This morning I pulled up to the front of the gym and I have been going to, and Ian, one of the trainer who works there was out but his car. He gave me a sheepish grin as he watched me pull in. I, in a somewhat self-conscious way, assumed that this grin had something to do with something I had done and immediately check to make sure I had indeed parked the car correctly, that I had nothing on my face, and that my backpack didn't have my underwear poking out of it or anything. Once I had confirmed that I had indeed done everything correctly, I got out of the car.
"Ne rigoler pas, Eleanor" he said. "Il faut absoluement pas rigoler" ("Don't laugh, you absolutely can't laugh) (Ian calls me Eleanor because I have a rule that I will remind someone to call me Nell once, and if they don't remember I figure it's not worth it to remind them).
Ian was standing by his car, and as I approached I saw that his hands were covered in grease and in one them he had one of those tools that you use to open your car when you have locked your keys in the car. He looked exceedingly sheepish.
"It happens to me all the time", he said "but normally it takes me about five minutes to get the door open and I've been here for about twenty minutes and the keys to the car are in the gym so I can't open the gym"
I couldn't help but giggle a little.
Luckily for him, the owner of the gym didn't live that far away, so I gave him a ride there so that he cold go borrow the keys so that he could open up the gym. He then went back to his car and after about 10 more minutes he managed to get his car open. I know this because he came in to announce to every one in the gym in a cheerful manner.
I wasn't so sure it was a good idea when I decided to sign up for a 3 month membership to a gym because I have always had an exceeding high level of scorn for "working out". A lot of my scorn about the gym has to do with my own personal experiences. To me, a gym has always been place you go to if you want to if you want to see a lot a of douchebags wearing muscle shirts and a lot of girls who seem to care more about their appearance at the gym than they care about working out and if you want to feel alienated and inferior while you are using the machines because other people can probably use them better than you. Yeah, I pretty much avoided the gym as much as I could.
And I'm not sure if its this gym in particular, or if its being in France, or if its the fact that I never gave gyms in the US a chance, but I have actually been really enjoying going to the one here in Mayenne. There are several reasons for this. One is that this gym is a lot smaller than any of the other ones I have ever been to and it is also a lot less crowded than any gym I have been to. This means that you never feel overwhelmed or crowded, which is really nice. Another reason is that the staff here will make you a workout plan and explain to you what the hell you're supposed to be doing, so that you don't feel stupid while you muck around wondering if anyone has noticed that you have no clue what you're doing. Finally, when people come in, they actually go around and say "hi" to everyone in the facility, which is nice, but alarming (the first time this happened to me, I spent quite some time wondering how the hell I knew the guy before I realized that he was saying hi to everyone). This explains Ian coming in and cheerfully announcing to everyone that there was no need to worry, because he had found his keys.
On top of all that, and probably more importantly, it is probably has some of the best people watching I have ever experienced in one place. In general gyms are good people-watching places, but I feel that the vacuum created by the lack of frat-boy meat-head types has allowed for all sorts of other interesting types to appear.
My personal favorite is Mullet-Man (this is what I call him in my head). This man, has quite possibly, one of the most impressive mullets I have ever seen in my life. This is how impressive it is: the first time I saw him, I did not realize he had a mullet, because it is a short crew cut in the front and the back, which is long tumbling brown hair down to his mid back, was tied into a ponytail. This was my train of thought "oh look, there is someone with a normal hair cut" (he turns sideways) "... (the ellipses represent my speechless awe)". I am fascinated by it, and have to try and not stare when he is in the gym.
Another interesting trend is the penchant that the men seem to have to wear tight running short/capris for pretty much any workout. For some reason, this trend is especially popular among the middle aged, slightly nerdy-looking crowd. My personal favorite example of this group is the guy who combines this look with a tiger striped towel, although I think he got the wrong idea when he intercepted my look of silent incredulity the first time I ever saw him and now I have to be very careful not to people-watch him.
I could go on--there are all sorts of wonderful people. Those, however, are my favorite so I think I will stop for now. For the time being, I am enjoying the gym and the new experience of learning how to lift and whatnot. Once the novelty wears off, we'll see how I feel, but for the moment I am entertained.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Tradition
It snowed on Wednesday. This was the first time in a long time that I have been a place where it has snowed extensively for a long period of time. It was beautiful, and it was the first time I’ve noticed the magical silence that goes along with a snowfall—it’s a combination of the fact that a lot of snow means that people tend to stay indoors and watch rather than go outside and make noise and the fact that snow has a muffling effect on noise in general. I thought of it as the sound of watching.
The snow had lots of different effects on the second half of the week. A lot of students couldn’t get to the schools because they come from smaller villages further away, so I had several classes that were canceled or with only a few students. It made for a nice easy transition back to work.
We had snow before Christmas, but it didn’t really cover everything and was at most 2 or 3 inches. This time we had around 8 or 9 and it was absolutely gorgeous to see the way it covered everything in a blanket (those of you from the East coast are probably laughing at my awe, but to someone who isn’t accustomed to it, it really is magical). On top of that, we have continued to have below freezing temperatures all week so the for the most part the snow has stayed (except in town where it has been pounded into ice by people’s feet and now makes walking a fun will-you-break-your-face sort of game).
All of this means that when a colleague asked me if I would like to go running with me and his wife today, the ground in most places where people weren’t constantly walking was still covered in a blanket of snow. I was really excited to go running with them because they know a whole bunch of trails that I don’t and it would be nice to do something a little different. The run was beautiful—I’ve never run on snow before, and it was through a part of the countryside I hadn’t really explored before. There is something quietly spectacular about the skinny ragged skeletons of trees with a coating of snow. Brilliant white clinging impossibly to skinny so-dark-gray-it’s-almost-black spindly branches. Beautiful.
Another highlight is that we ran along a trail that the teacher explained could have well be around since the middle ages (he was probably exaggerating, but the thought is still fascinating fodder for imagination). The trails are called “sunken trails” because they actually are at lower levels than the surrounding farmland, ostensibly because they have been so well used over the last several hundred years.
This is one thing that does not cease to boggle my imagination here in France. The time depth of the place is simply on another level than that of Tucson, the Southwest, or quite frankly, anything barring Native American sites in the United States. So even if, the trail, instead of being from the middle ages was from the Renaissance or the Reformation, I am still impressed. Hell, even if it is only from the 1800s, I’m impressed.
You can see the effect of time depth on the adherence that people have to traditions and ways here. During Christmas, I was surprised to see decorations go up in all the towns that I went to, including small hamlets of only several hundred people. I was surprised by the overt Christianity of the decorations (them being town decorations after all) and by the fact that it was pretty much universally done. Only this last week I was surprised by another tradition that I had pretty much completely forgotten about.
It all happened on January 5th. January 5th is what is known in France as the “Fête des Rois” or the “King’s festival”—it celebrates something about the three kings which I don’t know anything about, having not ever read a bible. (feel free to explain if you do know). The tradition in France on this day is to ear something called the “Galette des Rois”, which is a flaky pastry cakey thing. Inside the cake is a porcelain figurine. Everyone gets a piece of cake and one person is lucky enough to get a piece of cake without breaking their teeth. As a reward, they get to keep the figurine, and they get to be king—meaning that they get a paper crown. I’m not clear on whether being king actually gives you any other rights besides these two things; the whole tradition is a little mysterious to me.
Besides the tradition itself, the thing that really surprised me was the fact that they made it into a little celebration for teachers at the school. I think one classes was shortened so that all the teachers could be there. We all assembled in the cafeteria and the Principal gave a little speech and then everyone got a piece of galette and—more surprisingly—a glass of hard cider.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised because, as I think I have mentioned, you can have a glass of wine with your lunch in the cafeteria if you like. I think what surprised me is the respect the French give traditions, and, in this case, how often they are associated with food.
I don’t think I blogged about this, but a big event at the school right before Christmas was the Repas de Noel—the Christmas Dinner—the school pulled out all the stops and we had a three-course meal that included such delicacies as foie gras and scallops. My point in bringing this up was that it is another example of the way that food an tradition are tied together so strongly that you see them in even in such a sterile environment as French high school.
It is true, for the most part I have found French high school incredibly sterile—what I mean by this is devoid of anything but the tools for education. There are very few cultural activities, and almost nothing that can be described as extra-curricular. This is, of course, in comparison to American high school, which is so non-sterile that in a lot of ways it verges on kitsch.
In American high schools there are lots of activities and traditions that have nothing to do with education: sports, band, homecoming, student council, prom—I could go on. One may argue that these activities serve no real purpose (and in some ways they would be correct). What this tradition—this kitsch—does is keep students involved (even if they are very unwillingly involved). It serves as a way of tricking student into being a participant. In French school, I feel like I see a lot more exhausted, burned-out students who could really care less. Although there are also no jocks and no cheerleaders, which is also a welcome change.
The exception to this lack of enthusiasm is in the school cafeteria. The food is usually exceptional and completely incomparable to anything you would find in an American high school. I find it fascinating that France excels in the exact area that American high schools fail, and also that America takes so little interest in food that were are able to stomach what is available, when it is clearer possible to have school cafeterias that actually serve digestible food.
The snow had lots of different effects on the second half of the week. A lot of students couldn’t get to the schools because they come from smaller villages further away, so I had several classes that were canceled or with only a few students. It made for a nice easy transition back to work.
We had snow before Christmas, but it didn’t really cover everything and was at most 2 or 3 inches. This time we had around 8 or 9 and it was absolutely gorgeous to see the way it covered everything in a blanket (those of you from the East coast are probably laughing at my awe, but to someone who isn’t accustomed to it, it really is magical). On top of that, we have continued to have below freezing temperatures all week so the for the most part the snow has stayed (except in town where it has been pounded into ice by people’s feet and now makes walking a fun will-you-break-your-face sort of game).
All of this means that when a colleague asked me if I would like to go running with me and his wife today, the ground in most places where people weren’t constantly walking was still covered in a blanket of snow. I was really excited to go running with them because they know a whole bunch of trails that I don’t and it would be nice to do something a little different. The run was beautiful—I’ve never run on snow before, and it was through a part of the countryside I hadn’t really explored before. There is something quietly spectacular about the skinny ragged skeletons of trees with a coating of snow. Brilliant white clinging impossibly to skinny so-dark-gray-it’s-almost-black spindly branches. Beautiful.
Another highlight is that we ran along a trail that the teacher explained could have well be around since the middle ages (he was probably exaggerating, but the thought is still fascinating fodder for imagination). The trails are called “sunken trails” because they actually are at lower levels than the surrounding farmland, ostensibly because they have been so well used over the last several hundred years.
This is one thing that does not cease to boggle my imagination here in France. The time depth of the place is simply on another level than that of Tucson, the Southwest, or quite frankly, anything barring Native American sites in the United States. So even if, the trail, instead of being from the middle ages was from the Renaissance or the Reformation, I am still impressed. Hell, even if it is only from the 1800s, I’m impressed.
You can see the effect of time depth on the adherence that people have to traditions and ways here. During Christmas, I was surprised to see decorations go up in all the towns that I went to, including small hamlets of only several hundred people. I was surprised by the overt Christianity of the decorations (them being town decorations after all) and by the fact that it was pretty much universally done. Only this last week I was surprised by another tradition that I had pretty much completely forgotten about.
It all happened on January 5th. January 5th is what is known in France as the “Fête des Rois” or the “King’s festival”—it celebrates something about the three kings which I don’t know anything about, having not ever read a bible. (feel free to explain if you do know). The tradition in France on this day is to ear something called the “Galette des Rois”, which is a flaky pastry cakey thing. Inside the cake is a porcelain figurine. Everyone gets a piece of cake and one person is lucky enough to get a piece of cake without breaking their teeth. As a reward, they get to keep the figurine, and they get to be king—meaning that they get a paper crown. I’m not clear on whether being king actually gives you any other rights besides these two things; the whole tradition is a little mysterious to me.
Besides the tradition itself, the thing that really surprised me was the fact that they made it into a little celebration for teachers at the school. I think one classes was shortened so that all the teachers could be there. We all assembled in the cafeteria and the Principal gave a little speech and then everyone got a piece of galette and—more surprisingly—a glass of hard cider.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised because, as I think I have mentioned, you can have a glass of wine with your lunch in the cafeteria if you like. I think what surprised me is the respect the French give traditions, and, in this case, how often they are associated with food.
I don’t think I blogged about this, but a big event at the school right before Christmas was the Repas de Noel—the Christmas Dinner—the school pulled out all the stops and we had a three-course meal that included such delicacies as foie gras and scallops. My point in bringing this up was that it is another example of the way that food an tradition are tied together so strongly that you see them in even in such a sterile environment as French high school.
It is true, for the most part I have found French high school incredibly sterile—what I mean by this is devoid of anything but the tools for education. There are very few cultural activities, and almost nothing that can be described as extra-curricular. This is, of course, in comparison to American high school, which is so non-sterile that in a lot of ways it verges on kitsch.
In American high schools there are lots of activities and traditions that have nothing to do with education: sports, band, homecoming, student council, prom—I could go on. One may argue that these activities serve no real purpose (and in some ways they would be correct). What this tradition—this kitsch—does is keep students involved (even if they are very unwillingly involved). It serves as a way of tricking student into being a participant. In French school, I feel like I see a lot more exhausted, burned-out students who could really care less. Although there are also no jocks and no cheerleaders, which is also a welcome change.
The exception to this lack of enthusiasm is in the school cafeteria. The food is usually exceptional and completely incomparable to anything you would find in an American high school. I find it fascinating that France excels in the exact area that American high schools fail, and also that America takes so little interest in food that were are able to stomach what is available, when it is clearer possible to have school cafeterias that actually serve digestible food.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Part Deux
French Food is Going to Kill Me.
This is an observation that doesn't directly have to do with the holidays, although the point has definitely been driven home over the last couple weeks. I am going to be honest. I have gained some weight while I have been and I do find this somewhat upsetting. I am going to try and explain why the food here has so many alluring qualities, and why I am somewhat surprised that there aren't that many obese French people
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that it isn't good. The problem is quite the opposite. Or rather, part of the problem is. It is true that everything here has a different flavor or quality than in the US. This is partially because many people in France have such a focus on regional specialties and and on locally made food. This leaves me with no choice but to try everything. The bread is delicious, so is the butter, so is the regional cheese and the locally made rilletes, and the locally raised chicken, the home made jam, the pastries from the patisserie down the street--are you starting to see my problem here? It's really hard to resist when your host mother calls you down for an apératif (glorified pre-meal snack) saying "I've made home made paté that you have to try", or "look! I bought you all éclairs from the bakery!". I think it is easier to eat healthy in the US because, quite frankly, the food is more boring.
This isn't to say that I don't like healthy food. Actually, I am quite a fan of healthy food. I actually really enjoy vegetables. I would eat them if I could. The problem is that no one else seems to really care for them (not just my family, I feel that the entire country of France seems to be in agreement on this point). In my family, it is rare to have them as a side dish, and when they appear I get really excited. One of the saddest days of my stay here was when my host mom was preparing steak with spinach--I wasn't too excited about the steak, but about the spinach, yes. Unfortunately, 10 minutes later I smell a burning smell. I was heartbroken when she announced that she had burned the spinach and that she would be serving potatoes instead.
In contrast to the usual delicious food, despite the lack of vegetable matter, there are somethings that I sometimes get in my family that seem absurd, and, quite frankly just wrong. The most egregious example of this is sometime when my host mom is in a rush so that she just cooks up a bunch of pasta. This in itself is not wrong. What is wrong is when she gets out the bottle of ketchup and puts it next to the pasta. When this happens I feel like standing up and making a speech:
Hello. My Name is Nell. I come from the USA, which could be considered the birthplace of ketchup. Let me clarify something. Ketchup is not tomato sauce. You put ketchup on hamburgers and fries and maybe chicken nuggets. You don't put it on pasta.
I can't explain why this seem like a horrible violation of the codes ofhumanity, but it does. And there you go.
Ok, so this wasn't about my break at all. My apologies. I think I just needed to get this off my chest.
More General Reasons France is Out to Get Me
Because it is perverse and likes its little jokes.
It all started on the 31st of December, when Josh and I were setting off to get back to Paris.
The car didn't start. It turns out we'd left an ipod charger in the outlet and it had drained our battery. Whoop dee doo. Anyhow, the problem wasn't that hard to solve--all we had to do was find someone with jumper cables right?
Right. Picture us, 7 in the morning in Chamonix, where it is just cold enough to alternate between a heavy drizzle of snow and rain. We went back to the hotel to ask if anyone had jumper cables. No. We went to another hotel to see: "Yes, madame we have someone who has jumper cables, but he is not here right now, and it is possible he may never show up". Awesome. I started polling random strangers (incidentally, jumper cable in French is pince), and no one had them, although one nice man offered to push our car down the hill to give us a hill start. No one. Chamonix is a very crowded tourist town full of people under 30 who drive nice cars, hence, no jumper cables. We finally called a mechanic and were on the verge of paying 113 Euros just to have our car jumped, when the only lady in the town over the age of 30 showed up in the hotel and lo-and behold, she had jumper cables. Thank God. We managed to get off on the road to Paris.
The rest of the day was uneventful until we got into Paris and had to return our car to the Gare du Nord. Driving in Paris is a nightmare. Driving in Paris when you are unsure of where you are going is even more of a nightmare. Anyhow, after finally navigating our way to the general area of Gare du Nord, we had the problem of finding where exactly to put our car. We blindly drove around the station and eventually found an unmarked Parking garage. On a whim, we decided to enter it, and as we were going in, I saw the logo of 4 rental car companies posted on a post that was conveniently out of sight of the entrance. The French definitely win at clear signage.
Fast forward to the morning of the New Years morning, when we are trying to get Josh onto his airplane. We had left his luggage at a hotel my uncle and aunt were staying at, and had gone off to experience New Years. It was only on our way back to hotel in the early morning that we realized that some of the trains were starting a little later than expected--we were not going to be able to get back to the hotel to get his luggage. We decided to try and take a taxi. We exited on to the street only to find 5 other people with the same thought in mind and no taxis to be found. Finally, we realized that he could still catch his flight if we just left directly for the airport without his luggage, which is what we did--he barely made his flight.
I then went back to the hotel and had to figure out what to do now that I had his bag and my bags. I ended up lugging both of them on to a train to Laval(this was hard because my bag is a piece of crap that over balance any time you let go). When I got to Laval, I knew there might be some problem with the buses, it being January 1st. However, I checked the bus schedule and there was, supposedly one running, so I sat down to wait on a park bench for an hour for it to come. It did not come. I called my host family to see if they could help me out. They did not answer. I called again. They still didn't answer. I realized that all of the people I knew in Laval were not currently in Laval, and I realized that there was a good chance that I was stranded. Then, being overtired and stressed, I did what anyone would do. I started bawling.
This did not help the situation, because I still had to find a way home and this involved calling people. It is very hard to call people and communicated when your voice is wracked by sobs. Now imagine doing this in French. Luckily for me, I remembered that I knew some Americans in a nearby town who I had met occasionally and had dinner with them a few times. They came and picked me up, and I think I was weepy until I finally got some sleep.
That is why France is out to get me.
Now all I have to do is to figure out what I am going to do with this extra bag.
This is an observation that doesn't directly have to do with the holidays, although the point has definitely been driven home over the last couple weeks. I am going to be honest. I have gained some weight while I have been and I do find this somewhat upsetting. I am going to try and explain why the food here has so many alluring qualities, and why I am somewhat surprised that there aren't that many obese French people
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that it isn't good. The problem is quite the opposite. Or rather, part of the problem is. It is true that everything here has a different flavor or quality than in the US. This is partially because many people in France have such a focus on regional specialties and and on locally made food. This leaves me with no choice but to try everything. The bread is delicious, so is the butter, so is the regional cheese and the locally made rilletes, and the locally raised chicken, the home made jam, the pastries from the patisserie down the street--are you starting to see my problem here? It's really hard to resist when your host mother calls you down for an apératif (glorified pre-meal snack) saying "I've made home made paté that you have to try", or "look! I bought you all éclairs from the bakery!". I think it is easier to eat healthy in the US because, quite frankly, the food is more boring.
This isn't to say that I don't like healthy food. Actually, I am quite a fan of healthy food. I actually really enjoy vegetables. I would eat them if I could. The problem is that no one else seems to really care for them (not just my family, I feel that the entire country of France seems to be in agreement on this point). In my family, it is rare to have them as a side dish, and when they appear I get really excited. One of the saddest days of my stay here was when my host mom was preparing steak with spinach--I wasn't too excited about the steak, but about the spinach, yes. Unfortunately, 10 minutes later I smell a burning smell. I was heartbroken when she announced that she had burned the spinach and that she would be serving potatoes instead.
In contrast to the usual delicious food, despite the lack of vegetable matter, there are somethings that I sometimes get in my family that seem absurd, and, quite frankly just wrong. The most egregious example of this is sometime when my host mom is in a rush so that she just cooks up a bunch of pasta. This in itself is not wrong. What is wrong is when she gets out the bottle of ketchup and puts it next to the pasta. When this happens I feel like standing up and making a speech:
Hello. My Name is Nell. I come from the USA, which could be considered the birthplace of ketchup. Let me clarify something. Ketchup is not tomato sauce. You put ketchup on hamburgers and fries and maybe chicken nuggets. You don't put it on pasta.
I can't explain why this seem like a horrible violation of the codes ofhumanity, but it does. And there you go.
Ok, so this wasn't about my break at all. My apologies. I think I just needed to get this off my chest.
More General Reasons France is Out to Get Me
Because it is perverse and likes its little jokes.
It all started on the 31st of December, when Josh and I were setting off to get back to Paris.
The car didn't start. It turns out we'd left an ipod charger in the outlet and it had drained our battery. Whoop dee doo. Anyhow, the problem wasn't that hard to solve--all we had to do was find someone with jumper cables right?
Right. Picture us, 7 in the morning in Chamonix, where it is just cold enough to alternate between a heavy drizzle of snow and rain. We went back to the hotel to ask if anyone had jumper cables. No. We went to another hotel to see: "Yes, madame we have someone who has jumper cables, but he is not here right now, and it is possible he may never show up". Awesome. I started polling random strangers (incidentally, jumper cable in French is pince), and no one had them, although one nice man offered to push our car down the hill to give us a hill start. No one. Chamonix is a very crowded tourist town full of people under 30 who drive nice cars, hence, no jumper cables. We finally called a mechanic and were on the verge of paying 113 Euros just to have our car jumped, when the only lady in the town over the age of 30 showed up in the hotel and lo-and behold, she had jumper cables. Thank God. We managed to get off on the road to Paris.
The rest of the day was uneventful until we got into Paris and had to return our car to the Gare du Nord. Driving in Paris is a nightmare. Driving in Paris when you are unsure of where you are going is even more of a nightmare. Anyhow, after finally navigating our way to the general area of Gare du Nord, we had the problem of finding where exactly to put our car. We blindly drove around the station and eventually found an unmarked Parking garage. On a whim, we decided to enter it, and as we were going in, I saw the logo of 4 rental car companies posted on a post that was conveniently out of sight of the entrance. The French definitely win at clear signage.
Fast forward to the morning of the New Years morning, when we are trying to get Josh onto his airplane. We had left his luggage at a hotel my uncle and aunt were staying at, and had gone off to experience New Years. It was only on our way back to hotel in the early morning that we realized that some of the trains were starting a little later than expected--we were not going to be able to get back to the hotel to get his luggage. We decided to try and take a taxi. We exited on to the street only to find 5 other people with the same thought in mind and no taxis to be found. Finally, we realized that he could still catch his flight if we just left directly for the airport without his luggage, which is what we did--he barely made his flight.
I then went back to the hotel and had to figure out what to do now that I had his bag and my bags. I ended up lugging both of them on to a train to Laval(this was hard because my bag is a piece of crap that over balance any time you let go). When I got to Laval, I knew there might be some problem with the buses, it being January 1st. However, I checked the bus schedule and there was, supposedly one running, so I sat down to wait on a park bench for an hour for it to come. It did not come. I called my host family to see if they could help me out. They did not answer. I called again. They still didn't answer. I realized that all of the people I knew in Laval were not currently in Laval, and I realized that there was a good chance that I was stranded. Then, being overtired and stressed, I did what anyone would do. I started bawling.
This did not help the situation, because I still had to find a way home and this involved calling people. It is very hard to call people and communicated when your voice is wracked by sobs. Now imagine doing this in French. Luckily for me, I remembered that I knew some Americans in a nearby town who I had met occasionally and had dinner with them a few times. They came and picked me up, and I think I was weepy until I finally got some sleep.
That is why France is out to get me.
Now all I have to do is to figure out what I am going to do with this extra bag.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Happy New Years everybody! (part 1)
And err... you may have noticed that I haven't posted in a while. I took a break. Sorry.
Ha ha! Wonder away... although, if you guessed "Alps", you've done a very good job.
Now, prepare to be regaled by my observations.
Mayenne is not like the rest of France.
And for that, I am grateful.
When I tell someone in France where I live, they say one of two things, they usually try and correct my grammar, and then they ask me one of two questions:
1) Where is that ?
2) Why?
The reason they try and correct my grammar is because the town of Mayenne is located in the department (a department is a little bit like a county) of Mayenne. In French, when you say "I live in Mayenne" the preposition (in) changes depending whether you are talking about a town or a region (à versus en). So when I say "J'habite à Mayenne" they think that I have made a mistake because I am foreign and because they do not even know there is a town called Mayenne.
I think the best way to describe Mayenne is to say that it is the French equivalent of rural midwestern town in the US. The problem with this statement is that I am not sure I can legitimately claim to have ever been to a small midwestern town, so I'm really just making everything up. In any case what I mean by this statement is that when I meet people in Mayenne, they seem to be a little surprised that I have an accent. When I say I am from the US, they are even more surprised. They tend to be very locally minded and farm minded. And they all speak French all the time. I have never had anyone try and speak English to me. I have some to realize that I appreciate this remoteness.
In Chamonix, I often found myself confused because I would go to speak French, the way I always do and it would turn out that the waiter was actually English and would really prefer it if I spoke in that language. I would prepare something to say in my head only to find out I was speaking the wrong language.
Eventually, I found myself getting irritated with the tourists and the waitstaff who were speaking the wrong language and found myself wondering why everyone couldn't just speak French. I think I have been in the provinces too long. I'm starting to sound a little bit country-bumpkin-ish. I realized that in most cases the tourists can't help it, but I still got all grumbly. If I don't get out here soon, I'm going to start complaining about how frosts this time of year are no good for growing zucchini in the fall or some such other local wisdom.
Alrighty. I'm tired, you're going to have to wait for further observations until tomorrow night.
You may be wondering what I did during that break. Well. You're still going to have to wonder. A little. In any case, a play by play recount of the last three weeks isn't going to interest anyone. So instead I am going to regale you with insightful observations that I have learned during my travels. Well, that's the plan anyways. First, here are some photos of my break to make you feel jealous and curious:
Ha ha! Wonder away... although, if you guessed "Alps", you've done a very good job.
Now, prepare to be regaled by my observations.
Mayenne is not like the rest of France.
And for that, I am grateful.
When I tell someone in France where I live, they say one of two things, they usually try and correct my grammar, and then they ask me one of two questions:
1) Where is that ?
2) Why?
The reason they try and correct my grammar is because the town of Mayenne is located in the department (a department is a little bit like a county) of Mayenne. In French, when you say "I live in Mayenne" the preposition (in) changes depending whether you are talking about a town or a region (à versus en). So when I say "J'habite à Mayenne" they think that I have made a mistake because I am foreign and because they do not even know there is a town called Mayenne.
I think the best way to describe Mayenne is to say that it is the French equivalent of rural midwestern town in the US. The problem with this statement is that I am not sure I can legitimately claim to have ever been to a small midwestern town, so I'm really just making everything up. In any case what I mean by this statement is that when I meet people in Mayenne, they seem to be a little surprised that I have an accent. When I say I am from the US, they are even more surprised. They tend to be very locally minded and farm minded. And they all speak French all the time. I have never had anyone try and speak English to me. I have some to realize that I appreciate this remoteness.
In Chamonix, I often found myself confused because I would go to speak French, the way I always do and it would turn out that the waiter was actually English and would really prefer it if I spoke in that language. I would prepare something to say in my head only to find out I was speaking the wrong language.
Eventually, I found myself getting irritated with the tourists and the waitstaff who were speaking the wrong language and found myself wondering why everyone couldn't just speak French. I think I have been in the provinces too long. I'm starting to sound a little bit country-bumpkin-ish. I realized that in most cases the tourists can't help it, but I still got all grumbly. If I don't get out here soon, I'm going to start complaining about how frosts this time of year are no good for growing zucchini in the fall or some such other local wisdom.
Alrighty. I'm tired, you're going to have to wait for further observations until tomorrow night.
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