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!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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.
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