People say that Paris is the City of Love, but I say it's Nantes. I know, because I'm in love.
The physical attraction was there from the start, and my feelings have only grown stronger as we spend more time together. I smile every time we pass each other on the street. I know the sound of his approach and I always know exactly what time he'll arrive at our designated spot. He comes when the weather is crummy and even when it's rush hour and no one wants to be on the road.
We're both comfortable calling it an "open relationship." I buy my monthly pass with him in mind, but sometimes a girl just needs to take a different bus. It just never feel quite right with anyone else.
You see, I've fallen for my bus: the 56 Hermeland Malakoff. Hermeland vers (in the direction of) Malakoff goes into town and Malakoff vers Hermeland brings me home. I get on and off at a number of different stops along the way, and often, weather permitting, I walk the route just to feel it under my feet and get to know the less popular stops. I love passing a bus stop with a 56 sticker shining on the glass window. The soft orange background is a good indication of the 56's warmth, energy, and humility.
Somebody once said that you should love someone because of their faults and not in spite of them. Well, I love the 56 because there are a number things about it that drive me crazy. First of all, the route is twisty and gives me a headache. It's often packed because it is a normal size bus, not like the 22 (my backup if the 56 and I are taking a break). The 22 is actually TWO buses connected by something resembling a very large accordian. (In French it's even called un accordéon.) The 22's route is straighter and the bus itself is more spacious, but it seems to have a big head about these advantages, and that's just not the kind of bus I see myself sharing a future with.
The public transportation system in Nantes goes by the name of TAN, Transports de l'Agglomération Nantaise, and consists of four tram lines, lots of buses, and the navibus -- a cute little boat that goes up and down the river. After my trusty foot falcons (Australian for "walking"), the bus is my favorite means of transportation. With my monthly pass (only 27 euros!) and a map of Nantes, I can hop on any bus, 11 through 99, and traverse the city. After a few months of getting to know the city, the different bus lines have taken on different personalities depending on where they go, where they stop, and little things like the color of the sticker.
I feel no personal connection to some lines, simply because we've never been formally introduced. It's rather uncomfortable when I know their routes and they don't even know my name, so in I usually avoid eye contact. I'm on a "smile then look away" basis with some, and a "look down, look down, look up and smile at the last possible second" with others. There are only a few lines whose shedules I keep with me at all times and who I can really confide in (the 56, the 22, and the 70), but only the 56 knows that I prefer the aisle seat in the back row on the left, because it's close to the stop-request button, and that sitting backwards makes me bus-sick.
I leave Nantes in just a few days time. I'm trying not to think about the end, but it's going to be hard to say goodbye. My only comfort is knowing that we took advantage of every trip together, whether I was grumpy and cursing myself for forgetting my umbrella, or whether I was in a stellar mood because I race-walked just fast enough to catch my honey's attention and wave him over to the stop.
The 56 showed me all around the city, and my monthly passes helped pay for his upkeep. Everyone who sees us together says that we bring out the best in each other. But long-distance is just too hard.
Don't forget me, 56.
vendredi 28 novembre 2008
vendredi 17 octobre 2008
Sticks and Stones
The first line was all it took to convince me. "Looking for an English mother-tongue person to help our 10 year-old son with his English." In French, your native language is your langue maternelle, literally "mother tongue." It was clear what they were looking for. But it made me chuckle each time I read it. It still makes me chuckle.
I called the number and a friendly-sounding man answered. He more or less asked me, "Are you really an English mother-tongue person?" I confirmed my English mother-tongueness. He told me I was the first person to call and conducted a brief phone interview ("What is your name?"). I was well-prepared (thanks, parents) and I got the job. A few days later I stopped by their house on Rue de l'Histoire (situated between Rue de l'Art and Rue de la Musique, what a cultural trio) to meet my new student. The parents welcomed me graciously and little Paul peeked his head out from the next room. I say little only because Paul is a very, very small person, not much bigger than his 6 year-old brother, Antoine.
I have a sneaking suspicion that Paul is really an American 10-year old living in Nantes in a little French body. Here's why: he loves football (the kind where they actually use their feet) and Youtube videos of crazy people doing crazy stunts. Admittedly, I was never a 10-year old boy, but that sounds a lot like Nathan Emmons minus 5 years. The morning of our first lesson, after we worked on his English homework and read a few soccer articles online, I showed Paul a video called "crazy Russian climbers." The video is 10 minutes of crazy Russians (if Youtube is telling the truth) climbing walls like Spiderman with rap-action music playing in the background. I looked over and saw Paul's eyes glued to the computer screen, his mouth slightly open, his hand hovering motionless above the mouse where it had been the moment the video started. I reasoned that with every passing minute, I won about 10 coolness points.
Paul is a mature 10-year old. I also have the opportunity, as part of my stage pedagogique (teaching internship), to work as an English teacher's assisstant at a high school with a group of students who are, frankly, not mature. They are nice boys, a class of Seconde, which is the equivilent of 10th grade. I thought it would a fun exercise to have them read aloud and then translate the lyrics of a popular song called "American Boy." What I didn't know is that one line in the chorus ("I really want to come kick it with you") would provoke so much laughter that we weren't able to make it through the song. The commotion was caused by the words "kick it," which apparently sound a lot like a French slang word for a certain male body part that is HILARIOUS. At first I laughed with them (haha, body parts, haha), but after a few minutes I realized I needed a new game plan.
So I suggested we talk about stereotypes (French stereotypes of the US and American stereotypes of France). This discussion lasted several class periods, and I've put all the lists together into one giant list of stereotypes of the US. Prepare to be offended, surprised, not surprised, saddened, and potentially amused. Remember that none of these students have been to the US, and all their impressions are based on TV, movies, music, and the news.
Question: What do you think of when you hear "the United States?"
-very fat people
-yellow taxis
-action movies
-fast food, junk food
-all houses are the same
-everything is big (houses, cars, roads)
-anti-communist
-cowboys, country music
-everyone is rich
-big consumers
-wasteful
-FBI
-Chuck Norris
-politicians are all religious
-good rappers, TV series, movies
Ouch. I knew most of these stereotypes existed (the yellow taxi was a new one), but seeing the list on the board was surprisingly painful. I reminded them that the US is a huge country, 3,536,278 square miles compared to France's 210,026 square miles. With that much more space, some things are naturally going to be bigger (though nothing can justify a Hummer). There are also 305,500,000 Americans compared to 64,000,000 French. While it's hard to defend the extravagant consumerism in America, it doesn't seem fair to just compare numbers. Consumption per person, now that's another question.
I then took a turn and told them some American stereotypes of the French:
-a French man standing beside the Eiffel Tower wearing a beret, a baguette in one hand and a cigarette in the other
-everyone smokes (I have seen many more young people smoking)
-wine and cheese, wine and cheese, wine and cheese
-fatty foods, skinny people, how does this work?
-they don't shower often and as a result they smell bad
-the women don't shave
-the French are arrogant and rude
The students laughed about the beret and were offended by the attack on their hygiene. I laughed about Chuck Norris and was disappointed that Americans are viewed as wasteful. It's hard hearing negative things about the United States, even if I agree that many things should be different. I'll be the first to say that France's social welfare system (if you're sick, you will receive care) and food culture (eat food that tastes good, eat food with vitamins, don't eat too much food), to name two things, make more sense to me. But on the other hand, in their last election the French weren't ready for a female president and they are years away from electing a black leader (or even nearly electing one).
A few weeks ago I received some good advice in an email from a friend. "Your life sounds pretty cool," he wrote, "just be sure you don't come back as one of those kids who thinks Americans are stupid and everything they do is Europe, Europe, Europe."
Point taken, friend. Now if the two worlds would just come together, I could eat unpasteurized cheese in the comfort of a yellow taxi.
I called the number and a friendly-sounding man answered. He more or less asked me, "Are you really an English mother-tongue person?" I confirmed my English mother-tongueness. He told me I was the first person to call and conducted a brief phone interview ("What is your name?"). I was well-prepared (thanks, parents) and I got the job. A few days later I stopped by their house on Rue de l'Histoire (situated between Rue de l'Art and Rue de la Musique, what a cultural trio) to meet my new student. The parents welcomed me graciously and little Paul peeked his head out from the next room. I say little only because Paul is a very, very small person, not much bigger than his 6 year-old brother, Antoine.
I have a sneaking suspicion that Paul is really an American 10-year old living in Nantes in a little French body. Here's why: he loves football (the kind where they actually use their feet) and Youtube videos of crazy people doing crazy stunts. Admittedly, I was never a 10-year old boy, but that sounds a lot like Nathan Emmons minus 5 years. The morning of our first lesson, after we worked on his English homework and read a few soccer articles online, I showed Paul a video called "crazy Russian climbers." The video is 10 minutes of crazy Russians (if Youtube is telling the truth) climbing walls like Spiderman with rap-action music playing in the background. I looked over and saw Paul's eyes glued to the computer screen, his mouth slightly open, his hand hovering motionless above the mouse where it had been the moment the video started. I reasoned that with every passing minute, I won about 10 coolness points.
Paul is a mature 10-year old. I also have the opportunity, as part of my stage pedagogique (teaching internship), to work as an English teacher's assisstant at a high school with a group of students who are, frankly, not mature. They are nice boys, a class of Seconde, which is the equivilent of 10th grade. I thought it would a fun exercise to have them read aloud and then translate the lyrics of a popular song called "American Boy." What I didn't know is that one line in the chorus ("I really want to come kick it with you") would provoke so much laughter that we weren't able to make it through the song. The commotion was caused by the words "kick it," which apparently sound a lot like a French slang word for a certain male body part that is HILARIOUS. At first I laughed with them (haha, body parts, haha), but after a few minutes I realized I needed a new game plan.
So I suggested we talk about stereotypes (French stereotypes of the US and American stereotypes of France). This discussion lasted several class periods, and I've put all the lists together into one giant list of stereotypes of the US. Prepare to be offended, surprised, not surprised, saddened, and potentially amused. Remember that none of these students have been to the US, and all their impressions are based on TV, movies, music, and the news.
Question: What do you think of when you hear "the United States?"
-very fat people
-yellow taxis
-action movies
-fast food, junk food
-all houses are the same
-everything is big (houses, cars, roads)
-anti-communist
-cowboys, country music
-everyone is rich
-big consumers
-wasteful
-FBI
-Chuck Norris
-politicians are all religious
-good rappers, TV series, movies
Ouch. I knew most of these stereotypes existed (the yellow taxi was a new one), but seeing the list on the board was surprisingly painful. I reminded them that the US is a huge country, 3,536,278 square miles compared to France's 210,026 square miles. With that much more space, some things are naturally going to be bigger (though nothing can justify a Hummer). There are also 305,500,000 Americans compared to 64,000,000 French. While it's hard to defend the extravagant consumerism in America, it doesn't seem fair to just compare numbers. Consumption per person, now that's another question.
I then took a turn and told them some American stereotypes of the French:
-a French man standing beside the Eiffel Tower wearing a beret, a baguette in one hand and a cigarette in the other
-everyone smokes (I have seen many more young people smoking)
-wine and cheese, wine and cheese, wine and cheese
-fatty foods, skinny people, how does this work?
-they don't shower often and as a result they smell bad
-the women don't shave
-the French are arrogant and rude
The students laughed about the beret and were offended by the attack on their hygiene. I laughed about Chuck Norris and was disappointed that Americans are viewed as wasteful. It's hard hearing negative things about the United States, even if I agree that many things should be different. I'll be the first to say that France's social welfare system (if you're sick, you will receive care) and food culture (eat food that tastes good, eat food with vitamins, don't eat too much food), to name two things, make more sense to me. But on the other hand, in their last election the French weren't ready for a female president and they are years away from electing a black leader (or even nearly electing one).
A few weeks ago I received some good advice in an email from a friend. "Your life sounds pretty cool," he wrote, "just be sure you don't come back as one of those kids who thinks Americans are stupid and everything they do is Europe, Europe, Europe."
Point taken, friend. Now if the two worlds would just come together, I could eat unpasteurized cheese in the comfort of a yellow taxi.
mercredi 1 octobre 2008
La 5ème Corde
Each instrument in the orchestra attracts a specific kind of person. It's as though there's an unwritten code that musicians unknowingly follow when selecting an instrument. I'm happy to report that French musicians fit what is evidently a universal code for instrument personalities.
Cellists are friendly. The first French friend I made was a cellist named Lucie. We both arrived early for the first orchestra rehearsal, and she came right up to me and asked if she could sit down. We chatted about studying abroad (she spent a semester in Autriche), the funny differences between English and French pronunciations, and string quartets that we've both played. The other cellists are equally amicable, and I like spending our 20-minute pause in that neighboring section that has always made me slightly envious. Cellists are the cool dudes of the orchestra. You can really see it in the men, who very often sport ponytails.
The chef de l'orchestre, Stéfane, is a cellist. He's small and wears striped sweaters, slim jeans, and sporty Puma shoes. He has thick grayish hair and a stubbly beard that lends him a rugged look, like he would go hiking in the
The violists, altistes, are always the characters. My stand partner, Quentin (still working on that pronunciation, it's somewhat close to "kahn-ton"), is a wire-rimmed-glasses-wearing medical student who is always eager to practice his English on me: "We are now in the measure 56." "Here we are in the four time." "Your shoes are very special, but I would not have them for my own." The Quentins of the world are what make viola sections great.
The violinists are all across the board, as usual. Some chic, others frumpy, all they know is the melody. But I won't be too hard on them because they have the hardest music. And I will admit, it is a lovely instrument. The flutists are consistently cute, the clarinetists unfailingly funky. The bassoonist has a long beard. But the one that assured me of my theory was the French horn player. He wears round glasses with thick black frames like Harry Potter and scuttles like a little beetle. He seems oblivious to most things. A congenial man, but rather peculiar.
In English, the names for the different note lengths are indications of their value: half, quarter, eighth, sixteenth. In French, the names describe how the notes look on the page: an eighth-note is une croche, which means 'hook.' A sixteenth-note is une double croche. A quarter note is une noire (black), and a half note is une blanche (white). A whole note is une ronde, a circle. My favorite is the word for a rest: un souffle, a breath. One deceiving faux ami (false friend) I’ve encountered is l'harmonie, which refers to the woodwinds and brass. Well, my automatic response to a conductor asking for the harmony is to pick up my viola and wait for the cue. It happened only once, and I quickly observed that I was the only string player at the starting line. Quentin leaned over and whispered loudly, "This is not us, this is them."
In
I'm also singing the university choir, which is great for working on my French pronunciation and annunciation. The first half-hour of each rehearsal is spent making funny noises, I mean doing breathing exercises and vocal warm ups. Having never been in a choir before, and because I rarely get the melody in orchestra, I decided to be a soprano. Thanks to two years of sight-singing classes at
The university choir and orchestra are open to both students and adults. The choir is composed of more adults than students, and the adults love chatting with us international students. At our last rehearsal, I sat next to a woman who didn't have much musical background, so I helped her with the notes and she helped me with the words. We made a good team.
To picture the chef de la chorale, simply take the image you have of Stéfane and turn it inside-out. Ghislain Louvet is tall, completely bald (the shiny kind), and looks like an Armani clothing model. That just goes to show that in spite of my theory, every musician is unique. Just like everyone else.
La 5ème (cinquième) Corde is the name of the shop where I rented a viola. The luthier was a young woman with an accent I couldn't quite place. When I went to her shop, she was giving a violin lesson to a girl whose violin was the size of a small animal such as a kitten or a baby raccoon, or any other animal when it is still small. The shop smelled like wood and there was wood-dust all over the floor. The woman noticed my accent and said in French, "I could speak in English, but you probably want to practice your French, right?" I nodded. She understood.
Had I not spoken to her on the phone beforehand, right then I would have ordered un alto, s'il vous plaît. Next time.
lundi 22 septembre 2008
Allez, allez René!
Other than wild alligators and volcanic eruptions, most things are better experienced in person rather than seen from behind a TV screen. This includes the sea (la mer), salt swamps (les marais salants), and triathlons (les triathlons), all of which I experienced with my host family this weekend in La Baule, a commune/municipality/city on the Atlantic coast (which they call the sea).
I was glad to finally meet Dany and René's two grown children, Caroline (pronounced kah-ro-leen) and Stéfane, and Stéfane's wife Nathalie. Caroline is sweet and smiles a lot. She showed me how to cook and peel chestnuts, and played some old records for me, French classics like Henri Salvador, Julien Clerc, and Jacques Brel. She loves dancing to ABBA, especially La Reine de la Piste ("queen of the dance floor").
Stéfane is a jokester. He told stories using lots of funny voices and hopped down the stairs with his arms poised like a little velociraptor. He's going to be a fun dad in about 4 months. With her long red hair and slender fingers, Nathalie appears tranquil as a swan. Stéfane would often touch her round stomach, his face radiating with happiness. When we went to the beach, he dug a hole in the sand so that Nathalie could lie on her stomach.
The Aubineaus have an apartment in La Baule, with a garage full of bikes! I rode alongside the sea on a trendy (kind of) "comfort" bicycle, much softer under my tuchus than the VTT (vélo tout terrain, mountain bike) that I've been riding. Neither a picture nor a thousand words can capture the sensory treats that the sea offers, but I'll say that the water sparkled like an outfit any member of ABBA might have worn.
I rode with Dany and Caroline past the salt swamps of Guérande. Sea salt is farmed in these flat marshlands. The seawater floods the land and then drains, leaving behind large grains of salt and fleur de sel, white salt crystals also used for seasoning. Fleur de sel is very expensive in the United States, but salt season is long past so I won't be bringing back any salty souvenirs. The cultivated beds were majestic even while napping.
We returned just in time for the Grand Prix, and I'm not talking about cars. The 21st Triathlon Audencia featured five different races, for everyone from handicapped athletes to professional triathloners. I saw three of the five races: Triathlon Découverte (for those "discovering" the triathlon, René's race), Triathlon Courte Distance (for amateurs, but it wasn't so short), and le Finale du Grand Prix (the pros, a number of whom placed in the Olympics!). I watched the swimming (la natation) from afar, and could only see a thousand little heads bobbing in and out of the water. The second part, le cyclism, was fast and exciting, but the athletes turned into an indistinguishable rainbow of spandex swim-bike-run-wear and spinning wheels. The final part, la course à pied, was when the athletes came alive -- though no doubt they felt like they were going in the other direction.
Seeing the pros run by was like watching a Gatorade commercial come to life, for lack of a more profound image -- though their sweat was not strawberry or blueberry-colored. I could actually hear their breathing and their feet pounding the pavement in a steady rhythm; I wondered if in their heads they were reciting song lyrics, or maybe reciting Baudelaire? On the less poetic end, there was plenty of snot dripping and snot rockets (couldn't find it in French) flying. A few were foaming at the mouth. They came in all different sizes, some tall and bulging, others little and lithe. A few were so lean and muscular that it made me cringe to see their muscles flex with each stride. They looked like power wrapped in spandex.
During René's race, we positioned ourselves next to the fueling station. The waterboys and girls stood ready with little cups of water as the athletes ran by, some thrusting their hands out for a cup, others humbly requesting eau, s'il vous plaît! My favorite was a gentleman who ran by and asked for une bière (what it sounds like), s'il vous plaît! We all shouted Allez! Allez! as René biked and ran by.
At one point, I turned my head one way and saw la mer shimmering like ABBA. Then I looked the other way and saw my French family jumping and shouting. I was really inspired to do a triathlon, but then I remembered that that requires swimming more one lap. Zut.
Allez. A fine weekend at the races.
I was glad to finally meet Dany and René's two grown children, Caroline (pronounced kah-ro-leen) and Stéfane, and Stéfane's wife Nathalie. Caroline is sweet and smiles a lot. She showed me how to cook and peel chestnuts, and played some old records for me, French classics like Henri Salvador, Julien Clerc, and Jacques Brel. She loves dancing to ABBA, especially La Reine de la Piste ("queen of the dance floor").
Stéfane is a jokester. He told stories using lots of funny voices and hopped down the stairs with his arms poised like a little velociraptor. He's going to be a fun dad in about 4 months. With her long red hair and slender fingers, Nathalie appears tranquil as a swan. Stéfane would often touch her round stomach, his face radiating with happiness. When we went to the beach, he dug a hole in the sand so that Nathalie could lie on her stomach.
The Aubineaus have an apartment in La Baule, with a garage full of bikes! I rode alongside the sea on a trendy (kind of) "comfort" bicycle, much softer under my tuchus than the VTT (vélo tout terrain, mountain bike) that I've been riding. Neither a picture nor a thousand words can capture the sensory treats that the sea offers, but I'll say that the water sparkled like an outfit any member of ABBA might have worn.
I rode with Dany and Caroline past the salt swamps of Guérande. Sea salt is farmed in these flat marshlands. The seawater floods the land and then drains, leaving behind large grains of salt and fleur de sel, white salt crystals also used for seasoning. Fleur de sel is very expensive in the United States, but salt season is long past so I won't be bringing back any salty souvenirs. The cultivated beds were majestic even while napping.
We returned just in time for the Grand Prix, and I'm not talking about cars. The 21st Triathlon Audencia featured five different races, for everyone from handicapped athletes to professional triathloners. I saw three of the five races: Triathlon Découverte (for those "discovering" the triathlon, René's race), Triathlon Courte Distance (for amateurs, but it wasn't so short), and le Finale du Grand Prix (the pros, a number of whom placed in the Olympics!). I watched the swimming (la natation) from afar, and could only see a thousand little heads bobbing in and out of the water. The second part, le cyclism, was fast and exciting, but the athletes turned into an indistinguishable rainbow of spandex swim-bike-run-wear and spinning wheels. The final part, la course à pied, was when the athletes came alive -- though no doubt they felt like they were going in the other direction.
Seeing the pros run by was like watching a Gatorade commercial come to life, for lack of a more profound image -- though their sweat was not strawberry or blueberry-colored. I could actually hear their breathing and their feet pounding the pavement in a steady rhythm; I wondered if in their heads they were reciting song lyrics, or maybe reciting Baudelaire? On the less poetic end, there was plenty of snot dripping and snot rockets (couldn't find it in French) flying. A few were foaming at the mouth. They came in all different sizes, some tall and bulging, others little and lithe. A few were so lean and muscular that it made me cringe to see their muscles flex with each stride. They looked like power wrapped in spandex.
During René's race, we positioned ourselves next to the fueling station. The waterboys and girls stood ready with little cups of water as the athletes ran by, some thrusting their hands out for a cup, others humbly requesting eau, s'il vous plaît! My favorite was a gentleman who ran by and asked for une bière (what it sounds like), s'il vous plaît! We all shouted Allez! Allez! as René biked and ran by.
At one point, I turned my head one way and saw la mer shimmering like ABBA. Then I looked the other way and saw my French family jumping and shouting. I was really inspired to do a triathlon, but then I remembered that that requires swimming more one lap. Zut.
Allez. A fine weekend at the races.
mercredi 17 septembre 2008
Toujours à la mode
In Madame Berk's high school French classes, we used a grammar workbook called FFF: French for Fluency. Here in Nantes, I see the heartbeat pumping French blood in terms of a different three Fs: food, friends/family, and fashion. The best social welfare in Europe also keeps French hearts healthy, but it doesn't fit into the F model. Perhaps welFare.
But about that last one, fashion. While I doubt that anyone would ever come to me for fashion advice, I can usually tell when someone else has a superior fashion sense and looks put-together. (When my mom comes into my room with a fashion question, it's usually to consult the full-length mirror, as all I can offer is a thumbs-up or thumbs-down.) But I think I know enough to say that the French have got it going on in the fashion department. They are, as a whole, always à la mode.
The first difference I noticed was in the men. On my very first walk into town, I saw two attractive, well-dressed men walking together and found myself surprised that they weren't holding hands. My stereotype-wired brain automatically equated their tight black v-necks with homosexuality. I looked around and saw fashion-savvy men everywhere, pushing baby strollers, kissing beautiful women, drinking Heineken, doing any number of manly things. I asked Dany about homophobia and she told me that while France is years away from legalizing gay marriage, there is an unspoken social acceptance; if you're gay, you're gay. Do what you want with whichever gender you prefer, only don't parade it in front of the whole city.
Of course there are gay men and women in France, but they are not so easily defined by their clothing. (Oy vey, now how am I supposed to compartmentalize people?) Straight men dress just as well as women, whereas I'd venture to say that American women out-dress their male counterparts on a daily basis. No offense, Dad.
French women are stunning. Sometimes, when I see a jaw-droppingly beautiful one, I feel like a little kid whose socks don't match. Their look is subtle; other than the occasional over-rouged, stiletto-suffering one, the women don't dress to be spectacles. Their clothes appear straight and smooth as they hug their small frames. Young women wear mostly dark colors, lots of blacks, browns, and grays. It's les accessoires that add the sparkle -- scarves, belts, and earrings in vivid reds or blues or funky patterns. Shoes must be practical (suitable for miles of walking, so usually flats) yet also capable of beckoning "come hither" with a little twist of the ankle. French women rarely twist their ankles, though, because French men can be real creepers.
The French have an expression, coûter les yeux de la tête, for things that are very expensive -- literally, they "cost the eyes from your head." Fortunately for those of us using the eyes from our heads to track the exchange rate, haute couture (expensive designer fashion) is less popular among young people, who instead prefer to roll their monnaie (coins) toward more affordable accessoires to flavor their wardrobes.
I like that the French take fashion seriously because it seems more sincere that scoffing at it, which is what I usually do. After all, we all wear some form of clothing most hours of the day, most days of the week (one must account for the highly sexually-active and those who shower multiple times a day). So why not look good? Taking an active interest in the clothes you put on each morning isn't shallow or vain, in fact I'm starting to believe what friends and Vogue have told me time and time again: there really is an art to fashion. I guess it took being in another time zone to convince me.
One consolation for my mismatched-socks complex is that from what I've seen, French joggers actually look less put together than I do (I try to match my shorts with my sports bra, just in case I cut my leg on a fallen branch and need to use my shirt to stop the gushing blood). A few days ago I passed a man jogging whose t-shirt said "Property of G-Unit." It made me laugh and I think he thought I was hyperventilating. I quickly stopped laughing, mumbled "Bonjour, Monsieur," and continued on my way. Just another day at the park, with a little 50 Cent to remind me of home.
But about that last one, fashion. While I doubt that anyone would ever come to me for fashion advice, I can usually tell when someone else has a superior fashion sense and looks put-together. (When my mom comes into my room with a fashion question, it's usually to consult the full-length mirror, as all I can offer is a thumbs-up or thumbs-down.) But I think I know enough to say that the French have got it going on in the fashion department. They are, as a whole, always à la mode.
The first difference I noticed was in the men. On my very first walk into town, I saw two attractive, well-dressed men walking together and found myself surprised that they weren't holding hands. My stereotype-wired brain automatically equated their tight black v-necks with homosexuality. I looked around and saw fashion-savvy men everywhere, pushing baby strollers, kissing beautiful women, drinking Heineken, doing any number of manly things. I asked Dany about homophobia and she told me that while France is years away from legalizing gay marriage, there is an unspoken social acceptance; if you're gay, you're gay. Do what you want with whichever gender you prefer, only don't parade it in front of the whole city.
Of course there are gay men and women in France, but they are not so easily defined by their clothing. (Oy vey, now how am I supposed to compartmentalize people?) Straight men dress just as well as women, whereas I'd venture to say that American women out-dress their male counterparts on a daily basis. No offense, Dad.
French women are stunning. Sometimes, when I see a jaw-droppingly beautiful one, I feel like a little kid whose socks don't match. Their look is subtle; other than the occasional over-rouged, stiletto-suffering one, the women don't dress to be spectacles. Their clothes appear straight and smooth as they hug their small frames. Young women wear mostly dark colors, lots of blacks, browns, and grays. It's les accessoires that add the sparkle -- scarves, belts, and earrings in vivid reds or blues or funky patterns. Shoes must be practical (suitable for miles of walking, so usually flats) yet also capable of beckoning "come hither" with a little twist of the ankle. French women rarely twist their ankles, though, because French men can be real creepers.
The French have an expression, coûter les yeux de la tête, for things that are very expensive -- literally, they "cost the eyes from your head." Fortunately for those of us using the eyes from our heads to track the exchange rate, haute couture (expensive designer fashion) is less popular among young people, who instead prefer to roll their monnaie (coins) toward more affordable accessoires to flavor their wardrobes.
I like that the French take fashion seriously because it seems more sincere that scoffing at it, which is what I usually do. After all, we all wear some form of clothing most hours of the day, most days of the week (one must account for the highly sexually-active and those who shower multiple times a day). So why not look good? Taking an active interest in the clothes you put on each morning isn't shallow or vain, in fact I'm starting to believe what friends and Vogue have told me time and time again: there really is an art to fashion. I guess it took being in another time zone to convince me.
One consolation for my mismatched-socks complex is that from what I've seen, French joggers actually look less put together than I do (I try to match my shorts with my sports bra, just in case I cut my leg on a fallen branch and need to use my shirt to stop the gushing blood). A few days ago I passed a man jogging whose t-shirt said "Property of G-Unit." It made me laugh and I think he thought I was hyperventilating. I quickly stopped laughing, mumbled "Bonjour, Monsieur," and continued on my way. Just another day at the park, with a little 50 Cent to remind me of home.
dimanche 14 septembre 2008
Le Parc Procé
My French bicycle (vélo) is blue with neon green writing and red handlebars. The brakes squeal like little piglets, but they get the job done and also do my work for me -- I simply brake and the joggeurs hear, "On your left!" Though here they pass on the right.
Réné, my 61-year old host father, is an avid triathloner. So it shouldn't have surprised me when he appeared for our bike ride wearing black spandex pants, a slick jacket, and a compact little backpack. (He's also French, so of course he's serious about biking, oui?) I felt like a little kid just learning to ride a bike in my running shorts and long-sleeve t-shirt from some high school cross-country race. He didn't seem to mind.
We buckled our casques and pushed off. The Aubineaus live a step away from the beautiful Parc Procé, Nantes's Forest Park/Central Park, so we started our ride on the gravel path around the park's perimeter. And what a park it is -- covered in rolling hills, so many trees!, a pond with ducks and swans (!) in the middle, kiddies on scooters, kiddies on the merry-go-round, teenagers smooching discreetly in trees, teenagers smooching indiscreetly on the grass, old men reading newspapers on benches, women strolling in stilettos, boys running in short-shorts and men running with their socks pulled high (some fashions are universal), mothers and fathers pushing strollers, -- a park of many colors, you might say. My favorites are the jardin dahlia, dahlia garden, and the saules pleureur, weeping willows.
Then we turned onto a wooded path and -- cue the adventure movie music -- kicked it into high gear. We flew over rocks and tree roots, swerved around puddles and unknowing little birdies, pushed up hills and sped down hills, kicking up muddy remnants from the previous night's downpour. I rode behind Réné and he told me about different routes for running/biking/walking and ways to get back if I got lost. Seeing as I have trouble understanding people speaking English when we're riding bikes, I only got about half of it. Luckily, I caught that the river the path follows runs in the direction of their house.
This path connected us to another park, le Parc de la Gaudiniere, the site of a grand chateau (castle) and a golf course. I think the castle was built a few years before the golf course.
The ride back was a bit slower but no less exhilarating. Lunch tasted especially good that day. Broccoli soup, I believe, and some cheese for good measure.
My friend Imin and I take lovely walks in le Parc Procé. She lives a street away on la rue Claude Monet. (We're in the artist section. I live on la rue Antoine Jean Gros, a neoclassical painter who sucked up to Napolean and painted him a lot). Imin and I both requested "close to a park" on our housing questionnaires.
It certainly is nice to get what you wish for.
Réné, my 61-year old host father, is an avid triathloner. So it shouldn't have surprised me when he appeared for our bike ride wearing black spandex pants, a slick jacket, and a compact little backpack. (He's also French, so of course he's serious about biking, oui?) I felt like a little kid just learning to ride a bike in my running shorts and long-sleeve t-shirt from some high school cross-country race. He didn't seem to mind.
We buckled our casques and pushed off. The Aubineaus live a step away from the beautiful Parc Procé, Nantes's Forest Park/Central Park, so we started our ride on the gravel path around the park's perimeter. And what a park it is -- covered in rolling hills, so many trees!, a pond with ducks and swans (!) in the middle, kiddies on scooters, kiddies on the merry-go-round, teenagers smooching discreetly in trees, teenagers smooching indiscreetly on the grass, old men reading newspapers on benches, women strolling in stilettos, boys running in short-shorts and men running with their socks pulled high (some fashions are universal), mothers and fathers pushing strollers, -- a park of many colors, you might say. My favorites are the jardin dahlia, dahlia garden, and the saules pleureur, weeping willows.
Then we turned onto a wooded path and -- cue the adventure movie music -- kicked it into high gear. We flew over rocks and tree roots, swerved around puddles and unknowing little birdies, pushed up hills and sped down hills, kicking up muddy remnants from the previous night's downpour. I rode behind Réné and he told me about different routes for running/biking/walking and ways to get back if I got lost. Seeing as I have trouble understanding people speaking English when we're riding bikes, I only got about half of it. Luckily, I caught that the river the path follows runs in the direction of their house.
This path connected us to another park, le Parc de la Gaudiniere, the site of a grand chateau (castle) and a golf course. I think the castle was built a few years before the golf course.
The ride back was a bit slower but no less exhilarating. Lunch tasted especially good that day. Broccoli soup, I believe, and some cheese for good measure.
My friend Imin and I take lovely walks in le Parc Procé. She lives a street away on la rue Claude Monet. (We're in the artist section. I live on la rue Antoine Jean Gros, a neoclassical painter who sucked up to Napolean and painted him a lot). Imin and I both requested "close to a park" on our housing questionnaires.
It certainly is nice to get what you wish for.
samedi 13 septembre 2008
Madame Rouchet
If the dictionary had pictures, a smiling Madame Rouchet would appear for the entry French woman. The caption would read, "French woman with poodle." Sadly, I don't think she has a poodle.
Chantal Rouchet (one of the IES directors) is about 60, with the figure of a 30-year old. A few elegant wrinkles framing her eyes are the only sign of her age. She wears a black, long-sleeve shirt tucked into a beige knee-length skirt, with a thick silver belt wrapped around her tiny waist. Her earrings and necklace are also silver, while her lips, cheeks, and fingernails are bright pink. Tiny red glasses rest on the tip of her nose, so she is continually raising her eyebrows to look at us over them. Her hair is a sparkling gray, cut in a sassy bob with styled bangs. She flutters around the classroom in tiny beige heels. Somehow she also manages to walk à la francais (very quickly) up and down stairs and on the cobblestone streets in the older sections of Nantes.
She speaks v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and annunciates her words. She thinks Parisians are snobs and is proud to be "une provinciale," someone from anywhere other than Paris. She smoked like a chimney in her younger days, and her slightly raspy laugh contains hints of that.
She really should have a poodle.
Chantal Rouchet (one of the IES directors) is about 60, with the figure of a 30-year old. A few elegant wrinkles framing her eyes are the only sign of her age. She wears a black, long-sleeve shirt tucked into a beige knee-length skirt, with a thick silver belt wrapped around her tiny waist. Her earrings and necklace are also silver, while her lips, cheeks, and fingernails are bright pink. Tiny red glasses rest on the tip of her nose, so she is continually raising her eyebrows to look at us over them. Her hair is a sparkling gray, cut in a sassy bob with styled bangs. She flutters around the classroom in tiny beige heels. Somehow she also manages to walk à la francais (very quickly) up and down stairs and on the cobblestone streets in the older sections of Nantes.
She speaks v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and annunciates her words. She thinks Parisians are snobs and is proud to be "une provinciale," someone from anywhere other than Paris. She smoked like a chimney in her younger days, and her slightly raspy laugh contains hints of that.
She really should have a poodle.
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