Thanksgiving came early this year, eight hours to be exact

In honor of a particular request, this update will feature very few words and many pictures, but keep in mind that I am an English major and “very few words” is in the eye of the beholder.

Thanksgiving ranks pretty high on my list of favorite holidays, rivaling Christmas for first place, and this year I celebrated it with my host family. The festivities began Thanksgiving Eve when I placed a “traditional” Thanksgiving picture on the refrigerator which illustrated the fundamentals of the holiday. The drawing was followed by several trips to the grocery store, the discovery that I could make cornbread from polenta, 6 hours in the kitchen, and a feast featuring a roasted chicken we all pretended was a turkey. In honor of the holiday, one of my host sisters dressed as a pilgrim (according to my refrigerator drawing), and had the rest of us pin feathers to our hair. It may not be politically correct, but in the end, I’m sure the First Thanksgiving wasn’t politically correct either.

You can't see this from a tour bus

Tonight has proven rather eventful and perhaps somewhat revealing of the sort of French culture you can’t find on a post card. As such, it merits its own blog post, and besides, I thought it would be a nice break for y’all if I broke up the novel-length entries I’ve been throwing your way.

To start, my host dad revealed to me the secret of speaking the French language. I had been drinking tea for the caffeine boost as I worked on grad school essays, and my French had begun to suffer from all the English. At this point in the semester, my French has noticeably improved, or my comprehension at any rate. I have, however, begun to notice my ability to speak the language plummets after I have been thinking, reading, or writing in English. Because of this, I try to read mostly in French, and when I write, it is usually for class, and so is in French as well. As for thinking, well, I don’t. Ok, so I think a little, it’s just in Franglish. My routine, however, has been shaken recently by all my grad school applications, which unfortunately cannot be written in Franglish.

It’s no surprise that writing something as intense as grad school essays takes some ardent thinking, and even more so for me because I have the grammar, spelling, and phrasing of two different languages floating around my head. It takes serious concentration to keep the two straight. This is the context I found myself in tonight, and I had begun to notice my speaking skills rapidly deteriorating. For example, when explaining my philosophy of colors suitable for editing papers, I said “tu vois, le red est pire que le bleu parce qu’il est beaucoup plus harsh.” “Red” and “Harsh”, for the record, are NOT French, but I didn’t catch my mistake until much later.

I must have responded with one too many English words mingled in my French phrasing because my host dad looked at me and said, “Quand tu bois du thé, tu pense en anglais, mais quand tu bois du vin, tu pense en français! Ça c’est le secret de la langue française.” This translates to “when you drink tea, you think in English, but when you drink wine, you think in French! That’s the secret to the French language.” So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong.

If tonight were a play, my little conversation with my host dad, while amusing, was only Act I, scene i. As I type, one of my host sisters is having raw onions taped to her head. Yes, raw onions. I love all my host brothers and sisters, but Louise is up there on the favorites list. She is 14 and one of the most dramatic people I have ever met. Recently, she has been complaining of a mysterious malady that seems to have had a grave impact on all aspects of her life. The illness has migrated from her throat to her ears, and they are taking it rather poorly. As a result, Louise has been moaning about the house, ensuring everyone is aware of her pain.

This afternoon, I was working at the dining room table when I heard her yelping from the kitchen. She kept this up for a while, but because her mother was in there with her, I felt confident that it wasn’t life threatening. About 30 minutes later, I was coming out of my room and I saw Louise sitting at the computer with gauze strapped all around her head. Call me crazy, but I’ve never seen a malady short of brain surgery that merits such bandaging. I found it rather odd and maybe a bit drastic to have such bandaging for a simple cold, but thought little more of it. I merely looked at her, said “aww..la pauvre” and went down to dinner.

During dinner, I gathered that the gauze was keeping some kind of medicine in her ears, but it wasn’t until after dinner that the truth came out. As people began leaving the table, Louise pulled off the gauze and large-ish white things started falling out. Horrified and fearing something was seriously wrong with the poor girl, I demanded “qu’est ce que c’est?!?” It was then that the smell of raw onions slapped me in the face. Yes, the gauze had been holding raw onions to her ears, and it was time to change them out.

I listened as my host dad and Pauline, my other host sister, explained to me that the onions cleared up the lymph nodes. I'm skeptical of the remedy, but even if there is some truth to what they say, I’m not sure it’s worth having onions taped to your head.

La Vie Boheme

I come before you now in utmost humility and shame having been so neglectful of my blog. Things have picked up here, and I am suddenly inundated with work. If I could time travel, I would go back to the beginning of this summer and slap myself for thinking I could apply to grad school while abroad. However, to my knowledge, time travel still has a few kinks to be worked out before it is made accessible to the general public. And thus, I have little choice but to suffer through the end of the month.

It’s important to note that my neglect does not mean nothing has happened. Au contraire. But before I can move on to more recent events, I realize I left everyone hanging with my last post, and the party and its aftermath cannot under any circumstances be omitted. And so, Maestro, cue SNL’s Wayne’s World flash back music!

The following events took place Saturday, November 1 and Sunday, November 2. I use no proper names to protect the culpable (and because I can’t remember them):

The girls live within the walls of St. Laizier with a third roommate. I realize I mentioned an entirely different village in a previous post, but due to not entirely unforeseen events, there was a last minute housing change. I was originally supposed to live with the Boulanger, the local baker, but was switched to a house of full blown, authentic bohemians. I think I would have enjoyed spending ten days at the baker’s, but in the end the change worked to the advantage of my waist line. But let’s get back to the bohemians. One of the fundamental characteristics of a bohemian lifestyle is an eclectic home, and they didn’t disappoint. The house was everything I could ever want or expect from an artsy bohemian lifestyle. No surprises here, I loved the house, with two equally unsurprising exceptions: (1) a certain degree of uncleanliness is unfortunately mandatory for authentic bohemianism – one reason why the closest I will ever come to a bohemian lifestyle will always be imitation – and (2) the odd, distinctly familiar smell permeated the house. It’s the same smell you come home with after an indie-rock concert, or really, nearly any concert you go to with the exception of most Classical. It’s a mix of 40% cigarette smoke, 40% alcohol, and 20% weed. If you have never been exposed to this odor, take my word for it that unless accustomed to the smell, it’s rather unpleasant. It’s why you isolate dirty concert cloths from the rest of the laundry, and it gives you the compulsion to run home and shower as soon as possible.

I wasn’t given much time to accustom myself to the odor before we rushed out to the concert. The venue was down a twisting road leading halfway up a mountain. There were no neighbors for miles, which allows for complete freedom as far as noise is concerned. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the concert scene, and even then, I was with friends and in a country where the language posed no difficulties and my parents were always within 30 feet (another story for another day). The differences made for an interesting night, to say the least. I was ushered in, introduced to about 15 people all at once, and given a volunteer badge, which allotted for a meal of pasta and three drinks on the house. As we waited for the concert to begin, I made awkward small talk with several of the people I had just met. Small talk stinks in English, but it’s even worse in French. At least in English, you can pull from all kinds of subjects and there is the option of quickly moving past the smallness of small talk to a real conversation, but in French, I found myself restricted to what I could say and what I could understand. In short, it was a painful experience. Another painful experience, smoke in the eyes. In general, the majority of the French roll their cigarettes. It’s far less expensive, you get fewer chemicals, and from what I understand, it’s more bang for your buck. It also gives fidgety chain smokers something to occupy themselves with: you finish one cigarette, and then move on to rolling the next – it slows down the consumption rate, while meeting fidgeting needs.

Once the concert picked up, my bohemian friends got down to work ensuring the bar was tended, the musicians made it on stage relatively on time, and people paid to enter. This left me all alone in a huge crowd of French people of all ages drawn to the site by the promise of a smorgous board of techno music. Did I mention it was a techno concert? Four bands played, each representing a different stream of techno: chill techno, jazz techno, hardcore techno, DJ techno… I had no idea there was such variety. Yet despite the diversity, I can’t say I found the concert enjoyable. In fact, I spent most of the night pressed into a corner alternating my gaze between the lead guitarist who kept making a “get out of my way, I’m about to hurl” face, and the androgynous couple simultaneously making out and dancing in front of me.

After the second band, I came to the realization I couldn’t handle any more techno, and searched for one of my bohemian friends who had promised me a place to sleep. After I found him, he led me upstairs to a somewhat private room above the stage with two twin sized mattresses on the floor and a kid’s sleeping bag on one. He left me with the warning that someone might be sleeping on the other mattress later that night. Left to my own devices, I chose the mattress with the mold on it – it looked cleaner than the other one – and crawled in the sleeping bag. It was really cold and I was desperate, don’t judge. Besides, I soon realized I could lay in such a way that I was completely protected from the sleeping bag coming in contact with my skin. Surprisingly, I quickly fell asleep, dreaming of tecno-rave music all night, or at least until the drunk came in and passed out on the mattress next to mine, and began whimpering.

The next morning I woke up around 11:50 to the sound of shouting. Turns out, people were frolicking in the neighboring fields. Yet for all the frolicking, no one had thought to make coffee. Good thing I have plenty of experience in that department. Making coffee put me in the good graces of everyone who wandered into the kitchen. As for food, I found a plate of cut carrots, and after sniffing them, decided they were safe to eat. I’m not proud of myself; I only did what was necessary to survive. But I might have to get tested for hepatitis when I get back.

Soon after making coffee, I discovered my bohemians car, the car with my wallet, cell phone, and Chapstick in it, was missing. To all appearances, I was abandoned in one of the filthiest and most isolated places I’ve ever seen. Wonderful. There were several people still around, but none really seemed to care. I suspect their lack of concern was closely related to their blood-shot eyes. Fortunately, the guy who found me a place to sleep the night before was still around. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to care either. I eventually caught a ride with him to this bar where everyone hangs out and where we found my bag (in the unlocked car).

The apparent abandonment aside, I really do like these people. They are very nice, if not always the most helpful. We spent the rest of the day lounging around their bar and lying in the sun before going on a hike. At this point, I was feeling absolutely disgusting – I hadn’t showered, washed my face, changed my cloths, and worse of all, hadn’t brushed my teeth since the previous morning. When I mentioned my discomfort to one of my friends that evening, she looked at me puzzled saying “you haven’t showered? Everyone else has!” What??? Apparently everyone showered at the bar before I arrived. Somehow I was overlooked in this.

When we finally returned to their home, it was filled with their friends, all of whom jumped in the shower before I had the chance. When I finally got my chance, I regretted even more being last to shower. Judging by all the cigarette butts lining the rim of the tub, chain smoking continues even when taking a shower. But like I said, with the exception of the whole abandonment thing, the lack of sanitation, the chain smoking, and all my cloths smelling like smoke/weed, I really liked the bohemians…I just couldn’t handle living with them. I had been in communication with my program coordinator as soon as I was reunited with my cell phone, and we made the decision to switch homes.

I’m now living with Francoise, who drinks condensed milk because regular milk has no flavor, and who babies me as much as she babies her cat, which she thinks likes green beans, but in reality only eats around them to get to the crème freche she mixes them with. I’m much happier here - when I arrived, there was a cleaning lady and everything. There are only two drawbacks: First, I have begun to notice that she uses the same voice when speaking to me as she does with the cat. That, when combined with the number of times she has left me in the car while she does grown up things, has given me the impression she sees me more as her pet American than a human-being. Second, the cat, Cdo, is in the habit of joining us at the dining table. Seeing how much I like cats in the first place, this is a problem.

PS the view from my bed room is incredible. I’m attaching pictures. If God can be this creative on earth, I can’t wait to see heaven.

Bienvenu à Ariège: Saturday 25

I had every intention of taking time to catch everyone up to date, but so much has happened in the past few days that I unfortunately have to make a few cuts, or at least trim the edges of some adventures. I’m currently writing this entry from a small home tucked away in a valley, surrounded on all sides by the Pyrenées, and I would like to spend the next few entries on how I got here. That means I don’t have time to speak thoroughly on the group trip to the Pyrenées-Orientales that took place about two weeks ago. I am posting a link to pictures from the trip and I will give a brief summary, but I really want to move on to Ariège.

With that, here is my brief summary of the Pyrenées-Orientales (October 15-17):

We arrived by mini-bus and spent our first afternoon lounging on the Mediterranean beach with the mountains at our back. The Pyrenées-Orientales refer to the southwestern-most coast of France, where the Pyrenées meet the Mediterranean Sea and nestle up against the Spanish boarder. The purpose of the trip was to learn about Spanish immigration into France at the time of the Spanish Civil War - during General Franco’s violent rise to power in the 1930s, many Spanish refugees sought asylum in France. The Civil War served as a sort of training ground for Word War II, with the Germans providing Franco and his Fascist army with planes, and joined forces with Mussolini to provide military advice. The countries that would become the Allied Forces in WWII declared neutrality, and refused to involve themselves in the conflict, with the exception of permitting volunteers to enter the conflict against Franco’s take over. France, being among those to declare neutrality, was less than eager to allow Spanish refugees to cross the border into France. All the same, thousands of refugees crossed over the border, only to be greeted by unsanitary living conditions in camps established to provide some form of shelter against the harsh winter.

Part of our visit to this region included a hike across the border, taking the same trail the Spanish Refugees took nearly 80 years ago. I firmly believe that you can never fully comprehend history unless you actively participate in it. Two years ago, I studied the history of WWII in Normandy, and I will never see the war in the same way. The same can now be said for the Spanish Civil War. I will never think of the Spanish Civil War or its refugees in the same light (and yes, I do think of these things, I’m a history major after all).

Now moving on to more recent events…

On our day of arrival, everyone met up at the train station for festivities celebrating the beginning of a 10 day séjour in Ariège. Ariège is a region in France tucked away in the Pyrenées along the Spanish boarder, and as my host dad says, Ariège is France’s version of the tip of South America. In other words, it’s the end of the earth, or at least as far as most French are concerned.

Ariège is not particularly far from Toulouse, only a few hours by car, but those few hours make all the difference. As we entered the region, fields and fields of corn appeared and the mountains became all the more defined. On a clear day and from a high point, you can see the Pyrenées from Toulouse, they really are not that far away, but it’s not quite the same to be tucked away in a valley surrounded by them. All I can say is that if this is the end of the earth, it’s doesn’t deserve such a negative reputation, or not from what I can tell.

As I was saying, we arrived in Ariège Saturday mid-day, just in time for the market. The market is truly incredible, and I’ve seen my share of markets. Ariège is an agricultural community and their market reflects that. I’ve never seen carrots this size – it would be more suitable to consider them small trees, really. It was fortunate I had forgotten my wallet because if I had access to money, I would certainly have purchased the ingredients for several full blown meals, which wouldn’t have been much of a problem except that I had no certain access to a kitchen. I also made a very important discovery while at the market. As it turns out, people eat horse here. Yes, horse. National Velvet, Sea Biscuit, Wild Hearts Can’t be Broken horse. I haven’t had any…yet, but you had better believe my guard is up.

After the market, we were welcomed by the tourist office, which had prepared an aperitif and a full blown lunch consisting of, lamb stew, pate au gratin (that’s baked pasta with a cheesy toping), cheese, wine, a dessert of fruit, and coffee (comme d’habitude). Clearly, the meal was enormous, and showing no self control as usual, I ate entirely too much. Not surprisingly, during the meal the Americans isolated themselves, all of us huddling together at one end of the table. I happened to be on the edge, and served as the buffer between the francophone and Anglophone communities.

I tend to take seating arrangements seriously, and feel the need to converse with all my dining partners. I can’t help it, it’s how I was raised, but ultimately it’s good that I was on the buffer, because I had a lovely conversation with the vice-president of the tourist office. So his title didn’t seem that lame at the time, but in hindsight I think I may have misunderstood his official role. At any rate, we ended up talking about one of my favorite subjects: history. This, unfortunately, seemed to exclude the others even more from our conversation, but my dining companion seemed to really enjoy the subject. [For my non-history-phile readership, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing right now…so stop rolling your eyes at me, I know he was equally interested in conversing over all things past] And it helped that the subject revolved around French history. In fact, he liked the subject so much that the next thing I knew, I was committed to be on the local radio. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had a date with stardom. All of Ariége was to hear my broken French discussing American perceptions of French history – and no, not the white flag of surrender version. I don’t condone that school of thought. Unfortunately, due to life’s surprises, my debut appearance was not meant to be, but I’ll get to that in due time.

After stuffing us full of heavy “French Mountain” food, the tourist office thought it would be a good idea to have us dance. Yes, dance. It’s a premature Christmas miracle that none of us revisited our meal. The tourist office had arranged for a group of musicians to play traditional music from the region and teach us a few moves. I’m not sure if it’s cool to admit this or not, but I actually really enjoyed the music, and I’m sure if I hadn’t been stuffed with food, I would have enjoyed the dancing as well. From the start of the first note, the ensemble had us spinning, clapping, and polkaing, and before we knew it, we were being filmed for local television. Apparently it’s not every day that a group of young Americans arrive in Ariège and begin dancing the Polka in the main square. It’s rare enough to make the news at any rate.

After our afternoon ball, we returned to the tourist office where we were served dessert wine with a regional specialty, pear tart. If there is one thing I’ve learned from my time in France, it’s that the French are full of regional specialties, many of which closely resemble the regional specialties of every other region in France. But despite similarities between regional cuisines, the food rarely disappoints, and the pear tart was just what I needed to drown out all nervousness at meeting a new host family. The aim of the village stay is total isolation. As such, my study abroad program has managed to choose the most remote region of France, and isolate each student in a different remote village. And with that in mind, each family arrived in turn to sweep another American off into the far corners of the French Pyrenées. My turn came soon enough with the arrival of two girls not much older than me.

The two girls volunteer with their third roommate with a local association that organizes weekly low-key concerts in a local bar as well as full blown monthly concerts at a local venue. Saturday night happened to be the night of the monthly concert and I was invited to attend. I was warned in advance that this would be an all night affair and that they would probably all sleep there. Having fair warning, I accepted the offer – after all, it’s not every day you get to go to a concert in the middle of nowhere France, right? Right.

On a serious note.

I have returned from the wilderness and I've brought with me a bounty of stories, but those will have to wait. I'll try to get the first in a series on the week out before this Friday, but no promises. Things are getting intense here with deadlines and classwork, but all the more reason to take blogging breaks. Right? Bon. That being said, I want to move on to something a bit more important. I'm rarely serious on this blog, but this entry is an exception. I feel passionate about this subject, and I'm using my blog as an outlet tonight. And so, you have now been forewarned.

I’ve been thinking about the election a lot recently, and really, who hasn’t? The French have certainly been all over the election coverage, even if I didn’t always agree with their biased portrayal of American Politics. Media aside, I do think it’s important to vote, even when your vote doesn’t count for much...like when you vote democrat in a red state (or vise-versa). But I don’t necessarily think it’s important because your vote actually means something individually, but because it is a right long fought for by those who in the past have been viewed as less than human. (And yes, I did vote in the election through absentee ballot)

But I’m not writing this to lecture everyone about voting. The real reason is because of what I’ve been reading on facebook. It’s one thing to have different political views, to show them, to debate over them. There is nothing wrong with that in my book, in fact I think it makes life a bit more interesting, but what I don’t understand is when people try to divide Christ along party lines. Don’t you think he’s more encompassing than that? I mean, if you can’t fit him into a box, what makes people think they can fit him into a political party? And what is more, I am seeing this dividing the body of Christ. Aren’t we broken and divided enough as it is? And are we not reproached for this in 1 Corinthians 3:1-5 where Paul writes:

Brothers, I could not address you as spiritual but as worldly – mere infants in Christ. I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it. Indeed, you are still not ready. You are still world. For since there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not worldly? Are you not acting like mere men? For when one says, “I follow Paul,” and another, “I follow Apollos,” are you not mere men?

And so what I want to know is why people think it’s ok to justify their own views on a broken, worldly political system by calling on the name of Christ, especially when so often it means calling their brothers and sisters in the faith “unchristian”? It makes me sick thinking about it. And no, I do not by any means support abortion, but I don’t support the death penalty or war either. In fact, I’m against all forms of murder. Each party certainly has its faults and both are far from ideal, and it’s important to remember that. Yes, Jesus said “do not commit murder,” but he also said “feed the poor,” and in my opinion, both parties fall far short of Christ’s standard. And so why are we dragging down the name of Christ and rubbing it in the mud by superimposing his name, his word, and his saving grace on our own political philosophies?

Derek Webb has this song where he sings:

who's your brother, who's your sister
you just walked passed him
i think you missed her
as we're all migrating to the place where our father lives
'cause we married in to a family of immigrants
(chorus)
my first allegiance is not to a flag, a country, or a man
my first allegiance is not to democracy or blood
it's to a king & a kingdom

(vs. 2)
there are two great lies that i’ve heard:
“the day you eat of the fruit of that tree, you will not surely die”
and that Jesus Christ was a white, middle-class republican
and if you wanna be saved you have to learn to be like Him

And yes, he does single out the Republican Party in the song, but I think the same can be said for the Democrats as well (only one seldom does). The point is that we are called to live lives set apart, but so often we allow politics, and many other things too, divide the body of Christ, feeding the fire of cynicism against Christ and what it means to be a Christian.

No one is worthy to be called ambassadors of Christ, I certainly am not, but as Christians, that is what we are, and I for one think it’s time we stop letting divisions as silly as the politics of a broken world interfere in the way God is moving through his body.

A final note before I temporarily cut ties with civilization as I know it

To be honest, I don’t really know where to begin this entry. It’s been a while – my most sincere apologies, it’s exam week – and a lot has happened since my last post, too much to include everything here. All the same, I want to give an update, but fear falling into a repetitive “week in review” format for my posts. Nothing quite compares to the banality of a routine. All the same, I have much to say and very little time to say it in. Tomorrow I leave at 9:00 am for a 10 day séjour in Eycheil, a small village in the Ariége region. I haven’t been promised internet access while there, and fearing my readership will begin to wane if rest inactive too long, I hope to give a few parting words to tide everyone over. And so without further ado, I present to you my not-quite week in review, but update none the less.

First, as some of you may know, I’ve made some drastic changes in my life. Since I’m going through so much personal growth while here, I decided now was the time to cut a few things out of my life. Well, namely one thing. Just over a week ago, I cut nearly 9 inches off my hair and dyed it red. I know you are not supposed to admit to dying your hair, but I think it’s a rather obvious change and I’m not ashamed. But the haircut is only half, or maybe even ¼, of the story. The real excitement was chez le coiffeur. After my hair was washed, it was vacuumed. Yes, vacuumed. I can’t say it was a particularly pleasant experience, and I wouldn’t recommend it – namely because I felt like a wet dog more than anything. After the vacuuming, the real show began. Once seated in the chair, the stylist went to work. My hair was flipped this way and that, she pulled sections straight up in the air only to snip a few strands before violently throwing them out of her way. She took what she wanted from each lock then flippantly tossed it aside, and when I thought no more hair could be cut, she pulled out the layering scissors. She hunkered down behind my chair and set to work. Hair was literarily flying feet above my head. If my friend Millan hadn’t been there, I might have panicked, but her steadfast nerves and reassuring glances gave me strength to continue at the merciless hands of the stylist. When it was all said and done, I was relieved to find I did in fact still have hair despite my doubts. I only wish she had channeled some of her energy into ensuring the cut was even. But despite my suspicions of an uneven cut, I like the change and think it’s rather nice, even if it does require a bit more attention. For example, gone are the mornings of “hmm…I really don’t feel like showering. Looks like I’m wearing my hair up today.”

Entirely unrelated to the haircut, I feel it’s time to return to a subject I touched on within my first few weeks here. I mentioned earlier the men in France tend to be much more aggressive than those in the States. They are more likely to whistle, catcall, and speak rather frankly with women they have only just met. The first two do not merit much attention, but the third always makes for a story, just like the one I’m about to recount. Sunday afternoon while waiting for the bus I was approached by an older man. In the most general of terms possible, there are three types of older men: (1) the “nothing out of the ordinary, I’m just a normal guy” older man, (2) the “I’m a dirty old man, but ultimately harmless” older man*, and (3) the “I’m just plain creepy” older man. My encounter was with the third. He approached me and said “Madame, vous êtes jolie.” He was standing very close and I found his statement a rather odd thing to say to someone half his age, in broad daylight, and on a Sunday afternoon. What do you say in response to that? Merci? That didn’t feel right to me, and I couldn’t ignore him, he was standing too close and was very insistent I acknowledge his statement. I opted for the “Euh…désolé monsieur, mais je crois que je comprends pas,” but quickly decided the “Actually, to be perfectly honest, I don’t speak a word of French and have absolutely no idea what you just said to me…” would ultimately be more effective. After only a few more awkward exchanges, he realized I wasn’t interested and was content to resign to the neighboring bench, rather tickled with the idea that I didn’t understand. For the most part, I find it very frustrating when people assume I don’t understand French, but there are occasions where I am happy to fall back on English as a defense mechanism.

*Note: the qualification for this category is that you have to be on the upper ends of “older.” You can’t be under 70 and qualify. It’s also necessary that they have an oddly charming, but keep your distance quality about them. Also, they pose no threat to women, mostly because there is little doubt that if there were a fight, they would lose.

Lastly, I want to bring up the subject of voting. I’m sure you have all heard that America is soon to elect a new president, and yes, I do plan to exercise my right and obligation as a citizen of the United States to vote. The process of obtaining an absentee ballot has been a long one, but not terribly complicated. Fill out this form, and that one too, print them off, sign here, sign there, and initial on the X, seal this one in a different envelope from that one, mail it, and wait. I admittedly cut it close by sending my materials in when I did, and there was a chance I wouldn’t receive my ballot in time, but Christmas came early this year: I came home Tuesday afternoon with my very own absentee ballot waiting for me on my desk. I quickly tore open the envelope, filled it out my ballot, marking X in all the right places, sealed it, signed the seal, and ran to put it in the mail. Done and done. Apparently not. Today I came home to find the very ballot I mailed three days ago sitting on my desk again. The post office seemed to have confused the return address with the sending address, but to be fair, they were rather oddly placed. To remedy the situation, I ran to the post office, had a brief discussion in broken French with the man behind the desk, and left my ballot once again in the hands of the French postal system. Let’s just hope this little delay won’t silence my say in American politics.

And so, with that I conclude this brief series of vignettes which bring us nearly up to date. I hope to get another post out before tomorrow morning, but it’s looking rather grim at the moment. I have yet to pack and get my life in order. Wish me bon courage in preparations and my time in the mountains – I might need it, my host dad just spent dinner listing the reasons why he considers Ariége the end of the world, and I’m only 95% sure he was joking.

Here are a few shots of the hair cut. They were taking right after I came out of the Coiffeur so the initial shock hasn't quite worn off yet.

Oh the memories...

I don't mean to exclude anyone, but this is really meant for a select few. You know who you are. And yes, I'm still holding a bit of a grudge.



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The Week in Review

Monday: UPS: what can brown do for you? The possibilities are endless, but you have to find the office first. The Rhodes Scholarship was due Monday, and A&M was kind enough to use their extensive funds to purchase an UPS account for me. The only problem is UPS stores are not in abundance in France, but fortunately there is one technically in Toulouse. Getting to the office was a feat of public transportation. After taking the metro to the end of the line and then a bus to the end of its line, I spent 40 minutes wandering around Toulouse’s warehouse district and weaving through a truck yard in search of the UPS offices. Needless to say, it was an epic adventure that included getting ogled by Frenchmen working in a hardware store, being honked at by greasy truckers, and learning several life lessons:

1. 18 Wheelers ALWAYS have the right-of-way, especially if you are a pedestrian.

2. Look both ways before crossing a truck yard.

3. Fill out all forms correctly, pressing hard for duplicates.

4. Sometimes you just have to wander aimlessly.

5. Every now and then, customer service is conducted in remote areas of truck yards in the warehouse district of Toulouse.

Wednesday: Men tend to be more aggressive in France, especially garbage men. While I was well aware of how aggressive French men can be, I didn’t know the caveat about garbage men… at least not until Wednesday night. Coming back from Bible Study on Wednesday, I encountered a garbage truck making its rounds. As I moved past one of the men, I said “Pardon” because he was clearly blocking my path. Apparently he took that to mean, “Oh baby, oh baby. I want you.” Quickening my step, I heard him calling after me something about dinner plans, among other things. Not three minutes later, the same truck passed me on its way to their next pickup. As it approached, I saw the same man leaning far out of the window, leering at me and flashing his broken smile. Tempting as it was, it was clear he hadn’t bathed in several weeks, which, as far as I’m concerned, is an insurmountable obstacle.

Thursday: The main difference between les ghettos à la Française and their American counterparts is that the French versions have 18^th century chateaux in the middle of them. Thursday morning, my study abroad program arranged for a tour of the Reynerie and Mirail neighborhoods of Toulouse. These areas have a somewhat formidable reputation, not unlike that of Harlem or the Bronx in New York. They suffer from a 40% unemployment rate, within which 60% of those out of work are youth, and gangs and delinquency are far from uncommon. The area definitely has its problems, but the layout is rather nice. The quartiers act as self-sufficient communities, with their own churches, organizations, daycares, and schools. They are also pedestrian friendly, cars cannot move freely within the neighborhood and there are all sorts of architectural inventions to facilitate movement within the community. Unfortunately, the facility of moving quickly through the quartiers has posed problems for police in pursuit of gang members. Despite all of this, Reynerie has a beautiful park with a well preserved 18^th century chateau and gardens in the middle of it. It’s a rather unusual sensation to walk in the gardens with low income housing looming overhead. But I hear the chateau is rather lovely when lit by cars set aflame by rioting youth.

Thursday was full of notable events. Turns out not even the French understand French slang…or at least grandparents don’t. When I got back from class that afternoon, my host mom’s parents were sitting in the living room. This weekend the second to youngest was confirmed in the Catholic Church, and all able bodies were present, hence the grandparents. I like them, especially the grandfather – we had a bonding moment over dinner. During the meal, the two youngest girls began recounting a story. They have an affinity for speaking quickly and using unprecedented amounts of slang. At one point, grandpa and I were staring wide eyed and mouth agape at the two ranted on. I honestly have never seen anything like it. The two were so engrossed in their story that they didn’t realize the other was speaking at the same time. But all in all, I took comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one completely lost by the conversation.

Friday: Friday night, my second to youngest host sister was confirmed. I don’t have much to say about the event itself, but it does merit mentioning. This was the first Catholic confirmation I have been to, and I found it enjoyable, if not rather long. The service itself was unfortunately rather uneventful, but the after party was a different story all together…

Saturday: I saw the fattest cat of my life. Don’t worry, I took pictures. At first, I thought it was a mid-sized dog, but I was wrong. It’s remarkable this cat is still alive. Just look at it.









A note about this cat. It's the neighbors' and I spied it from my bedroom window this morning. I did a stealth job taking its picture, but my zoom wasn't powerful enough for true paparazzi quality. But despite the distance, I still feel the pictures give you a good feel for the size of this beast.

The Cheese of Immortals and the Gripe of Death

I realize I'm a bit post happy today, but I'm trying to catch up. This next post is from the weekend of September 26-29.

Looking back over what I have just written, it seems more like a history lesson than a blog entry, but when I’m the author, it’s to be expected. Having said that, continue reading – I promise I didn’t make it too boring, besides, a little history, like fish, is good brain food.

This past weekend was yet another adventure. We all piled into a minibus and drove 3 hours to Averyon, another department in the Midi-Pyrenees. Averyon is an agricultural region - but then again, most of France is - and is most known for Roquefort cheese, brebis (sheep), and militantism. A winning combination. While the region has a long history of sticking it to the man, it is most recently known for demolishing a MacDonald’s built in the area. There was a lot that went into this event, but the short of it is in the late 90s, the EU refused to import US hormone treated beef and the US retaliated with a 100% tax on Roquefort cheese. Averyon’s farming community took it personally (and rightly so, the region’s breeders lost 14 million francs), and responded with a full out attack on a MacDonald’s. I’m sure I shock none of you when I say the movement has my fullest support and admiration.

Despite no militant uprisings took place, the weekend cannot be counted a complete loss. We stayed in a 16^th century chateau in a medieval, walled in city. The city was originally built in the 15^th century (ish) by the Templiers and the Hospitaliers, and its organization still reflects that. The Hospitaliers swore an oath to provide water to travelers, and the city is organized to accommodate travels seeking water. The area as a whole has no natural water source, all the water is deep underground and the wells in this town were a vital resource for the area. I learned all of this on the walking tour, which I found fascinating despite being deathly ill. Oh yeah, did I mention I caught le gripe while there? (Un gripe is a flu in French, but I prefer the French to the English – it sounds more dramatic to say “I’ve caught the gripe” than “I’ve caught the flu.”) There has been a nasty bug running around terrorizing each girl in the program in turn. This weekend I didn’t see its ambush and I fell into its snare. And so while I enjoyed myself, the details of the trip are rather hazy, obscured somewhat by my fever. With this in mind, the following is an account of what I remember:

Clearly I remembered historical details of the trip, but history aside, the trip included much outdoors activity, but the combination of deathly ill and freezing temperatures made the situation less than ideal. The first activity, however, was pre-illness and a lot of fun. We went on a hike through the region with a guide who told us about the significance of all kinds of things we found on our way: from the “butt scratcher” berries to the shepherding practices in the region. Averyon is a rugged area, lined with rigid low-lying rock cliffs enclosing planes of resilient plants and animals. There is a rustic, natural beauty to the land despite it seeming cold and inhospitable.

The next day, while everyone else got to go on a bike ride through the region, I rode in the minibus with our program director. I enjoy her company, so that wasn’t an issue; I just wished I could have gone with the rest. At that point, my flew hit hard and I was too sick to do much else but drool on my pillow as I watched the landscape pass by. Losing out on the bike ride wasn’t the only thing I lost on account of the cold. I also was fortunate enough to lose my voice. That was a lasting highlight of the weekend. I’m only now getting my voice back. Losing the voice was just what I needed, because not only was I mispronouncing the words, but I was doing it with an “I’ve been chain smoking for the past 40 years” voice, which was nicely complimented by my “smokers cough.” The image would have been complete if only I reeked of alcohol, spoke with a slur, and was wearing a dated cocktail dress with gaudy jewelry.

Mais retournons à nos moutons (currently a favorite expression). While the nature and all our tours were great, they didn’t compare to the dinners we were served. The chateau we were staying in is officially called a gite, which is sort of like a bed and breakfast. Ours was run by a rather young couple. I never met the wife, but the husband, Benjamin, cooked dinner for us each night and was one of the nicest people I’ve met since I’ve been in France…also one of the best cooks. He spoiled us with four course meals each night, each course toping the one preceding it. He was kind enough to give us some of his recipes, which will definitely be coming back to the States with me. What can I say? There will always be a special place in my heart for Benjamin d’Averyon.

Our time in Averyon ended with a tour of the Roquefort caves. You know, Roquefort…the really delicious, very strong bleu cheese made from sheep milk. The legend of Roquefort is pretty fantastic. Centuries ago, a young shepherd was tending his sheep and decided to take a lunch break in a nearby cave. While settling down to his déjeuner of sheep cheese and bread, he caught a glimpse of the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Deciding she was more appealing than his lunch, he instantly dropped what he was eating and chased her. Of course he was never able to find her, and eventually returned to his cave. A lot of time had passed, and when he returned his cheese had molded. He apparently was famished and decided a little mold never hurt anyone, so he ate it…and keeled over and died on the spot. Just kidding. The legend actually ends with him exclaiming something along the lines of, “Holy moly, this must be the cheese of the gods!” Whether or not the legend has any truth to it, the cheese is pretty amazing and the entire aging process is still carried out in the original, natural caves. Of course, they are pretty fancy natural caves now, but natural none the less.

This is when I harvested grapes in France

Here are some pictures from the Vendange. I'm going to leave them up to your imagination because I don't feel like explaining them. If you follow the link at the bottom of my last update, I believe there are captions to those photos. Actually, there are a few things I want to note. The last picture is of the open vat of wine. See, no lid in sight. Also, there is a shot of me with one of my host brothers in which I am clearly excited about the grape harvesting machine. He might not have shared my enthusiasm. The rest are some of my favorites from the day. Enjoy.

Chillin’ with Dionysus and the Gang

A bit late in coming, but better late than never (if you hear an expression enough times, does it become true?).

From September 20 (shamefully late, I know):

This morning we left Toulouse at the reasonable hour of 9:30 and made our way to a small vineyard for the Vendanges, the traditional grape harvest festivals that take place in France in the fall. When the grapes are ripe and are ready to be made into wine, people from neighboring towns and cities congregate at different vineyards to harvest the grapes, and drink some pinard of course. As we plowed through sleepy villages making our way to the vineyard, Free Bird blasting out the windows, all I could think was how absurd it was that I couldn’t remember the name of the band that played it. That’s not something you are supposed to forget, right? It’s a rock anthem after all. Don’t worry, I now know it’s Lynyrd Skynyrd.

It was fairly cold when we arrived at the vineyard, but once we began harvesting the grapes we warmed up quite a bit. We were given a brief lesson in grape harvesting and then turned loose. Oh the glories of cheap, manual labor…but anything for the experience, right? Right. That’s what I thought until I encountered my first man-eating snail. Yes, frighteningly large snails enjoy grapes as well. Think about that next time you uncork a bottle of wine. But life goes on and I lost no fingers to the ferocious beasts, so I considered the morning a rather enjoyable success with only one disappointment: Dionysus (or Bacchus if you prefer Tzatziki to Marinara) failed to descend from Mount Olympus to preside over our Vendange. He unfortunately had a previous engagement. You know those gods of antiquity, always a full schedule. Actually, I hear they are a bunch of divas anyway.

The afternoon was filled with excitement as well. After lunch we drove to see what is without question the coolest machine of all time. As much as everyone loves harvesting grapes for a morning, the work gets tedious and physically painful after a while. Employing harvesters also has certain drawbacks, like they cannot work at night, they are slow, they need breaks, they could possibly unionize, and they demand wages (which, if we are honest, is the biggest drawback of them all). As a result, this wonder-machine was invented. It does the work of 80 men and can work under all conditions, including nighttime and winter harvests (when people’s hands freeze off due to the harsh elements) AND it will never go on strike. Ok, so I realize most of my readers are from Texas and are not easily impressed by farming equipment, but this is different. This beast of a machine passes over the vines and shakes the vines forcibly yet gently. It then catches all the individual grapes that fall from the plants and tosses them in the back. But it’s really a gentile process – the stems of the grapes remain intact and even those jumbo man eating snails can’t complain.

The other really cool thing about the machine is that the driver took us all on “hayrides.” We all climbed up on this thing and rode it as it made its rounds. Riding on top of the grape harvester, holding on for dear life, I couldn’t help but think how different France is from the United States. This sort of thing would never be allowed in the States, the liability would be way too high. We were really crammed up there and it was no gentile ride. The thing was shaking us all over the place and if we were to slip, we would either fall under one of the mongo tires or into the vats of grapes. Either way, it would be a fall to our deaths (or at least as far as I’m concerned, it would be). All the same, it was hands down the best hayride of all time, and if you don’t believe me, you can see for yourself. Oh yes, there is a video.

I didn’t think the hayride could be toped, but I was mistaken. Alan, the viticulturist who owned the vineyard we toured, took us to the cave, where they turn the grapes into wine. He showed us the entire process of making wine. We began with stomping the grapes, which to my disappointment is no longer done by crazy Italian ladies and Lucile Ball. They have been replaced by yet another machine (much less exciting than the first).

After the grapes are squished into juice and their impurities removed (like stems, seeds, and giant snails), the juice is placed into a giant vat to begin the fermentation process. Our viticulturist friend took us to three or four different vats to taste the different stages of fermentation. As Alan pulled samples from each vat, lack of sanitation concerns was evident. He pulled out two wine glasses, knelt down, and with a rolled up sleeve he reached deep into the vat, sloshed the wine about, and pulled out a full glass. Alan then accidently dropped the second glass in the vat (it’s sizable and there was no way of retrieving it). He didn’t seem too concerned, but I guess when you leave vats of fermenting wine wide open with lids nowhere to be found, it’s expected that all kinds of things are going to fall in.

But don’t let the thought of Alan’s grubby, unwashed, hairy arm keep you from enjoying your next bottle of expensive French imported wine.

More pictures from Vendange.

Why is everything in this country so stinkin' small?

I am running out of the toiletries I bought before I left for France, and I’m now replacing them with their European equivalents. This really isn’t a big deal because most of the same brands are found here as in the States, but with one “big” difference. Everyone knows things cost more in Europe, but why on earth is everything sold in miniature?

Whisky and Nylons

The mother of my host dad (which I guess makes her my host grandmère) came to Toulouse last Saturday to participate in Pope related festivities. Because she lives fairly far from Toulouse, she stayed with my host family until this afternoon. Her extended visit was fine by me because I like her a lot. She calls all the girls ma fille, including myself, and all her grandsons mon fils. She also makes a particular point to speak with me, which I appreciate. Our conversations have covered a variety of topics, but my favorites have been the stories she tells about herself when she was young. She told me about the man who bought her her first pair of nylons, her American friend who only spoke old French and the trouble that got him into, and all of her children and grandchildren. We also had an in-depth discussion of all the plot lines to her favorite books and movies last night. For the most part, I’m able to follow the our conversations, but to understand her I have to be a very attentive, active listener: I lean forward, ask questions, and nod when I understand. I think she likes the undivided attention I give her, and for all intents and purposes, I really do hang on her every word, even if it is mostly to follow the conversation. But don’t get me wrong, I really do enjoy the stories. It’s in a history major’s nature.

In addition to these conversations, Grandmère has secured a place in my heart by taking it upon herself to ensure my wellbeing. It’s as if after only four days she developed an acute sense of my needs, needs that even I was unaware of. This gift first manifested itself Tuesday night. While sitting at the dinner table, one of my host sisters asked me if I wanted some more rosé. I hesitated for a second but grandmère knew better. She didn’t skip a beat and responded immediately with “Yes, of course she does!”

Yesterday afternoon she displayed her gifts again. She decided she wanted some tea and that it was clear I was in need of some as well. While I thought I had no desire for tea (I had just come from having tea with some friends), I couldn’t pass up the offer… in part because she was rather insistent. The scenario went something like this (just pretend it’s written in French):

Grandmère: “Ahh, Carrie, ma fille, would you like some tea?”

Me: “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

Grandmère: “Come, I believe the tea is right here. Now where is the water boiler? Do you know where the water boiler is?”

Me: “Euh…no, I’m not sure where it’s kept.”

Grandmère: “Maud!* Where is the water boiler? Carrie needs to learn how to use it!”

Maud: “Here it is, and here is the cord. Plug it in, flip the switch on, and wait for it to automatically shut off. When it shuts itself off, it’s done. But be careful, it’s very hot.”

Grandmère: “Oh good, Carrie needed to know that. Carrie, now you can have tea when you come home each day…if you’d like, of course.”

Me: “Thanks.”

*Maud is one of my host sisters.

To be fair, I enjoyed my cup of tea, it is good information to know, and I really didn’t know where they kept the water boiler. In fact, when I look back, it is as if she sensed I was an afternoon tea drinker and knew I would begin to miss it in a few weeks.

Another thing that’s great about grandmère is that she is a strong woman, which is made clear by her aperitif of choice. Before dinner she takes whisky straight up, one cube of ice. The woman does not mess around, she knows what she likes and she doesn’t bother with frills. Yet despite the fact she pulls no punches, she is also very caring and loving. When I came home from class yesterday, there were three large tins filled with different types of cakes she had made, all regional specialties of course. The first was shortbread cookies, and then followed almond biscotti, and to end with there were dense, orange cakes. My host mom explained that when grandmère’s three oldest sons went to college, they would stay for weeks without coming home (rarer in France than in the US). Each time her sons left for school, she would make for them their favorite cakes: the almond biscotti for one, the orange cakes for another, and the shortbread for my host dad.

So in summary, I think grandmère is pretty great and I’m sorry she left so soon. She invited me to visit her in the small town where she lives with her oldest granddaughter, so hopefully I will see her again. Until then, it looks like I’m fending for myself and looking after my own needs, but at least I know how to use the water boiler.

Have you ever seen a nun run?

The Pope really is a celebrity in his own right. Sure he doesn’t star in movies or slam guitars at concerts, but he draws quite a large crowd and all his fans are diehard. But before I go any farther, let’s start from the beginning.

My morning began very early on Sunday…3:30 am early. The Pope, who had been in France for the past week, was presiding over mass at Lourdes, a small town near the Spanish boarder. Lourdes has been an important pilgrimage site ever since the Virgin Mary appeared to a young girl named Bernadette 150 years ago. From what I understand, the girl converted on the spot and began telling people about her vision (who can blame her?); the shrine and cathedral soon followed. This year marks the 150 year anniversary of the miracle and the Pope made a special trip to this holy site to celebrate the occasion, as did every practicing Catholic in a 200 mile radius. As practicing Catholics, my host family was among the pilgrims and I, being their guest, had an invitation to join them. How could I resist?

We arrived in Lourdes around 6:00 in the morning and began our trek to the field where mass was to be held. As we began our pilgrimage from the train station, I couldn’t help but think it was best for everyone I never memorized the opening lines of Chaucer’s Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. If it had been readily accessible in my mind, I would have had no choice but to greet the dawn with a little Middle English mood poetry.

Once we reached our designated fenced in area, we settled in for a breakfast of croissants and coffee – a Sunday must in my host family. Soon after we had finished, the crowd’s anticipation began to mount and finally burst into elation with the arrival of the Pope in his pope-mobile (it’s honestly a pretty sweet ride). After circling the crowd, he made his way to the front where he led mass. Several hours later the service ended and we were left to our own devices. Everyone’s primary objective at this point was lunch. Growing up in the Bible Belt, I wasn’t expecting everyone to pull out their bottles of liquor and wine...but this is France. Our group served an aperitif – a sweet liquor of some sort (or really, it can be anything as long as it has alcohol in it) served before a meal to get your appetite up and running – while the group next to us pulled out the bottles of wine they had brought. Our lunch consisted of ham, cheese, and butter on a baguette sandwiches (classic French), carrots, chips, and apples, which when combined with the aperitif made me feel very French.

The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting the shrine where Bernadette saw the Virgin Mary, visiting the cathedral build to commemorate the vision, and just walking around Lourdes. Around 6:00 we went back to the site where mass was held to watch a procession of some sort. Most people had left by this point, so it was a lot less strict and we had our choice of where to stand. It was at this point when I witnessed a spider crawl down the pants of the woman in front of me. What could I do? How do you even go about saying in French, “Excuse me ma’am, but I believe a spider just crawled down your pants”? I felt obligated to inform her of the unfortunate incident, but had neither the words nor the desire to act it out. Charades were never my thing anyway.

While I was turning my moral dilemma over in my mind, an unexpected thing occurred. We had stationed ourselves toward the very back of the area near the road, and while most in our group moved about the area freely, I leaned against the back fence, keeping an eye on our bags. Suddenly I heard the crowd scream, and when I turned around, who do you think was there but the Pope?! Yes, the Pope decided to make a surprise visit and my positioning put me no more than 5 feet away from his pope-mobile. When I turned back around, I saw a crowd of people rushing the fence, right where I happened to be standing. Suddenly all those horror stories I’ve heard about people being trampled at concerts, parades, riots, etc. flashed in my mind and I began to fear for my life. I turned back to face the Pope hoping that if things got ugly, he would intervene, and braced myself for impact. Two or three zealous Spanish girls slammed into me first. They began shouting “Esta-est! Viva la Papa!” and with each word they screamed, they pushed a bit closer toward the road. The problem was, I was between them and the fence, and the fence was between me and the Pope. A word of advice: never, ever get between fanatical Spanish girls and the pope. Nothing short of divine intervention saved me from certain death Sunday afternoon at the hands of Pope fans.

Once the pope had passed, the crowd dissipated – some to chase after the pope-mobile, others to watch from a safe distance. As the pope made his way to the front, I could still hear the same girls screaming “Esta-est! Viva la Papa!” as they chased him around the circumference of the field.

Sometimes late at night, I can still hear their chilling cries…

For more pictures from Lourdes, click here.