smattering of holy-smokes-am-I-really-standing-in-front-of-a-Delacroix/Picasso/Monet/unknown 13^th century work), the city’s historical museum (a maze to get around in, but including a large exhibit on the glasswork that Lorraine in so famous for), the park, the main cathedral, and back to the Place Stanislas by night. Nancy looks very different from Strasbourg. Think typical French grillwork on neoclassical architecture versus exposed timbers, thatched roofs and geraniums.

In my opinion, Nancy is worth the visit just to see the paintings of Georges de la Tour, a local seventeenth-century artist who does amazing work in painting light, especially candlelight. The painting is extremely detailed and fine, almost like a photograph. Thank you ETA, Manchester College’s basic humanities course that taught me everything I need to know (and more!) about art.

70,000 Beds in Paris, and Not a One to Sleep In

Sometimes the strangest things are true.

After the Friday in Nancy, I spent Saturday in Paris with the BCA group. It was a quick day trip that turned into a 24-hour-way-too-long-overnight trip, and let me tell you how: The day was proceeding quite well. Leslie and I visited Notre Dame

, passed by the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, then spent the afternoon visiting the Chateau de Versailles, where a towering portrait of one or another King Louis greeted us in every room. We saw the Hall of Mirrors, the Royal Bedchamber, the Chapel, the Gardens. It was all quite amazing. This is a picture of us pretending to be part of Versailles (we are very, very silly):

Then, with plenty of time, we took the long tram back into Paris and stopped off at the Eiffel Tower for a few priceless photos, then got back on the tram, with plenty of time, to go back to the train station to go back to Strasbourg. But then the tram stopped, and we were late to the station, and we missed our train by five minutes. And, for same crazy and odd and strange reason for which I will never forgive the SNCF, the 7:30pm Saturday train to Strasbourg was the last one. Okay, so we have to spend the night in Paris. Worse things could happen. And then, worse things did happen. Leslie and I searched every hotel within walking distance of the East train station, only to find that they were all full. Why? Because it was…

Saturday night

Of the final

Of the rugby world cup

In Paris.

Great.

We tried every option we had (hotels, hostels, friends), and eventually ended up depending on a sympathetic concierge of a Best Western near the train station. “Here’s what you do,” he said, “You stay out in a bar or a club until it closes near two or three am, then you come back here and you can stay in the lobby until six.” So, that’s what we did, although after a full day of exploring the city and a night of intense cold, it wasn’t as grand as it sounds to be stranded in Paris in the midst of world cup fervor. It was my first experience of ‘bar hopping,’ although I don’t know if that counts when it’s forced! Once we returned to the hotel, we were at least safe and warm, even if we did have to jerk awake and pretend to be playing cards every time a real hotel guest came in. We left about six, took the train back at 7:30, and slept all day.

A well-deserved rest, I’d say.

And that’s how I survived a night stranded in Paris.

The day after, I booked my hotel in Paris for the next time I’d be visiting, at the end of the Toussaint vacation. However, I just never have luck in Paris—but that’s a story for another time…

To be continued…

With an account of my travels in Ireland, London, and Paris over Toussaint break.

Off galavanting around Europe...

Be back soon.

When time starts to fly

I think I’ve been here for six weeks now. Or has it been seven? I’ve stopped keeping track—that’s a good sign. But it feels like almost nothing. It feels like I’m just getting started. Part of that is due to the continued publicity regarding ‘La Rentrée,’ the big back-to-school season. I laugh because, for the past four weeks, stores and clubs and the university have been advertising ‘Solde de la Rentrée’ (sale), ‘Fête de la Rentrée’ (party), ‘Rendezvous de la Rentrée’ (meeting), and you can’t help but giggle and wonder (ok, maybe you can help the giggling), So when exactly does the Rentrée end? When do people stop celebrating coming back and realize that they’re here? Exams?

Saturday afternoon over a steaming bowl of homemade broccoli soup (I make my own chunky soups, since all soups here are puréed), Leslie and I discussed with amazement the fact that we’ve been here several weeks, and were very thankful that we’re staying a year. Really, we feel like we’re just settling in, and yet in only two months almost the entire BCA group will return home. It feels so…transient. Although I suppose since I moved to college I’ve lived on ‘I can do without’s, waiting to buy or do or wash something until I go home on a break. I’m trying to get out of that mindset here, changing from ‘I can do without’ to ‘No, this would really make my life here a lot more pleasant…’. Not that I’m going on shopping sprees or anything, mind you. I’m just settling in, unpacking, realizing that now the word ‘home’ refers (in part) to Strasbourg, France.

Courses

This week in review: It’s a good thing I read linguistics books for fun! This week in my linguistics courses we distinguished content words from function words, and I think I would have been quite lost had I not read Steven Pinker’s (MIT linguist, Chomsky cohort) The Language Instinct this summer. A content word (or mot lexicale) is a noun, adjective, verb, and sometimes adverb; the category is open—we’re always adding new words to it; think ant, bluish, to blog, and standoffishly. A function word (or mot grammaticale) is a preposition, conjunction, determinant, pronoun, and sometimes adverb; the category is closed—we don’t just invent new ways to say and/or/with/he/she/very. If you can master this distinction, consider yourself a linguist. If you think you can invent a new function word, consider yourself an idiot. If you have trouble with the word and but not ant, if you can construct a perfectly grammatical sentence without understanding what it means, or if you have a hard time remembering the names of vegetables, consider yourself a victim of SLD (specific language disorder)—No really, it exists!

Just in case you missed the ball…

Saturday night, France and England took their historic enmity to the rugby field. France lost, but that’s not the most important part. Real amazement comes from realizing that two countries who had been enemies for centuries (millennia?) are now content to play games of sport instead of games of war. And what separates France from Germany? A bridge. No border guards, no customs, no security walls, no barbed wire.

Espero (from the Spanish verb ‘esperar,’ which means both ‘to wait for’ and ‘to hope’) for the day when the US plays Iraq in rugby (or soccer, or badminton, or put-put golf), when all that separates Israel and Palestine is a bridge (you know, over the hot sand), when the lion lies down with the lamb…

French Culture 101

Since I’m not exactly sure who my audience is, I think I ought to clarify the importance of wine in France. Wine is to French cuisine what _______ (cheddar cheese? Meat and potatoes? Peanut butter and jelly? Popcorn? Apple juice?) is to American fare. Alcohol is not taboo here like it tends to be in the States. It accompanies the meal, it accents the taste of the main dish, it’s consumed in company…it’s not automatically associated with drunkenness. In fact, as other study abroad students have remarked to me, there is a certain ‘alcohol consumption etiquette.’ There’s a clear distinction between families drinking wine with dinner and, well, drunkards drinking any sort of alcohol. Here’s a contrast that, if considered, might put French wine in the right light: Yesterday at church a new member was admitted. To celebrate after the service, her husband (a professional wine taster and 5 star chef) catered in an aperitif: munchies and a nice regional white wine. Wine…it’s just here.

I can't disclose whether this was actually taken in France or not, but it was with family, around a meal, with a Reisling.

PS

Due to the incredible cost of peanut butter in the local Match supermarket (3.85 euro per jar…I think at the current conversion rate that’s about $5.75), it is now officially a sin to waste peanut butter. O ye heathens who consumeth not thine entire portion! Just think of all the poor, peanut-butter-starved Colleens in Europe.

I’m doing well, healthy and whole and safe and sound in Strasbourg. Bisou.

It takes one to know one

(Me and my host family)

Tomorrow I’m going to rise with the sun and make my way to the largest farmers’ market in Strasbourg. I went last week, and the excursion was quite successful, except for the time I tried to buy a half-kilo of Parmesan cheese for 1.50 euro when it actually cost 15 euro. I excused myself on grounds of being a foreigner. I was overjoyed at meeting so many local farmers, trying to explain that I come from farmland too, that I know vegetables too. Those small-stand, small-time farmers that I met with friendly, gladly telling me about their farms and farming methods, showing me their vegetables, or fruits, or cheese and yogurt, or apple juice, or eggs. It made me think of a dear friend who has always been adamant about her roots in the Midwest, where people make casseroles for sick neighbors and everyone’s got a smile and a fresh tomato. Sometimes, here, I get the sense that I’ve found “my people,” people with whom I share a bit of identity. These farmers were such people, and it was wonderful to meet them and share in their harvest.

I like to take with me the bag I bought at the fair trade store in Angers. It reads: "Beaucoup de petites choses, par beaucoup de petites gens, en beaucoup de petits lieux, peuvent bouleverser la face du monde." (Many small things, by many small people, in many small places, can change the world.)

Conseil Generale

The BCA group visited the Conseil Generale, the regional government branch, last Wednesday to learn about the social services of the region. A few notes:

• France is a central government as opposed to a federal government, like the US. That means that all the power rests in the hands of the central government in Paris, and that central entity demands certain things of the regional governments; in the US, the states hold the power and require certain things of the federal government. There have been recent efforts at decentralization of power.
• Certain parts of the social services program are obligatory, required by the national government. Others are optional, formed by the initiative of the regional government.
• The CG of the Bas-Rhin region spends 400 million dollars. The population is 1 million.
• Initiatives concern: public health (especially maternal and infant), children and families, programs for handicapped persons and old people, and finally the reintegration of anyone on the margins of society to bring them back into the life of the community.

And then I went to Germany for the afternoon…

I just like to write that phrase. It’s true: I spent Friday afternoon in Kehl, just across the river, where things are cheaper and the ice cream is better and you can find Kindereggs are aplenty. Don’t know what a Kinderegg is? Think ‘happy meal’: it’s a toy encased in a thin chocolate egg. I’d send you all one if I could, just to make you smile. It’s an odd creation. But then again, so are happy meals.

When Bethany, another BCA student, and I returned from Kehl, we went to her house for dinner. Her host family is amazing. Madame wears pearls and has a deep smoky voice and laughs a lot. Monsieur, whose nickname is ‘Doodoo,’ is a character, always telling stories and making jokes and putting you at ease. Whenever he crosses the line and says something too risqué or something that’s not true, he bows his head and puts out his hands to be rapped by all present. For dinner, we all sat at the breakfast bar, made crepes, drank cremant (the champagne of Alsace; a late harvest wine, picked when the grapes are almost rotten; thus it’s very sweet and very expensive), and listened to magrebhin (north African) music. Then Doodoo, after telling a very funny story about what happened when long ago he and his buddies get out of a hot spring just as a tour bus was passing (we appropriately rapped his hands when he pulled out the ice cream scoop to illustrate a point), after all this he put on his favorite Western film soundtracks. Madame quickly bustled him out of the way, eager to play for us her favorite music (“Que sera, sera…Whatever will be, will be”). Doodoo quickly stepped in a hustled us off to the living room to listen to albums of Beethoven’s and Mozart’s symphonies.

It was truly magnificent. I’ve hardly felt so warmly received since I’ve been here. I think, when I get back to Manchester, I’m going to have dinner parties like that, full of good food and good wine and good stories and good music and good people.

I like meeting foreigners who speak French well

It gives me hope. I used to think that speaking French was all in the accent and, for me, putting on the accent was just like acting. I’m finding, however, that one can’t act all the time, and so even though I’m getting lots of golden stars for grammar, my accent is undeniably foreign (though not obviously American). I read somewhere in my TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) texts that sometimes people choose to retain their accents for reasons of identity: I’m not French, so why would I try to hide my nationality, which is integral to my identity? An interesting question. Another interesting question: why are we so convinced that learning English is easy, just a matter of will? You have no idea how difficult it is for me, a well-educated person with an inclination for language, having already studied French for several years, and being employed right now by the task of mastering the language…how difficult it is for me to become functionally fluent. You have no idea how easy it is to stay within an English context, to hang out with other BCA students, to go to the Irish pub, to work with other speakers of English, to rely on my friends to translate or on other to speak English. I think I’m a little more understanding of Hispanic immigrants who, generally speaking, have middle school education, work and live with other speakers of Spanish, and need to work all day every day to earn a living.

It’s hard, so very very hard to learn another language, because it’s so much more than just words. I can express myself quite well, but I have a hard time manipulating tone, being witty, communicating exactly what I want to say. And, if you know me, you know that’s what I live for.

So bravo for all those who ever master another language. You give me hope.

Autumn in the Vosges

I got to go to the Vosges again this weekend, this time with the group of students who live at the AUP (the Protestant student group and organization where BCA has its office). It was wonderful to get out of the city, and the weather couldn’t have been better. We were about thirty, and we stayed at a YMCA lodge somewhere near a small lake. The colors are starting to change, and the sunlight was golden. We played games, talked about activities for this year, ate together, had a campfire, played music. I think it was the most intense language experience I’ve had since I’ve been here! One of the highlights was a game we played at about 11pm: the students who have lived at the AUP for a year or two grouped all the new students in pairs, blindfolded us, took us out into the woods, and left us! “The game is to get back to the lodge without being caught by one of the former students patrolling the trails.” We didn’t know the trails, couldn’t see the lodge, didn’t have lights, and (in my trio) all spoke a different language! It was crazy and fun and the stars were gorgeous and we all made it back safely. Thank goodness!

Sunday afternoon, we hiked down the mountain along the Brusche valley to the town of Shirmeck, where the Alsace-Mosel Memorial is located. It’s a museum of the history of the region of Alsace-Lorraine, which changed hands from France to Germany (1870-1918) to France to Germany (World War II) to France, all the while belonging to neither country. Alsace is truly a unique region with its own culture, cuisine, dialect. The traditional hat: a large bow three times the size of one’s head; the traditional meal: lots and lots of sausage; the dialect: Alsatian, a dialect of German, on its way out but stronger here than most other regional languages. I’m thinking of taking classes in it this semester!

It takes two to tango

No! It really does! It’s official: I’m taking tango lessons at the university. Maybe I’ll follow the tradition of a formidable Manchester student (who returned from Ecuador and taught salsa) and come back next year and teach you all how to tango (by twos).

Tcheus.

La Belle Vie Francaise

I am comforted. The adventures continue, classes settle down, and I stop stressing. The beginning of last week was difficult, but each day was better than the one before. I think the definitive change occurred in my French linguistics course, a class at the ‘real’ university (Marc Bloch, not for foreigners), in which we studied all the things about language that I absolutely love. I laughed as the professor made comparisons between French and English, trying to indicate the different sounds of the languages, and ended up saying ‘ship’ and ‘sheep’ exactly the same way. I got so excited about taking the course I didn’t even wait until this week to declare myself to the professor as a foreign student wishing to take the course. And, well, after confronting a French professor, you can pretty much do anything in the world.

For those of you who are interested, my schedule falls out as follows:

Monday: 12-2 Francophone literature

2-3 Grammar

4-5 English translation

5-6 20^th century literature

?6 Tango class

Tuesday: 3-4 Art history

?4-5 Linguistic methodology

5-6:30 Grammar

Wednesday: 3-6 Grammar

Thursday: 9-10 French linguistics: workshop

12-1 French linguistics: lecture

1-5 Grammar

5-7 French cinema

Friday: …nothing!

If you are under any sort of impression that this is a light load, keep in mind that IT IS ALL IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE. Oi!

So, that was the week, and then some, since I wasn’t sure which classes I was going to take and which I would eventually drop. I had headaches from listening so hard. And it rained! But, in spite of all this, the week got better and better.

There’s a difference between Dissonance and Cacophony

Friday night, I went to an orchestra concert with some other students from BCA, my study abroad program. We listened to ‘Le Sacre du Printemps’ of Stravinsky (think of the music of the dinosaur scene in ‘Fantasia’) and two other pieces like it, by French composers, who were in attendance. Stravinsky’s work is pretty well-known, and for good reason: it’s an amazing combination of dissonant sounds. Of the other two works presented, the first was quite nice, although I think I got more enjoyment out of watching the fiery petite violinist who needed a six-foot radius to accommodate her passionate playing. The second pieces, well, let’s just say I learned something that day: there’s a difference between dissonance and cacophony. Although it was amusing when the man playing the xylophone pulled out two large pieces of Styrofoam and rubbed them together for the length of three notes, then set them down and never touched them again. I was bemused and confuddled, to say the least.

All ended well, including the surprise after-concert meal. We were chatting in the lobby after leaving the auditorium, when all of a sudden we noticed small tables dotting the room, quickly being covered by bread and cheese. And, through a crowd of people, we saw drinks being served, but no money exchanged. Okay, we can do that, we thought, and grabbed some bread, cheese, and drinks. But then something else happened: a table of sandwiches, bratwursts, and bread appeared, along with a new supply of drinks. Huh, sure, we can do that too, we thought. We were pleasantly surprised, to say the least. How very nice that this concert included a small repas, and much nicer was the fact that, as students, we had already received a discounted admission. But nothing compared to the ecstasy we felt when plates and plates of tarts, cookies, éclairs, puddings and yogurts appeared for dessert! Can you believe it? Entertainment AND a meal! Incredible! And how much do you think it cost, as students? 5.50 euro, thank you very much. Did I mention how much I appreciate the student/young person reductions in France?

Saturday began with another Musica event (Musica being the sponsor of these truckloads of music recitals and concerts going on in the city right now), which I attended with my friend Hayley from Australia. This smaller venue was even more ‘modern’ than the last. If I thought the Styrofoam was bad, I knew I was in for it when the pianist pulled out a kazoo, the violinist a whistle, and the soprano a megaphone! It was not to my taste, but the best thing about Hayley is that she’s completely different from me, apparently in everything from music style to lamp shades. After sharing a baguette in the Botanical Garden for lunch (it was a beautiful day), we rode our bikes to Montagne Verte (the end of one of the tram lines) to Emaüs, a place where you can find anything you’re looking for and everything you’re not looking for as well. Emaüs operates on the Goodwill principle of ‘you donate it to get rid of it, we’ll fix it to sell it, and we’ll donate the money,’ only it’s about as large as Meijer (or WalMart, or Krogers, or Auchon, or whatever supermarket chain you happen to be acquainted with that takes up the space of a sovereign nation). Hayley and I looked at lamps for her new studio apartment (which it seems, for the most part, don’t include ovens!), and she succeeded in contradicting me once again by choosing a dingy, fringy, take-me-back-a-couple-decades lamp. She looked very funny carrying this lamp while riding her bike, but we left happy.

Gateau à la colinienne

Sunday, my little host sister Célia turned eleven and had a raucous birthday party with all her friends. So I made her a cake: sugar cookie bottom spread with peanut butter, sliced apples, and drizzled with honey. It’s also called a ‘fruit pizza,’ and although I can’t remember where I got the recipe, I remember making it last year. Well, Célia and her friends went crazy for this cake, and amidst the slang and shouted child-language I managed to pick up a few ‘merci’s. Célia demanded to know the name of the cake, and when I said I didn’t have one for it, she decided to call it, ‘gateau à la colinienne’, gateau meaning cake, Coline being the pronunciation I go by (koh-leen) (which also means ‘hill’), and colinienne being the adjective form. You know, I kind of like having a cake named after me.

You give me Fever

Sunday night I saw the film ‘Sicko,’ the newest documentary by Michael Moore, featuring the American health care system in all its glory. I can’t tell you how interesting it was to be an American (the US being the only country in the Western world without a free, universal health care system) in France (the country with the best health care system in the world) watching an American film which, at one point, directly compared the systems of the US and France. First, DON’T GET SICK. Second, see this documentary, whatever your political bias may be. It asks questions that are worth examining, questions I discussed with my French friend with whom I saw the film:

Why doesn’t the US provide free health care for infants?

What happens when doctors become businesspeople?

Why doesn’t everyone deserve equal access to health care?

Why are the insurance company lobbyists to powerful (four lobbyists for every congressperson, if I remember correctly)?

Why do insurance companies deny coverage or reject claims?

What is the purpose of knowing of a ‘preexisting condition’? (Note: in the UK, you’re asked for preexisting conditions so that you can be better treated; in the US, so that you can be denied)

What happens, economically, when we pay for better health care to have a healthier population?

Hmm.

I was quite ashamed when I left the cinema, mostly because of the pitfalls of the American private insurance-industry-run health care system, but also because, by being American (or, rather, from the US), I felt like I had to answer for them. ‘Please don’t point out that I’m American,’ I half-joked to my French friend when the film finished. I was overwhelmed by thoughts of finding a solution to this national problem, but also started thinking about it on a personal level: (reality check) I’m now on my parents’ insurance, but that will end when I graduate from college. What then? Can you live without medical insurance? What if I couldn’t afford to pay for medical treatment? What if…? What then…? Long, long thoughts.

To close…

Things I am missing or thinking fondly of: the present perfect verb tense, communicating exactly what I mean to say, real Mexican food (I ate at a Mexican, or rather ‘Frexican’ restaurant this weekend), somebunny named Ananda and her owner(s), people who don’t care whether or not brown shoes can be worn with black pants, inexpensive peanut butter, my Women’s Spirituality Group, and my family (in the extended sense of the word).

Things I like about where I am: the health care system, public transportation, farmer’s markets, people who listen, my house, the European Institutions, my cat, culturally-incorporated alcohol use instead of culturally-tabooed alcohol abuse, looking at French as ‘speaking in synonyms,’ and sleeping swans.

Things I am learning: how to dodge bugs while biking near rivers, how to avoid using the 6 euro/load washing machines, how to enjoy Sunday afternoons in parks, how to use my language abilities and how to adapt when they don’t suffice, how to relax (even during the school year), to like Nutella as much as I like peanut butter, how to send cryptically-abbreviated text messages in French (for example, ‘tkt pa’ stands for ‘ne t’inquiete pas’ or ‘don’t worry’; ‘ ), and patience.

Sometimes it takes walking back in the misty rain of a foreign country’s night to realize you are becoming exactly who you want to be.

What I wouldn’t give for a course catalog, thoughtless listening, and a grounds crew

On the one hand, these first few days of class have been endlessly and unbelievably frustrating. I showed up early Monday morning without any idea what language level I’d tested into, without any assurance that the schedule I’d sketched out from the confusing and ever-changing ‘guides pedagogiques’ would work at all. Mission 1: find out my language block at the foreigners’ institute. I’d tested into ‘diplome d’etudes francaises,’ the middle level. Okay. No class until Tuesday afternoon. Okay. Mission 2: double check times and locations of all classes I-might-remotely-possibly-consider-even-auditing at Marc Bloch, the real university. I found I had francophone literature that afternoon for two hours, and a fun ‘quirks of language’/linguistics course for two hours after that. Mission 3: find out which electives at the foreigners’ fit around these courses. Okay. French-English translation course directly following linguistics, then twentieth century literature directly following translation. Okay: Six hours straight of French classes, four hours of which are formatted for native speakers. Oi.

So I slipped in awkwardly, was undoubtedly called out for not being signed up for the course, had to explain that I was a foreign student, was either ignored or patronized by the prof. The francophone literature prof speaks with an accent, on top of speaking in French. I found out that the linguistics course is already full, so I can only audit it. And, after these two courses were over, I had more than realized that I had forgotten to eat lunch and now didn’t have time, so I was enormously hungry and had a headache from listening so hard and trying to blend in and deciding what to do and where to go and when and why and how. The whole experience was overwhelming. And that was just the first day! Fortunately, it ended with ‘Le Pont Mirabeau’ by Apollinaire and a brief study of twentieth century French poetry. And I like nothing so well as French poetry…nothing falls quite so sweetly on the ear. I’ve included it here for all who’d like to try pronouncing it for themselves (I recommend finding a Frenchman to read it instead!):

Le Pont Mirabeau

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880 - 1918)

It wasn’t until Tuesday that I realized that everything I want to do happens at the same time, usually Monday and Tuesday afternoon. My schedule is a little more sorted out now, since my 14-hour-per-week grammar block effectively limits my options. It’s a college student’s dream schedule: no morning classes all week except Thursday, when the grammar block starts at 10:30. For me, this is a nightmare. The days feel so long when I run errands in the morning then try to collect my brain energy to concentrate in after-lunch classes that last until 6:30. I can’t imagine what it will be like as night falls earlier and earlier.

And on top of erratic course schedules and intense listening for comprehension, my campus in Strasbourg is full of modern buildings I refer to as concrete monstrosities. No value is placed on green space. A huge section of the middle of campus is bare and barricaded, though no one seems to know why. Construction is happening on the most conveniently-located university restaurant, but not on this space. I miss trees and green lawns and woods and friendly lawnmowers and crazy golf cart drivers. You know who you are.

I take consolation in my linguistics courses, friends who listen, and chocolate.

Castles and Horses and Vineyards…Oh my!

It’s true: I spent most of last week gallivanting around the Loire River Valley. Leslie (the other Manchester student here this semester, a great source of entertainment and good traveling companion) and I left on a TGV (high speed train) from Strasbourg at 6:25am last Wednesday, arriving in Angers at 11:00. For those of you who know the distance, that’s quite impressive time. We went to visit Bev Ott, a Manchester graduate who went on to earn a masters in social work and start up a micro-loan program called Echoppe for women in Togo and Benin, West Africa. Echoppe provides small sums of money (increasing gradually from level to level after repayment) to women to use in their small business enterprises. Education accompanies each borrowing: first, women learn how to write their name and recognize it on a list. Health classes follow. Then children’s immunizations are required. The process keeps evolving to move women from poverty and instability to independence and security. And it works. Started in the 1990s, Echoppe now assists 3000 women. Over 20 000 women have graduated from the program, and now have their own women’s mutual, which provides larger loans for personal needs like repairing a roof or getting better health care. The money comes from the women’s pooled savings. The women in the mutual are politically active, running for office within the mutual and also campaigning for better water and electric services where they live. The hope is that one day the mutual will provide the principal amount for Echoppe’s start-up loans: a complete, cyclical, independent process that works. If anyone is interested in learning more about this project or supporting it, please please feel free to email me (crhamilton@manchester.edu) and I’ll put you in touch with Bev.

So, Bev, a very dedicated and respectable woman living with her husband Olivier, daughter Anna, and son Stephan near Angers in the Loire Valley. Their property is amazing, but they’ve worked hard to salvage it. You know how we have ‘fixer-uppers,’ houses that are in poor shape but probably less than 50 years old? Imagine fixing up ‘La Gaucherie aux Dames’ and finding out that it is actually a several-hundred-year-old castle! No turrets or fortifications or impregnable walls, but at least a moat, the remains of a dungeon, two towering pillars at the porch (main entrance), and a crumbling bread oven! Bev and Olivier have turned some of the outbuildings into very nice bed-and-breakfast type accommodations—after tearing out branch/sand/mud ceilings and re-plastering worse-for-the-wear walls made of ‘touf,’ the sandstone common to the Loire Valley. Incredible.

Leslie and I stayed in a bedroom in the ‘git,’ which can house eight people and is rented to vacationers throughout the year through the ‘git rurale’ program. Our porch overlooked the valley, including the river Lys and many cows and sheep and a horse and three church steeples. Bev proved a well-trained guide for the area, explaining the history of buildings and towns and churches as we went along. We visited the high schools attended by her kids, boarding there during the week and coming home on weekends. We explored the Chateau Brissac, which to this day belongs to the same family.

They inhabit the top two floors while people tour the bottom three. It’s a strange castle, because the majority of it is Renaissance, except for the two towers up to which the castle is built, which are medieval. It’s a bit difficult to explain, but it reminded me of the Strasbourg train station, whose new façade is an overarching glass dome completely enclosing the original neoclassical architecture. Ancient and modern…they both just sort of coexist here. I keep thinking, ‘this building is older than my country…by a few hundred years!’ Some things change, but some things stay the same, like the typical French dinner. I never ate so well as when I was visiting Bev! Not only was the food delicious, but most of it came from local producers: they belong to an IMAP (equivalent to our Community Supported Agriculture; you buy a ‘share’ of the crop, 15 euros per week in this case, and then once a week you go pick up your vegetables; if the harvest is good, you get more than your money’s worth; if it’s poor, then everyone shares the burden, and the local small-time farmer can still keep his livelihood; check and see if there are any in your area! It’s a great way to each fresh, local produce, and chances are you’ll even get to know the person who grows your food); they buy milk and butter and cheese from a local producer; their meat comes from the farm next door; and, of course, bread is always fresh and wine is always local. What more can you ask for? Friday night, when the kids were home from school for the weekend, Olivier finally stopped working at the new fair-trade/local/organic store they opened last week, and the family had another guest (from Fort Wayne, Indiana, wouldn’t you know!—a friend of Bev’s mother’s), we sat at the outside table and enjoyed the aperitif, an often alcoholic but also non-alcoholic beverage accompanied by an appetizer to start the meal. Then we moved inside and had a tomato and cheese salad, then the main course of curried chicken, then the cheese, then the strawberry tart dessert, and wine and good conversation throughout. Now that’s a feast.

It felt good to be part of a family for a little while. Bev even gave us hugs! I realized about a week ago that I had not been touched since I’d arrived. The classic French ‘bisou’ (kiss on both cheeks) doesn’t count. It’s much less personal than a hug, or even an arm around the shoulder, or a hand on the back. Leslie and I discussed it and decided that we had permission to ask a hug of each other whenever we were feeling ‘untouched.’

Go give a hug.

The Vendange

It’s true: I spent an afternoon harvesting grapes in a vineyard in the Loire Valley of France. Bev arranged it, and Jean-Noel of Domaine du Petit Clocher in Clere-sur-Lyon was amiable to having two American college students working with his jovial crew of thirty-some people of all ages, backgrounds, and personalities. Mostly we worked with Chardonnay grapes, snipping each bunch off, putting it in our bucket, dumping our buckets into larger backpack-type buckets, which were then emptied into trucks, which took the grapes back to the property. It was amazing. I learned that in 1850, a blight destroyed almost all French vineyards, and so the vines we were working with were actually French vines grafted onto American roots. I learned that even the overripe and spoiled grapes are collected and put into wine, and sometimes, to make the sweetest wines, only these grapes are used. I learned that the vendange, or grape harvesting, lasts about three weeks this time of year.

And at the end, we returned to the property and Jean-Noel’s wife was kind enough to show us the process, let us taste the grape juice, pour us a glass of the sweetest white wine, and (I still can’t believe this) give us a box of THREE BOTTLES of wine from the vineyard, ‘a gift from Jean-Noel.’ Please imagine and admire the red, white, and rose wine bottles sitting on a shelf in my room.

It was definitely a series of good France days.