Thursday, July 30, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
L'Apéritif
Summer has zapped my brain. It’s been on hiatus since the beginning of June, which was a little tricky considering work at school didn't wrap up until the end of June. School in June - who ever thought that would be a good idea? Throughout the month of June kids disappeared from the classes like the Agatha Chrisy's party-goers in Ten Little Indians. They dropped off a few at a time, staring at the beginning of the month, until the last week when there were fewer than half remaining. The end of school was a joke for the professionals as well. Here was our chance to have lunch together, drink a pitcher of rosé, and then return to the classroom with a buzz and a nice sweaty sheen on our cheeks.
There are few things more important in the summer time in le sud de La France than drinking. L'apero - or the aperitif - is the French's favorite time of day for doing their favorite summer activity. L'apero begins when friends gather, usually around 7 pm. It can start early, but most people, having recently recovered from the wine at lunch, can wait until 7. This special time of day occurs before the meal, and the meal only begins once everyone has drunk their fill of alcohol,and eaten pistachios, olives, potato chips, and saucisson. And we have to eat these snacky delights, because if your skimp of the snacks, its hella hard to make it through all your drinks.
There are a few typical southern French apero beverages. I say typical, but without these few spirits, the French here in the south would be at a loss for words, and as sad as a farm of ripening escargots.
#1: Pastis. Pastis is a drink that comes from the south of France - the French's equivalent to Greece's Orzo - and tastes like black licorice at 45% alcohol. I never liked anything anise flavored, but I admit that this is growing on me. It is clear, until you add ice cold water, at which point it becomes milky white. Then you add one cube of ice. This is how the French (men) drink it. And boy, do men here love their pastis. For some, it’s as precious as any woman. There are two warring makers of Pastis - Ricard's and Le 51. Some people argue that Le 51 isn't real pastis, and you know what those people drink. If you are a sissy (moi), and pastis is just a little bit too horse tranquilizer-y, there are three other very popular and mostly respectable ways to drink pastis.
a: mauresque. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop d'orgeat (almond syrup)
b: tomate. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop de grenadine (grenadine)
c: perroquet. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop de menthe (mint)
I like the mauresque pretty well, but after once glass, I gotta move on to another apero choice.
#2: Whisky Coke. We all know what that is. This is for the folks who aren't as in love with pastis as they should be. It’s just as strong, so the whisky drinkers can keep up with their more traditional counter-parts. No one drinks plain old whisky.
#3: Kir. Properly chilled white wine with a splash of crème de cassis, a sweet, red alcohol syrup made from black currents. I had not discovered this delicious, fantastic, nearly perfect beverage until this spring. She, like a beautiful seductress, beckons to me and I can never say no. You see what has happened to my summer… No doubt this drink was developed to make boozing elegant and feminine.
#4: Rosé. The pink wine that we call rosé just like the French. It’s light and subtly sweet, and cool, produced right here from grapes grown right here. Oh, and all snobby wine drinkers listen up – the French drink their rosé with ice! It’s true. Whether you are at a friend’s house, or at a café, the wine will be served with a small metal bowl of ice-cubes, from which you are to help yourself with your fingers.
After you are sufficiently soused from the force of the apero, then you sit down to dinner. With real adults, the meal will usually get underway at 8 or 8:30. That way, the guests aren’t too drunk to enjoy their meal. With the younger French crowds, the apero goes on for hours and hours. People lose track of time and pour libations until nothing is left. These nights (usually weekends, I grant them that), the meal might not start until 10 or 11 pm easy. Keep in mind that the meal includes wine and wine and more wine.
Personal Side note: Imagine what happens to my French... well, one of two things. I either become a bilingual genius and the life of the party, or my contact lenses start to shrivel up on my eyeballs and all I can think about it how miserably late the French stay up.
My mom just spent a smashing month here with me in the region of Provence-Alps-Cote d'Azur. We rented a brand new bronzy-black Fiat Punto and zipped around from one adventure to the next with my Franco-American family here in Pertuis. We did a million things while she was here, but most consistently, we drank wine. On her last night, she told me that she drank as much wine in one month with me as she had in fifteen years. Aahh, to be French.
There are few things more important in the summer time in le sud de La France than drinking. L'apero - or the aperitif - is the French's favorite time of day for doing their favorite summer activity. L'apero begins when friends gather, usually around 7 pm. It can start early, but most people, having recently recovered from the wine at lunch, can wait until 7. This special time of day occurs before the meal, and the meal only begins once everyone has drunk their fill of alcohol,and eaten pistachios, olives, potato chips, and saucisson. And we have to eat these snacky delights, because if your skimp of the snacks, its hella hard to make it through all your drinks.
There are a few typical southern French apero beverages. I say typical, but without these few spirits, the French here in the south would be at a loss for words, and as sad as a farm of ripening escargots.
#1: Pastis. Pastis is a drink that comes from the south of France - the French's equivalent to Greece's Orzo - and tastes like black licorice at 45% alcohol. I never liked anything anise flavored, but I admit that this is growing on me. It is clear, until you add ice cold water, at which point it becomes milky white. Then you add one cube of ice. This is how the French (men) drink it. And boy, do men here love their pastis. For some, it’s as precious as any woman. There are two warring makers of Pastis - Ricard's and Le 51. Some people argue that Le 51 isn't real pastis, and you know what those people drink. If you are a sissy (moi), and pastis is just a little bit too horse tranquilizer-y, there are three other very popular and mostly respectable ways to drink pastis.
a: mauresque. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop d'orgeat (almond syrup)
b: tomate. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop de grenadine (grenadine)
c: perroquet. Pastis, water, a splash of syrop de menthe (mint)
I like the mauresque pretty well, but after once glass, I gotta move on to another apero choice.
#2: Whisky Coke. We all know what that is. This is for the folks who aren't as in love with pastis as they should be. It’s just as strong, so the whisky drinkers can keep up with their more traditional counter-parts. No one drinks plain old whisky.
#3: Kir. Properly chilled white wine with a splash of crème de cassis, a sweet, red alcohol syrup made from black currents. I had not discovered this delicious, fantastic, nearly perfect beverage until this spring. She, like a beautiful seductress, beckons to me and I can never say no. You see what has happened to my summer… No doubt this drink was developed to make boozing elegant and feminine.
#4: Rosé. The pink wine that we call rosé just like the French. It’s light and subtly sweet, and cool, produced right here from grapes grown right here. Oh, and all snobby wine drinkers listen up – the French drink their rosé with ice! It’s true. Whether you are at a friend’s house, or at a café, the wine will be served with a small metal bowl of ice-cubes, from which you are to help yourself with your fingers.
After you are sufficiently soused from the force of the apero, then you sit down to dinner. With real adults, the meal will usually get underway at 8 or 8:30. That way, the guests aren’t too drunk to enjoy their meal. With the younger French crowds, the apero goes on for hours and hours. People lose track of time and pour libations until nothing is left. These nights (usually weekends, I grant them that), the meal might not start until 10 or 11 pm easy. Keep in mind that the meal includes wine and wine and more wine.
Personal Side note: Imagine what happens to my French... well, one of two things. I either become a bilingual genius and the life of the party, or my contact lenses start to shrivel up on my eyeballs and all I can think about it how miserably late the French stay up.
My mom just spent a smashing month here with me in the region of Provence-Alps-Cote d'Azur. We rented a brand new bronzy-black Fiat Punto and zipped around from one adventure to the next with my Franco-American family here in Pertuis. We did a million things while she was here, but most consistently, we drank wine. On her last night, she told me that she drank as much wine in one month with me as she had in fifteen years. Aahh, to be French.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Still Alive....
I know its been forever since I last posted. I can't really explain but I hit a wall a couple of months ago and I've been hardly capable of writing a single sentence. And I thought I was on such a role! Thanks to Uncle Roger for giving me the nudge, I'm back.
And I've got some good news! It is pretty likely that I will be staying in France next year, and even the following year too. I got an acceptance letter yesterday from the University of Aix-Marseille admitting me into a graduate program. The program centers upon Anglophone studies, exploring literature, linguistics, translation, and teaching. The school has reputable language programs, and I think I will get a lot out of it.
Plus, its almost free here in France thanks to old socialism. Now, my only fear involves another very French tradition - les grèves!!! The humanities departments in all of the country have been on strike since March. You got it - no classes since March. So, it may be close to free, but you may end up paying in wasted time. Sarko and his cronies have been cutting funding for education (as conservatives tend to do) and both the proffs and the students are reacting. There is a whole slew of other problems too, most of which are still after all these months unresolved. Anyway, I have been told that the stikes don't effect the graduate programs, but I still worry. In any case, I am really excited about being a student again, and I'll be able to study in both French and English and that really appeals to me. My spoken French is pretty good these days, and being in school will ensure that I keep up with my written French.
Life these days is pretty spectacular. The poppies are in bloom, and you can find wild poppy fields around every turn of the country roads. Its hot too! Here is the briefest synopsis of my life:
Naps, swimming pools, salads with beets, rosé, sandals, sunscreen, jogging at 9 pm, sleeping in, four-day weekends, cucumbers and tomatoes, freckles, the sea, all night parties, bbq, teaching occasionally, pastisse with orja, country bike rides, listening to music à fond in the car with the windows down, sweating.
You get the picture! Its summery and hard to work. Both teachers and students are anxious to be free. And listen to this, we had days off May 1st, May 8th, May 21st and 22nd, and June 1st. Can you believe that??? Its all thanks to Catholicism, but no one could tell you why. I try to pay attention but alas, I couldn't say either. Its the heat.
I'll be posting pictures soon. Hope you all are well!
And I've got some good news! It is pretty likely that I will be staying in France next year, and even the following year too. I got an acceptance letter yesterday from the University of Aix-Marseille admitting me into a graduate program. The program centers upon Anglophone studies, exploring literature, linguistics, translation, and teaching. The school has reputable language programs, and I think I will get a lot out of it.
Plus, its almost free here in France thanks to old socialism. Now, my only fear involves another very French tradition - les grèves!!! The humanities departments in all of the country have been on strike since March. You got it - no classes since March. So, it may be close to free, but you may end up paying in wasted time. Sarko and his cronies have been cutting funding for education (as conservatives tend to do) and both the proffs and the students are reacting. There is a whole slew of other problems too, most of which are still after all these months unresolved. Anyway, I have been told that the stikes don't effect the graduate programs, but I still worry. In any case, I am really excited about being a student again, and I'll be able to study in both French and English and that really appeals to me. My spoken French is pretty good these days, and being in school will ensure that I keep up with my written French.
Life these days is pretty spectacular. The poppies are in bloom, and you can find wild poppy fields around every turn of the country roads. Its hot too! Here is the briefest synopsis of my life:
Naps, swimming pools, salads with beets, rosé, sandals, sunscreen, jogging at 9 pm, sleeping in, four-day weekends, cucumbers and tomatoes, freckles, the sea, all night parties, bbq, teaching occasionally, pastisse with orja, country bike rides, listening to music à fond in the car with the windows down, sweating.
You get the picture! Its summery and hard to work. Both teachers and students are anxious to be free. And listen to this, we had days off May 1st, May 8th, May 21st and 22nd, and June 1st. Can you believe that??? Its all thanks to Catholicism, but no one could tell you why. I try to pay attention but alas, I couldn't say either. Its the heat.
I'll be posting pictures soon. Hope you all are well!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ryanair Follow-up
While listening to the latest podcast of NPR's news quiz show, Wait Wait Don't Tell me, I learned another offensive piece of info about Ryanair.
The CEO of Ryanair is thinking of CHARGING people to use to toilet! As if the whole experience isn't miserable enough! What a cretin.
Also, as a side note, Karla Bruni Sarkozy took nude photos in the early nineties. They are now selling for obscene prices.
The CEO of Ryanair is thinking of CHARGING people to use to toilet! As if the whole experience isn't miserable enough! What a cretin.
Also, as a side note, Karla Bruni Sarkozy took nude photos in the early nineties. They are now selling for obscene prices.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Ryanair sucks (but its true that I did not die)
My last day in Germany, Thursday March 5th, began at 3:30 in the morning. I was at the Schafer’s house in Siegen. With my eyes half-closed, feeling slightly ill after having gotten up at such an ungodly hour, I pulled on my clothes and stuffed my toiletries into my backpack. I could here Moritz in the next room getting dressed, and his parents upstairs moving around and talking quietly. We were embarking on a journey – the mission was to find Frankfurt-Hahn Airport.
Upstairs, Sigrid packed us a million typical German breakfast sandwiches of thinly sliced dark bread, butter, and smoked ham. She prepared a thermos of coffee and cough drops and water. We took shots of espresso and said our goodbyes. This was a serious mission.
Peter (Moritz's father), GPS in hand, headed to the car. Moritz and I followed with our bags of clothes and food. I popped a few gummy bears into my mouth for good measure. It was cold and dark and misty outside, and we were like a Grimms Brother’s fairy tale band of characters scurrying into a dark forest.
You might think all of this sounds a bit melodramatic considering we were setting off for the airport, and at this point in the trip I would have agreed with you. Just you wait… The lady’s voice on the GPS system was mechanic and ominous, and something about her speaking in German made it worse.
Ryanair is one of those strange European super-discount airlines. Of course, it doesn't fly in and out of normal airports, but obscure and small and distant ones. Although the airport has the name “Frankfurt” in it, the location of this place is as far from Frankfurt as Siegen. We are talking hours away. I think the airport is named as such to give poor foreign saps the impression that the airport is easy to access from Frankfurt the city. This is absolutely false. Wrong. A lie. If you can make it to Frankfurt (which is a 2 hour train ride from Siegen), there are shuttle buses from the train station (another 2 hour ride). In order to arrive at the airport by 6:30 for an 8:00 am flight, that would mean catching a train from Siegen at 2:30 am, and then a shuttle at 4:30 am. Not surprisingly, the trains don’t start running until after 5:00 am, nor does the shuttle bus. Therefore, there is no way to access the airport without a car in time for an 8 am flight. Clever ploy?
Thanks to the generosity of the Schafer’s, I made it to old Hahn in time. Let me tell you, the drive was an ominous adventure. We traversed Siegen, in accordance with the scary GPS voice’s direction, and got on the autobahn. The autobahn never ceases to scare me, but it was particularly frightening at 4 in the morning, when there was nothing but fog and semi-trucks to contend with. Luckily, I don't really understand kilometers because I've never done any driving in Europe, so I'm not actually sure how fast we were going. We got off the autobahn pretty quickly, and took small roads the rest of the way. We changed route at least five times. The villages were all dark. The fog was thick. The radio played classical music. Moritz started to eat the German sandwiches, and the delicious sour smell of fresh German bread filled the car. I kept eating my gummy bears and fantasizing about France.
We turned onto a curvyish road about an hour into the trip, and I beheld a sight right out of a horror film. An invisible mountain loomed ahead of us, marked only by a couple dozen frozen red lights at the top. It looked like a nuclear disaster sight, or an alien graveyard – a giant red eye instead of a headstone for each of the dead. It was truly surreal. I stared at it for a long time as we climbed closer. Mortiz spoke to me for the first time in an hour to acknowledge the scariness of the field of giant red eyes ahead of us. When we finally got close enough, we discovered that each light stood atop one of those modern-type metallic windmills. This made it more scary, for now the lights appeared as communication devices with an outer world. I know, I know, I may just have been tired and half dreaming, but I tell you this was an intense sight.
When we finally reached Hahn at about 6:30, I was relieved. No unplanned trip to Mars. No death by autobahn. Seriously though, this airport is in the middle of nowhere. Not a thing in sight. No town, no industry.
There was a group of young travelers who were asleep on the gray floor of the small airport. These were the sad souls who had had to arrive the night before at the airport to make their morning flight. Screw Frankfurt-Hahn Airport. And Ryanair. They abuse poor people. Not to mention that the plane smelled majorly like BO and the recorded flight attendant voice offered us two for one mixed-drink specials the whole flight through. I mean, come on, it was 8 am!
This is the third time I’ve flown ryanair, and each time it has been a disaster. So, I guess I finally learned my lesson? Third time is a charm? Last time (in 2005), I was sick for days. You’d think that would have done it. Oh, and as we were boarding the plane, standing out on the tarmac, it started to freaking snow. When I finally grabbed a seat, I was soaked in cold snow water. Imagine how much I would be bitching if I had had to sleep on the gray floor with the rest of the poor traveling hipsters.
This whole rant is a word to the wise – do not be dissuaded from traveling to Germany – its awesome, But forget Ryanair unless you have a car or someone very kind and generous and self-less who is willing to drive across Europe in the middle of the night.
By the way, I have a serious addiction to gummy bears, and this isn’t anything new. It got really bad when I lived in Germany four years ago. Luckily, the French aren’t really into the regular old bears, so they don’t sell them in most stores. I don’t much care for the rest of the Haribo candies, so I’m safe. Until I restock in Germany. Then I’m not safe.
I know this isn't much of an update on my trip to Germany, but that blog entry is on its way. For now, suffice it to say that it was a wonderful trip and I do love Germany. Although, the weather sucks. Especially after Provence. Oh, and spring has begun here, and the trees are budding and everything. Its makes my heart swell...
Upstairs, Sigrid packed us a million typical German breakfast sandwiches of thinly sliced dark bread, butter, and smoked ham. She prepared a thermos of coffee and cough drops and water. We took shots of espresso and said our goodbyes. This was a serious mission.
Peter (Moritz's father), GPS in hand, headed to the car. Moritz and I followed with our bags of clothes and food. I popped a few gummy bears into my mouth for good measure. It was cold and dark and misty outside, and we were like a Grimms Brother’s fairy tale band of characters scurrying into a dark forest.
You might think all of this sounds a bit melodramatic considering we were setting off for the airport, and at this point in the trip I would have agreed with you. Just you wait… The lady’s voice on the GPS system was mechanic and ominous, and something about her speaking in German made it worse.
Ryanair is one of those strange European super-discount airlines. Of course, it doesn't fly in and out of normal airports, but obscure and small and distant ones. Although the airport has the name “Frankfurt” in it, the location of this place is as far from Frankfurt as Siegen. We are talking hours away. I think the airport is named as such to give poor foreign saps the impression that the airport is easy to access from Frankfurt the city. This is absolutely false. Wrong. A lie. If you can make it to Frankfurt (which is a 2 hour train ride from Siegen), there are shuttle buses from the train station (another 2 hour ride). In order to arrive at the airport by 6:30 for an 8:00 am flight, that would mean catching a train from Siegen at 2:30 am, and then a shuttle at 4:30 am. Not surprisingly, the trains don’t start running until after 5:00 am, nor does the shuttle bus. Therefore, there is no way to access the airport without a car in time for an 8 am flight. Clever ploy?
Thanks to the generosity of the Schafer’s, I made it to old Hahn in time. Let me tell you, the drive was an ominous adventure. We traversed Siegen, in accordance with the scary GPS voice’s direction, and got on the autobahn. The autobahn never ceases to scare me, but it was particularly frightening at 4 in the morning, when there was nothing but fog and semi-trucks to contend with. Luckily, I don't really understand kilometers because I've never done any driving in Europe, so I'm not actually sure how fast we were going. We got off the autobahn pretty quickly, and took small roads the rest of the way. We changed route at least five times. The villages were all dark. The fog was thick. The radio played classical music. Moritz started to eat the German sandwiches, and the delicious sour smell of fresh German bread filled the car. I kept eating my gummy bears and fantasizing about France.
We turned onto a curvyish road about an hour into the trip, and I beheld a sight right out of a horror film. An invisible mountain loomed ahead of us, marked only by a couple dozen frozen red lights at the top. It looked like a nuclear disaster sight, or an alien graveyard – a giant red eye instead of a headstone for each of the dead. It was truly surreal. I stared at it for a long time as we climbed closer. Mortiz spoke to me for the first time in an hour to acknowledge the scariness of the field of giant red eyes ahead of us. When we finally got close enough, we discovered that each light stood atop one of those modern-type metallic windmills. This made it more scary, for now the lights appeared as communication devices with an outer world. I know, I know, I may just have been tired and half dreaming, but I tell you this was an intense sight.
When we finally reached Hahn at about 6:30, I was relieved. No unplanned trip to Mars. No death by autobahn. Seriously though, this airport is in the middle of nowhere. Not a thing in sight. No town, no industry.
There was a group of young travelers who were asleep on the gray floor of the small airport. These were the sad souls who had had to arrive the night before at the airport to make their morning flight. Screw Frankfurt-Hahn Airport. And Ryanair. They abuse poor people. Not to mention that the plane smelled majorly like BO and the recorded flight attendant voice offered us two for one mixed-drink specials the whole flight through. I mean, come on, it was 8 am!
This is the third time I’ve flown ryanair, and each time it has been a disaster. So, I guess I finally learned my lesson? Third time is a charm? Last time (in 2005), I was sick for days. You’d think that would have done it. Oh, and as we were boarding the plane, standing out on the tarmac, it started to freaking snow. When I finally grabbed a seat, I was soaked in cold snow water. Imagine how much I would be bitching if I had had to sleep on the gray floor with the rest of the poor traveling hipsters.
This whole rant is a word to the wise – do not be dissuaded from traveling to Germany – its awesome, But forget Ryanair unless you have a car or someone very kind and generous and self-less who is willing to drive across Europe in the middle of the night.
By the way, I have a serious addiction to gummy bears, and this isn’t anything new. It got really bad when I lived in Germany four years ago. Luckily, the French aren’t really into the regular old bears, so they don’t sell them in most stores. I don’t much care for the rest of the Haribo candies, so I’m safe. Until I restock in Germany. Then I’m not safe.
I know this isn't much of an update on my trip to Germany, but that blog entry is on its way. For now, suffice it to say that it was a wonderful trip and I do love Germany. Although, the weather sucks. Especially after Provence. Oh, and spring has begun here, and the trees are budding and everything. Its makes my heart swell...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Encore des Vacances
It's been a while, and I wanted to let everyone know that I am alive and well in the South of France. As per usual, I am on vacation. I don't know what this vacation is called - I don't think the French even pretend that this holiday has some kind of religious affiliation. In California, this week is called Ski Week, and that accurately describes the plans of most families around here too. The Alps are a mere hour and a half away - a doable long weekend for parents who still have to work.
I have decided to take a 15 hour bus trip to Germany, and I leave tomorrow afternoon from Aix. I've never gone on an insanely long, cross country bus trip, so this will be an adventure. I'm trying not to dwell too much on the fact that only poor people take 15 hour bus trips, nor that I will spend an entire night making the trip, nor the fact that they allow no eating or drinking on the bus. What else are we supposed to do? Anyway, I'll report back after my trip. On a brighter note, I get to visit a lot of old friends and maybe even try out my German. We'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, I have been enjoying Pertuis immensely. The weather has been spectacular. The sun is shining (even right now on my back), I'm back to wearing SPF 45, and I having been spending many hours of the day outside. I can see the buds on the trees, and I'm pretty sure that spring starts some time very soon here. Not just that, but I have made some friends over the past months who have taken it upon themselves to show me around Provence. I'm a lucky girl. I went north-west in the direction to Gourd and Roussillon, where the dirt is red, a couple of weeks ago. This week I went east into the Alps and saw Le Lac D'Esparron. Hopefully, the adventures will continue.
I'll be back soon, and I'll post some more pictures. I'm not trying to make anyone jealous with this blog entry, rather I am trying to make it impossible for you not to come and visit me!
I have decided to take a 15 hour bus trip to Germany, and I leave tomorrow afternoon from Aix. I've never gone on an insanely long, cross country bus trip, so this will be an adventure. I'm trying not to dwell too much on the fact that only poor people take 15 hour bus trips, nor that I will spend an entire night making the trip, nor the fact that they allow no eating or drinking on the bus. What else are we supposed to do? Anyway, I'll report back after my trip. On a brighter note, I get to visit a lot of old friends and maybe even try out my German. We'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, I have been enjoying Pertuis immensely. The weather has been spectacular. The sun is shining (even right now on my back), I'm back to wearing SPF 45, and I having been spending many hours of the day outside. I can see the buds on the trees, and I'm pretty sure that spring starts some time very soon here. Not just that, but I have made some friends over the past months who have taken it upon themselves to show me around Provence. I'm a lucky girl. I went north-west in the direction to Gourd and Roussillon, where the dirt is red, a couple of weeks ago. This week I went east into the Alps and saw Le Lac D'Esparron. Hopefully, the adventures will continue.
I'll be back soon, and I'll post some more pictures. I'm not trying to make anyone jealous with this blog entry, rather I am trying to make it impossible for you not to come and visit me!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
My Brush with Stardom
Some basic guidelines to follow when you are famous in a small French town and you go out into public:
1. It’s smart to wear sunglasses, but not for the reasons that non-famous people assume. Sunglasses don’t mask who you are. They’ll know you - by your coat (especially if it is red) and your hair (especially if it is red) and by the apartment building they have just watched you exit. The benefits to sunglasses are these: you can pretend you never make eye contact with any one, even if they are trying to catch your eye. Plus, sunglasses can make you look haughty and standoffish, therefore a little more French. Just like the badass you want to be.
2. If you have to stand in any one position for more than 30 seconds while out in public, you might want to pull out your cell phone and at least appear to be vigorously texting one of your many friends. In reality, you can be repeatedly scrolling through your contact list, or switching the language setting from French to English and back to French. The truth is, there are only about two people with whom you communicate every day and you probably already sent them texts. The appearance of being busy makes it near impossible for anyone to catch your eye, and easier to avoid unwanted attention.
3. Lastly, walk as though you have a purpose. Even check your watch to reiterate that you are supposed to be some where else very soon. This is very French and will help you blend, as well as giving the appearance of a busy social life. You might just be heading to the fountain at the bottom of the Cours de la Republique to see if it is still drained for the winter like it was last week.
So this is how I spend my time here in Pertuis – and let me tell you – the life of a famous person is not easy. For the first time, I can relate to Angelina, and I don’t envy her. I’ll describe a couple of anecdotes to explain.
The other day, I walked into Hyper-U, the “American style” grocery store that is right next to Flunch where I do a lot of my interneting. I teach at three of the five elementary schools in Pertuis, which means that I know about half of all the elementary aged kids in town. Jen knows the other half. Yeah, between the two of us, we’ve got about 600 kids. I was standing in an aisle staring intently at the shelves of French feminine hygiene products. My head was cocked. It’s hard to get used to this stuff in a new country!
Suddenly, I hear “Hi, Wheeetnay!” I turned to see of my CM2 students (which means that he’s about 11) smiling goofily at me. I pretended to be looking at the nail files. For some reason, it seemed inappropriate that he should catch me looking at what I’d actually been looking at. I recognized him, of course, but couldn’t tell you his name, or what class, or what school he is in, even if my life depended on it. But I gave him a cheerful “hi,” because I love to see my students and it makes me happy when they say hi to me, especially in English.
This happened again with a little girl in the cheese aisle, and again in the cereal/chocolate aisle. This little girl, who I now know is Camille, was with her mother, and her mother was a talker. Don’t get me wrong, the kids are great, and the parents are super nice, and I get to speak French… I see them at the library, at the train station, and running through the streets. In class, they report back to me where and when they saw me, and what I was doing. It’s the pressure that gets me! Pressure to be a role model! No public displays of affection, no littering, no public drunkenness, no mini-skirts, no heavy make-up. Luckily, none of these are things I do anyway.
It has happened more than once that a car will drive by me on the street (and these are narrow streets, mind you) and the driver will shout at me, “hello!” These are people far too old to be one of my students, and not people I know. This happens with people on foot too. It leads me to believe that people whom I’ve never met recognize me. You see the connection to Angelina now. Oh, and these strangers are never women.
Just last week, I walked up to a little pizza place with my friend Nico to pick up dinner. I have been in there once before. We ordered and stood around chatting. Nico recognized the only diners in the restaurant and went over to say hello. One of the pizza guys was clearing off newspapers from a table and struck up a conversation with me. “You live on Rue Grande, right?” He asked. I looked at him in surprise, “Uh, yeah” I said. “At about 62 or 63?” He asked. My address is 65, actually. But he was close enough. Apparently, one of his friends lives in a building right near by. None of this is really that creepy or uncomfortable because I know that he is just trying to be nice, but I have to admit that it’s bizarre to think that strangers know where I live.
Oh boy, and when Jen and I go out together nowadays! We hardly get five feet! Interestingly, our fame has changed over the months. For the first month and half or so, people used to stare at us in a sort of unfriendly way. This was the period when we actually looked into getting dark haired wigs to walk down the street incognito. Good thing the wigs were too expensive, other wise we would have been known as the crazy red-headed Americans rather than just plain old red-headed Americans. After about a month people stopped staring as much, or maybe we learned to stare right back and that gave us credibility. Then, upon our return from the winter holidays, Pertuisiennes lost some of their reserve towards us and even began to strike up conversations. This happened most recently at our favorite epicerie, and at La Police Nationale when I had to report the loss/theft of my cell phone. I never though I’d befriend a police officer, let alone an entire squad.
I even had a young woman tell me the other day that she had never met an American before. She looked a little confused and began motioning vigorously with both hands, one on either side of her head. “I thought you would be different,” she said. She was jabbing the air with fingers spread wide, like antlers or horns coming out of her temples. I remember blinking at her in surprise, and imagined landing at O’Hare to find a host of antlered, English speaking humans. As she later explained, she was trying to conjure up Paris Hilton’s image, and the gesture was to indicate Paris Hilton’s excessively painted face. I made a joke about having left my little toy dog at home, but she didn’t get it.
1. It’s smart to wear sunglasses, but not for the reasons that non-famous people assume. Sunglasses don’t mask who you are. They’ll know you - by your coat (especially if it is red) and your hair (especially if it is red) and by the apartment building they have just watched you exit. The benefits to sunglasses are these: you can pretend you never make eye contact with any one, even if they are trying to catch your eye. Plus, sunglasses can make you look haughty and standoffish, therefore a little more French. Just like the badass you want to be.
2. If you have to stand in any one position for more than 30 seconds while out in public, you might want to pull out your cell phone and at least appear to be vigorously texting one of your many friends. In reality, you can be repeatedly scrolling through your contact list, or switching the language setting from French to English and back to French. The truth is, there are only about two people with whom you communicate every day and you probably already sent them texts. The appearance of being busy makes it near impossible for anyone to catch your eye, and easier to avoid unwanted attention.
3. Lastly, walk as though you have a purpose. Even check your watch to reiterate that you are supposed to be some where else very soon. This is very French and will help you blend, as well as giving the appearance of a busy social life. You might just be heading to the fountain at the bottom of the Cours de la Republique to see if it is still drained for the winter like it was last week.
So this is how I spend my time here in Pertuis – and let me tell you – the life of a famous person is not easy. For the first time, I can relate to Angelina, and I don’t envy her. I’ll describe a couple of anecdotes to explain.
The other day, I walked into Hyper-U, the “American style” grocery store that is right next to Flunch where I do a lot of my interneting. I teach at three of the five elementary schools in Pertuis, which means that I know about half of all the elementary aged kids in town. Jen knows the other half. Yeah, between the two of us, we’ve got about 600 kids. I was standing in an aisle staring intently at the shelves of French feminine hygiene products. My head was cocked. It’s hard to get used to this stuff in a new country!
Suddenly, I hear “Hi, Wheeetnay!” I turned to see of my CM2 students (which means that he’s about 11) smiling goofily at me. I pretended to be looking at the nail files. For some reason, it seemed inappropriate that he should catch me looking at what I’d actually been looking at. I recognized him, of course, but couldn’t tell you his name, or what class, or what school he is in, even if my life depended on it. But I gave him a cheerful “hi,” because I love to see my students and it makes me happy when they say hi to me, especially in English.
This happened again with a little girl in the cheese aisle, and again in the cereal/chocolate aisle. This little girl, who I now know is Camille, was with her mother, and her mother was a talker. Don’t get me wrong, the kids are great, and the parents are super nice, and I get to speak French… I see them at the library, at the train station, and running through the streets. In class, they report back to me where and when they saw me, and what I was doing. It’s the pressure that gets me! Pressure to be a role model! No public displays of affection, no littering, no public drunkenness, no mini-skirts, no heavy make-up. Luckily, none of these are things I do anyway.
It has happened more than once that a car will drive by me on the street (and these are narrow streets, mind you) and the driver will shout at me, “hello!” These are people far too old to be one of my students, and not people I know. This happens with people on foot too. It leads me to believe that people whom I’ve never met recognize me. You see the connection to Angelina now. Oh, and these strangers are never women.
Just last week, I walked up to a little pizza place with my friend Nico to pick up dinner. I have been in there once before. We ordered and stood around chatting. Nico recognized the only diners in the restaurant and went over to say hello. One of the pizza guys was clearing off newspapers from a table and struck up a conversation with me. “You live on Rue Grande, right?” He asked. I looked at him in surprise, “Uh, yeah” I said. “At about 62 or 63?” He asked. My address is 65, actually. But he was close enough. Apparently, one of his friends lives in a building right near by. None of this is really that creepy or uncomfortable because I know that he is just trying to be nice, but I have to admit that it’s bizarre to think that strangers know where I live.
Oh boy, and when Jen and I go out together nowadays! We hardly get five feet! Interestingly, our fame has changed over the months. For the first month and half or so, people used to stare at us in a sort of unfriendly way. This was the period when we actually looked into getting dark haired wigs to walk down the street incognito. Good thing the wigs were too expensive, other wise we would have been known as the crazy red-headed Americans rather than just plain old red-headed Americans. After about a month people stopped staring as much, or maybe we learned to stare right back and that gave us credibility. Then, upon our return from the winter holidays, Pertuisiennes lost some of their reserve towards us and even began to strike up conversations. This happened most recently at our favorite epicerie, and at La Police Nationale when I had to report the loss/theft of my cell phone. I never though I’d befriend a police officer, let alone an entire squad.
I even had a young woman tell me the other day that she had never met an American before. She looked a little confused and began motioning vigorously with both hands, one on either side of her head. “I thought you would be different,” she said. She was jabbing the air with fingers spread wide, like antlers or horns coming out of her temples. I remember blinking at her in surprise, and imagined landing at O’Hare to find a host of antlered, English speaking humans. As she later explained, she was trying to conjure up Paris Hilton’s image, and the gesture was to indicate Paris Hilton’s excessively painted face. I made a joke about having left my little toy dog at home, but she didn’t get it.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
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