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.



.

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.