It doesn't take long, once you've arrived and truly begun living in this country, to sense the deep crevice that separates the French French from the immigrant population, majoritarily from North Africa, i.e. the 'Arabes'.
Most slurs, most annoyances, most grievances, most fear towards young people, most accusations for violent crime, fall upon the heads of the young male Arabic population.
Yes, there are sufficient incidents to prove a basis for this belief, though their grievances and reasons for acting out, burning cars, etc., are as numerous, if not more so. There are also as many other individuals who are trying tremendously hard to adapt to French culture, work in school, get ahead, be honest, strive to succeed in this country their parents chose to move to.
However, France is a country lacking in civil rights laws. Americans have these, by necessity and by belief. It is still a fact that people will hire more easily new employees who resemble them, with whom they feel at ease, etc., and thus whether you call it nepotism or simply the freedom to choose, it ends up with a slant towards hiring young white men and women from 'good' backgrounds. Particularly in a country where firing people after a short trial period is quite difficult.
I bring this sensitive topic up as I went to get my IPhone fixed the other day. The screen was smashed and I hoped to be able to replace simply the screen, and not the phone. Orange, who provided me with my phone, would take it from me and charge me a bundle, but that was not my preferred solution, particularly as I do not want to be separated from my phone, nor did I want to pay a hefty bundle.
A friend mentioned an Arab run phone/internet/etc., shop in Avignon. I found it (pretty easy to do) and discovered that the individual who repairs the phones is actually in Le Pontet. They gave me his number, I arranged to go by the next morning and thus get my phone fixed on-site while I waited, rather than leave it over night.
After scoping about a bit -- the shop is not in the easiest to spot place, and only young Arabs have any idea where it is, which I discovered after asking at a magazine store, and the Post Office. I found one such young Arab, the server of a little cafe filled with Arab men, and asked him where I might find Salin to fix my phone. He gave me good directions, told me that the shop has a name - Deblock Phone - and I went on my way.
I was graciously received, my problem solved, and a pleasant half an hour was spent in the presence of a very young man, Salin, who shared his story as a Parisian who upon graduating from high school sought out internships, etc., and was refused point blank at each stop. He had put together his resume/CV as suggested by his guidance counselor, he had been well-dressed, excessively polite, but no go. He became disgusted with the system, and decided to take the situation into his own hands. He is now the main person in our large area (including many villages, and local cities) who repairs a bit of everything, computers included, but most particularly cell phones.
A good situation evolved out of pain and rejection. He is very bright and skilled and thus could create a niche for himself. But, the chip on the shoulder remains. He's successful now, and can hire others to work with him, lease out his talents, etc., And yes, there are others like him who run the internet cafes, long distance phone card sellers, etc., They are working hard, creating businesses that everyone needs, and getting ahead. But, they still feel dismissed by the powers that be.
It's not easy living amidst racism, judgment by your origins, etc., I can see that the demographics are changing, that these young men and women are striking out on their own, adapting to the real conditions of this country and in so doing, learning to their chagrin and pain that the system set up for white French people doesn't always apply to them. I wonder for how much longer we'll hold to these rigid formulas of entering the working world when they only work for a portion of the population?
School - internships - first job(s) - hired for life.
Whether we wish it or no, things will change. Keep watching and reading.
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Simply one of my favorite places to be
I love the Callanques, those incredible limestone cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. I love hiking there with Filou, family and friends. I love bathing in the cool and clear waters. I love eating the fresh fish and fried calamari and sipping a dry Cassis wine (white made with Marsanne). Oh heaven! From the first time I was brought here at the age of 16 by friends in Marseille I've adored this world.
I've a favorite spot. But forgive me. I'm keeping it secret. I'll take you there if you visit, but otherwise nada. I don't want it going into any guide books. It's hard to get to, out of the way, and magical. I fear for my car and myself at times -- one extra reason to be sure the brakes and gear shift are in perfect order! There are other villages, inlets, coves and more along the coast. Just go over to Cassis and beyond. You'll find some neat places. Perhaps you might take a kayak trip? or a boat trip from Marseille? Explore and discover.
I've a favorite spot. But forgive me. I'm keeping it secret. I'll take you there if you visit, but otherwise nada. I don't want it going into any guide books. It's hard to get to, out of the way, and magical. I fear for my car and myself at times -- one extra reason to be sure the brakes and gear shift are in perfect order! There are other villages, inlets, coves and more along the coast. Just go over to Cassis and beyond. You'll find some neat places. Perhaps you might take a kayak trip? or a boat trip from Marseille? Explore and discover.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Art of Conversation - part 1
I am intrigued by conversation. To put it simply. I am occasionally embroiled in a mess of words. I love to listen, but I love to talk. I've adjusted multiple times in my life to different cultural cues, and these days I find myself questioning yet again just how it all flows.
As I child I was the shy one, the youngest who listened and absorbed. I also played alone or with just one other. I was not a groupie. I never belonged to a clique. Better to be on my own with a book, or at a table with adults than to play the social games demanded upon young females in grade school.
I discovered friendship with my peers in high school, of the birds of a feather variety. My close friends were in all my classes, on the swim team, in the band. We did many things together, played tennis after school, took out the sale boat, cut classes to head to the beach. It was a group thing yes, and I was often the extra one, letting the others laugh and shine as I went along -- fully enjoying myself, but allowing others to lead.
And then I learned to speak French fluently. And suddenly, (I think the wine had something to do with it too), I was chatting away. I was expressing myself. I was present.
Still, it wasn't an overwhelming thing -- I think -- I still took second fiddle to various boyfriends, girlfriends, etc., I was pretty discreet.
Living in Japan opened another door -- to being a clown and an entertainer. What else do you do when you're blond and a head taller than all around you? I started talking with my hands, making up words, expressing myself with sounds that exist in no language known to man, and occasionally managed some sentences in Japanese. But, whatever you learn in school (if you study Japanese), one of the great pleasures of this language is that much is left unsaid. It kind of goes like this: Oh, that woman.... Yes I so agree, she's.... Mmmm, Ah sooo dessunee.... and so on. Never say too much, be suggestive, but not precise, make some interesting noises of agreement and expression. Thank goodness for nuanced expression!
And then I arrived back in France for graduate school. Ready to be discreet, polite, attentive. I waited till I was spoken to, waited till the person in front of me finished his sentence, I was the epitome of grace. And I was ignored. Hm. So, I learned to talk again. I learned to impose myself into a conversation simply to be taken seriously and to be noticed and heard. Gone the discreet Asian influence, enter Gaulic intensity and argumentative tendencies.
The past few years have seen me living with a mono-syllabic husband, and managing tours and cooking classes all over Provence. I learned to talk. I learned to story-tell, laughter and jokes included.
I concurrently honed my skills as a hostess, questioning gently my guests as to their background, their previous voyages, their interest in food, wine, etc., Careful to avoid politics or delicate subjects, noting if someone was uncomfortable with a certain subject and bringing them back to another less offensive one.
But as I move forward in my life, I am coming to see that these years of talking for a living brought me towards a tendency to speak too much. And, frustratingly, it is hard for me to stop at the opportune moment and offer space to those around me to share (though it helps if I drink no more than one glass of wine). I find that I've a tendency to be in the personal and not the general, which also limits where others can contribute. And so I find myself in the position of observer - of myself, but also of the world around me. I am newly interested in the art of conversation. Is this something one learns naturally? at the dinner table? in the car? in school? And which cultures encourage which behaviors? Am I behaving in a French way? in an American way? or somewhere in-between?
Certainly, I am someone who is more often with one friend at a time going into detail and sharing lots on each side. I am less often at the table with a group of adults playing my small role in the life of the conversation before us. Thus the personal naturally dominates my conversation, and it is rarely the group dynamics that lift me to new levels of creativity and adaptation.
I've a dear friend who expressed that she prefers it this way. She finds group conversations tiring and banal, having lived that at a different time in her life. She prefers a more intimate setting and a more intense presence of each participant.
Meantime another agreed with me that the French tend to be lighter and more generalist in their conversation than Anglo-saxons, and that discretion is valued. Others will (or should) show you off to advantage. It is not necessary, and a bit boorish if you do so yourself. (Yes, but when you've a husband who never gave you credit for your part in your lives/business/etc., for 13 years... you do come to doubt this method). JP had brought this point up to me (ouch) and it is far easier to hear it (in a lovely and general way) from my friend. Okay, point taken, time to work on it.
I'm re-reading Cultural Misunderstandings (see the list of books to the right), in particular the chapter on conversation. And my mother is going to find me the letter of Diderot to his love Sophie concerning the salons de Paris and the magical movement of subjects and ideas amidst the participants.
I shall share more as I learn.
As I child I was the shy one, the youngest who listened and absorbed. I also played alone or with just one other. I was not a groupie. I never belonged to a clique. Better to be on my own with a book, or at a table with adults than to play the social games demanded upon young females in grade school.
I discovered friendship with my peers in high school, of the birds of a feather variety. My close friends were in all my classes, on the swim team, in the band. We did many things together, played tennis after school, took out the sale boat, cut classes to head to the beach. It was a group thing yes, and I was often the extra one, letting the others laugh and shine as I went along -- fully enjoying myself, but allowing others to lead.
And then I learned to speak French fluently. And suddenly, (I think the wine had something to do with it too), I was chatting away. I was expressing myself. I was present.
Still, it wasn't an overwhelming thing -- I think -- I still took second fiddle to various boyfriends, girlfriends, etc., I was pretty discreet.
Living in Japan opened another door -- to being a clown and an entertainer. What else do you do when you're blond and a head taller than all around you? I started talking with my hands, making up words, expressing myself with sounds that exist in no language known to man, and occasionally managed some sentences in Japanese. But, whatever you learn in school (if you study Japanese), one of the great pleasures of this language is that much is left unsaid. It kind of goes like this: Oh, that woman.... Yes I so agree, she's.... Mmmm, Ah sooo dessunee.... and so on. Never say too much, be suggestive, but not precise, make some interesting noises of agreement and expression. Thank goodness for nuanced expression!
And then I arrived back in France for graduate school. Ready to be discreet, polite, attentive. I waited till I was spoken to, waited till the person in front of me finished his sentence, I was the epitome of grace. And I was ignored. Hm. So, I learned to talk again. I learned to impose myself into a conversation simply to be taken seriously and to be noticed and heard. Gone the discreet Asian influence, enter Gaulic intensity and argumentative tendencies.
The past few years have seen me living with a mono-syllabic husband, and managing tours and cooking classes all over Provence. I learned to talk. I learned to story-tell, laughter and jokes included.
I concurrently honed my skills as a hostess, questioning gently my guests as to their background, their previous voyages, their interest in food, wine, etc., Careful to avoid politics or delicate subjects, noting if someone was uncomfortable with a certain subject and bringing them back to another less offensive one.
But as I move forward in my life, I am coming to see that these years of talking for a living brought me towards a tendency to speak too much. And, frustratingly, it is hard for me to stop at the opportune moment and offer space to those around me to share (though it helps if I drink no more than one glass of wine). I find that I've a tendency to be in the personal and not the general, which also limits where others can contribute. And so I find myself in the position of observer - of myself, but also of the world around me. I am newly interested in the art of conversation. Is this something one learns naturally? at the dinner table? in the car? in school? And which cultures encourage which behaviors? Am I behaving in a French way? in an American way? or somewhere in-between?
Certainly, I am someone who is more often with one friend at a time going into detail and sharing lots on each side. I am less often at the table with a group of adults playing my small role in the life of the conversation before us. Thus the personal naturally dominates my conversation, and it is rarely the group dynamics that lift me to new levels of creativity and adaptation.
I've a dear friend who expressed that she prefers it this way. She finds group conversations tiring and banal, having lived that at a different time in her life. She prefers a more intimate setting and a more intense presence of each participant.
Meantime another agreed with me that the French tend to be lighter and more generalist in their conversation than Anglo-saxons, and that discretion is valued. Others will (or should) show you off to advantage. It is not necessary, and a bit boorish if you do so yourself. (Yes, but when you've a husband who never gave you credit for your part in your lives/business/etc., for 13 years... you do come to doubt this method). JP had brought this point up to me (ouch) and it is far easier to hear it (in a lovely and general way) from my friend. Okay, point taken, time to work on it.
I'm re-reading Cultural Misunderstandings (see the list of books to the right), in particular the chapter on conversation. And my mother is going to find me the letter of Diderot to his love Sophie concerning the salons de Paris and the magical movement of subjects and ideas amidst the participants.
I shall share more as I learn.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Another's Point of View
I have this thing about generalizations. Granted, I’m guilty on occasion of such, but... As I read my way through The Secret Life of France I am startled and frustrated by some of her chapters. Now, to clarify, this book is very well written by a woman who moved in circles I will never come close to. I am in admiration and I am aware of the quite privileged access she has had. (Had I married a Frenchman who shared my classes at Princeton, perhaps, but that's not how my story has played out). She is describing the habits and tendencies of a rarified circle of the very highly educated elite bourgeoisie of Paris. What she says does not hold true for my world in Provence of teachers, farmers, vintners, artisans, massage therapists, essential oil practitioners, artists and musicians.
The last two chapters I read have been strong on politics and the relationship of France (since WWII), to its British neighbor to the West and the Americans across the ocean. She has encountered (she being British, not American), tremendous nostalgia and respect for the British (all the while acknowledging that the sentiment is not returned from across the Channel), and outright scorn, annoyance and disdain for Americans.
Hmmmm. Can I say Thank Goodness I’ve not encountered this in the South? Nor has my mother (granted, a Ph.D in French literature) in her many years backing and forthing across the Atlantic to the city of Lights.
But, as she perpetuates the unfortunate opinion that all the French hate the Americans (NOT TRUE!) I am forced to consider my impression upon people here.
I’ve written before of the cultural confusion I feel when in the US – where I am received as hyper-verbal, WASPy, New England with a European gloss – thus I intimidate on occasion. And the concurrent reception I receive in France where it takes quite a bit of time and knowing me to be convinced of my cultured self (is it so hidden?) and rather deep education (all is respective). Mmmm Yes, my first impression in the hexagon shines through my surface self : bubbly, American accented English (though my French accent is well-received), optimistic and outgoing, as JP would say, my enthousiasme enfantin lends people to not take me seriously and to underestimate me.
A friend recently confirmed that when outsiders saw me (young, pretty, ebulliant) with Erick (older, more established, local) upon our marriage they assumed he had to have wooed me with security, wealth, comfort... Why else would I have stayed? No, he didn’t offer me this, but he did offer me a foil upon which I grew, expanded, developed and discovered my talents, previously unknown to myself. It was his passion for cooking and his region that gave me the impetus to create our business from scratch. He was also willing to do what he was skilled at to complete the picture – the physical renovations of the house, the shopping and cooking, the driving, etc.,
When we were in the midst of divorcing and I was advised by both my lawyer and JP that I really shouldn’t continue to work with him, I am convinced (now) that they assumed he had the where-withall to continue to support me and the children. That the business might collapse without my participation, that I was the one that brought our clients to us... this was an idea completely outside their scope of imagination. I was simply a pretty young thing from America, right? Much to my chagrin (and at that time low self-esteem) I followed their advice. This timed with the economic crisis brought near financial disaster on both our heads.
Over the past year Erick and I have knit our working relationship back together and we now help each other as we are able. A far better solution for both.
So, to conclude: that yes, if Americans are sweepingly (and ignorantly) considered to often be uncultured and less civilized than their European counterparts (particularly by a class of individuals that truly revel in criticizing and judging others) ... I do suffer occasionally from this stereotype. But, not for long. Where people have open minds and the desire to learn, discuss, exchange, snap judgements can be altered.
Curiously, I more often encounter a certain level of cynicism towards the English... but then, I’m American and no doubt our French hosts occasionally play games with the suspected rivalry of the Brits and their former colonists. All is fair game for the gullible...
The last two chapters I read have been strong on politics and the relationship of France (since WWII), to its British neighbor to the West and the Americans across the ocean. She has encountered (she being British, not American), tremendous nostalgia and respect for the British (all the while acknowledging that the sentiment is not returned from across the Channel), and outright scorn, annoyance and disdain for Americans.
Hmmmm. Can I say Thank Goodness I’ve not encountered this in the South? Nor has my mother (granted, a Ph.D in French literature) in her many years backing and forthing across the Atlantic to the city of Lights.
But, as she perpetuates the unfortunate opinion that all the French hate the Americans (NOT TRUE!) I am forced to consider my impression upon people here.
I’ve written before of the cultural confusion I feel when in the US – where I am received as hyper-verbal, WASPy, New England with a European gloss – thus I intimidate on occasion. And the concurrent reception I receive in France where it takes quite a bit of time and knowing me to be convinced of my cultured self (is it so hidden?) and rather deep education (all is respective). Mmmm Yes, my first impression in the hexagon shines through my surface self : bubbly, American accented English (though my French accent is well-received), optimistic and outgoing, as JP would say, my enthousiasme enfantin lends people to not take me seriously and to underestimate me.
A friend recently confirmed that when outsiders saw me (young, pretty, ebulliant) with Erick (older, more established, local) upon our marriage they assumed he had to have wooed me with security, wealth, comfort... Why else would I have stayed? No, he didn’t offer me this, but he did offer me a foil upon which I grew, expanded, developed and discovered my talents, previously unknown to myself. It was his passion for cooking and his region that gave me the impetus to create our business from scratch. He was also willing to do what he was skilled at to complete the picture – the physical renovations of the house, the shopping and cooking, the driving, etc.,
When we were in the midst of divorcing and I was advised by both my lawyer and JP that I really shouldn’t continue to work with him, I am convinced (now) that they assumed he had the where-withall to continue to support me and the children. That the business might collapse without my participation, that I was the one that brought our clients to us... this was an idea completely outside their scope of imagination. I was simply a pretty young thing from America, right? Much to my chagrin (and at that time low self-esteem) I followed their advice. This timed with the economic crisis brought near financial disaster on both our heads.
Over the past year Erick and I have knit our working relationship back together and we now help each other as we are able. A far better solution for both.
So, to conclude: that yes, if Americans are sweepingly (and ignorantly) considered to often be uncultured and less civilized than their European counterparts (particularly by a class of individuals that truly revel in criticizing and judging others) ... I do suffer occasionally from this stereotype. But, not for long. Where people have open minds and the desire to learn, discuss, exchange, snap judgements can be altered.
Curiously, I more often encounter a certain level of cynicism towards the English... but then, I’m American and no doubt our French hosts occasionally play games with the suspected rivalry of the Brits and their former colonists. All is fair game for the gullible...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Yet another book about France...
My dear English friend (the one with 6 kids, not the one who teaches at school) has shared her copy of a new book by yet another Anglo-Saxon (this time English) about life in France. It is aptly named, The Secret Life of France.
It is amusing, and well-written. I'm mostly enjoying it. However, she makes some serious statements damning a nation's people when her experience is, well, limited to that of a wife of a wealthy and superbly well educated Frenchman of the definitely upper bourgeois class.
Apparently, in such a situation, finding marvelous and true and deep friendships amongst women is near impossible. They're all out to be the most elegant, sexy, alluring to the many (or too few?) men in their world and this competition crushes the possibility of true connection.
What a shame for her is this is her experience. I will testify that it took me some years to make good friendships with women in France, but this is more for their skittishness that you will leave. As a foreign-born woman, are you someone who they can hold in their heart for a life-time? Or will you skip out when the going gets tough? As such, there are perhaps a few more barriers to cross before these very special frienships are offered.
Yes, I do have dear friends. Friends I can count on. Friends I can confide in. Friends who shore me up when the times are difficult. Friends who are honest with me, supportive, at times critical, but with love. I can laugh, hug, cry with them.
As I work my way through the book, I learn that Parisians (of a certain class I assume) have different mores when it comes to sex within and ouside of marriage. Again, I didn't experience this in Provence. Outside of the capitol, fidelity is definitely the preferred way to live and divorce is often the result of infidelity. But then again, duplex apartments in the 16th and castles on the Loire are not being put at risk.
I'm still reading, and finding her observations about politics and other elements quite interesting, at times elucidating. I'm not finished. In any case, one of the details of her story that interests me is she in the end gave up on French men and married an Englishman. They live in France, so you could say she's got the best of both worlds.
Curious. I'll write more when I get to the last page.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Auntie Mame?
I feel like Auntie Mame. I'm the one off in left field, or more specifically, the one who has leapt across the ocean and added a certain gloss of European education and culture. Were I still back in the US, in Boston or Northern Michigan, I would hold myself a bit differently.
I would perhaps speak less about politics. I would be at ease with men as big brothers and easier in their company. I certainly wouldn't wear a transparent top with a decorative, made-to-be-seen bra underneath. Nor would I flaunt my décolleté.
Yes, when you live in France you do learn to dress differently. You acquire a certain ease with your body being at least partially on display. If you are beautiful, if you have assets worth showing off, you do so. Is it demeaning? I don't live it as such. However, I am careful when back home.
In France it is not considered crass or cheap to wear a lovely black bra under a sheer white blouse. Quite the contrary. You'll see this combination on the most elegant and bourgeois of women, and these of a 'certain age.' And you certainly don't worry if bra straps are in view in the summer under a slip of a top. That's simply summer wear. Accept it as such.
And so I startled and educated the young woman in my care. It is alright, I was careful. When entrusted with a sixteen year old of lovely manners, superb parents, generous spirit and more, I hold myself to high standards of care and attention. But I must say we did remark upon, laugh at, and contemplate these certain cultural differences.
I suppose that the character Carrie in Sex and the City put out the vibe of being sexy and smart while nearly always having her bra in view. And many Europeans assume Americans are simply like that. Little do they realize the power of our Puritan past. Nor the fear that sexy demeans. It goes far beyond the surprise of meeting a blond with brains. If a woman is proud of her appearance, elegance and allure, can she run a corporation? Or must she dim it down, and be subdued to earn and keep respect for her intellect and administrative powers?
In any case, in France it is demeaning of yourself to not be at your best. It is appropriate and expected that anyone with a decent level of self-esteem is aware that enjoying her beauty and physical presence is perfectly normal.
And so, we have a choice of lingerie that is quite marvelous. We have boutiques in every village that specialize in such, and when sales time comes along, we stock up.
Thus, in my role as Auntie Mame, I may need to pick up a couple of pretty brassieres for a certain sixteen year old. Decorative, comfortable, in pretty patterns, easy to wear, and most definitely not with added padding. Apparently something that is difficult to come by back home in Boston.
I would perhaps speak less about politics. I would be at ease with men as big brothers and easier in their company. I certainly wouldn't wear a transparent top with a decorative, made-to-be-seen bra underneath. Nor would I flaunt my décolleté.
Yes, when you live in France you do learn to dress differently. You acquire a certain ease with your body being at least partially on display. If you are beautiful, if you have assets worth showing off, you do so. Is it demeaning? I don't live it as such. However, I am careful when back home.
In France it is not considered crass or cheap to wear a lovely black bra under a sheer white blouse. Quite the contrary. You'll see this combination on the most elegant and bourgeois of women, and these of a 'certain age.' And you certainly don't worry if bra straps are in view in the summer under a slip of a top. That's simply summer wear. Accept it as such.
And so I startled and educated the young woman in my care. It is alright, I was careful. When entrusted with a sixteen year old of lovely manners, superb parents, generous spirit and more, I hold myself to high standards of care and attention. But I must say we did remark upon, laugh at, and contemplate these certain cultural differences.
I suppose that the character Carrie in Sex and the City put out the vibe of being sexy and smart while nearly always having her bra in view. And many Europeans assume Americans are simply like that. Little do they realize the power of our Puritan past. Nor the fear that sexy demeans. It goes far beyond the surprise of meeting a blond with brains. If a woman is proud of her appearance, elegance and allure, can she run a corporation? Or must she dim it down, and be subdued to earn and keep respect for her intellect and administrative powers?
In any case, in France it is demeaning of yourself to not be at your best. It is appropriate and expected that anyone with a decent level of self-esteem is aware that enjoying her beauty and physical presence is perfectly normal.
And so, we have a choice of lingerie that is quite marvelous. We have boutiques in every village that specialize in such, and when sales time comes along, we stock up.
Thus, in my role as Auntie Mame, I may need to pick up a couple of pretty brassieres for a certain sixteen year old. Decorative, comfortable, in pretty patterns, easy to wear, and most definitely not with added padding. Apparently something that is difficult to come by back home in Boston.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Why Choose France?
Beyond the food and wine and the weather... why choose France? What is the lure of this European country that so stands apart from others? Why have I and so many visited and then settled here. Why have French ex-pats living in the new world returned?
A dear friend came to dinner the other day and expressed quite eloquently why she chose to return to the country of her birth. She had been living in comfort in Australia, enjoying the great weather, the super friendly people, the beach a hop away, tennis daily... She'd built a business there, had an income... but when the choice needed to be made she returned to France.
Like myself, the education of her children, both social and academic, is too important to be left to chance or to others. For the time that they are her responsibility, it is a main factor in where and how she lives.
And so as we and friends were conversing around the fire, a lovely glass of wine in hand, nibblies on the table between us, she let drop into conversation the following lines:
Je tiens à une culture du débat; à une culture de l'intellecte; à une culture d'exigeance.
She returned to France to secure for her children the education, both social and academic, that she felt would best prepare them to live their lives -- wherever they may choose to live in the future. And here, in France, they would be encouraged to express themselves, to argue, to debate, to have opinions. They would be in a world that demands that they push themselves academically to succeed, to not settle for alright or okay.
As a child of academically advanced parents, living just outside New York, I was certainly pushed in my studies, encouraged and driven. So this is a value that I carry in me from my own culture and family and I do my best to convey it to my offspring. However, the culture of debate, of discussion, of arriving at your opinions through heated arguments... this is something I have cultivated since I arrived on French soil. I do believe I was more willing to be bland when I was younger. Certainly I was politically apathetic and rather horrifyingly ignorant. "I don't know" and "whatever" were more common to my vocabulary than "I believe" and "I insist."
Upon my arrival in France it was soon quite clear that the French are aware of and informed about American politics. They have opinions and express them. And if before them I was less knowledgeable than they about my own country and its recent history... Well, suffice to say that I am proud enough to inform myself and remedy my ignorance when faced with such a situation. And so, I read, I learn, I think, I care and I express myself.
Would I have done so to the same extent had I stayed in the US? I just don't know. To a certain extent no doubt. The US has lived through very interesting times (to quote Chuang tzu if I'm not mistaken) in the past two decades. I can't deny being a person who cares and who reads the NYTimes since high school. However, it wasn't till I lived in France that I jumped from the Arts and Leisure section to the Opinions and Editorials...
That France and the French in general prize the intellect. Yes, I appreciate this. The most daily evidence of this social value is the art of conversation. Witty, sensitive, attuned to others, liberally sprinkled with references to politics, literature, cinema, history, song, public radio debates...
Still in operation here is the carefully designed table and social get-together. When invited to my friend's wedding years ago, we were just two amongst over a hundred, but it was clear that the table placements had been carefully thought through and we were with individuals we had much in common with, and with whom we were able to enjoy a marvelous evening of varied subjects.
The conversation is a living entity to be enlivened, encouraged, spread throughout the table. Monologues are discouraged. Sensivity to your neighbor is prized, but the forcefully expressed opinions of one who's drunk a bit much are not undesirable.
As I often told my French language students: the French will not ask you personal questions, however, they do love discussing sex, religion and politics. These being traditionally taboo at the WASP tables of my youth, I find this unceasingly entertaining when I am proven to have spoken truly again and again and again. Unfailingly, one of these directions (or all three) will be the chosen spark for a dinner table discussion. These do have the virtue of not excluding others, as in general, we do all have opinions on them that could be expressed. (A tête à tête is another matter). You can thus understand perhaps, why we sit from 8pm till Midnight over the many courses, wines, and coffee, perhaps topped off with a cognac. When pursuing subjects of this nature, a simple hour just isn't enough.
And so, we are back to why one would choose to live in France. It all converges at the dinner table. And, if we follow that thought to its natural extension, there's sense in the family dinner sans TV, with multiple courses, shared by all. But I do believe I've already gone into this... No?
A dear friend came to dinner the other day and expressed quite eloquently why she chose to return to the country of her birth. She had been living in comfort in Australia, enjoying the great weather, the super friendly people, the beach a hop away, tennis daily... She'd built a business there, had an income... but when the choice needed to be made she returned to France.
Like myself, the education of her children, both social and academic, is too important to be left to chance or to others. For the time that they are her responsibility, it is a main factor in where and how she lives.
And so as we and friends were conversing around the fire, a lovely glass of wine in hand, nibblies on the table between us, she let drop into conversation the following lines:
Je tiens à une culture du débat; à une culture de l'intellecte; à une culture d'exigeance.
She returned to France to secure for her children the education, both social and academic, that she felt would best prepare them to live their lives -- wherever they may choose to live in the future. And here, in France, they would be encouraged to express themselves, to argue, to debate, to have opinions. They would be in a world that demands that they push themselves academically to succeed, to not settle for alright or okay.
As a child of academically advanced parents, living just outside New York, I was certainly pushed in my studies, encouraged and driven. So this is a value that I carry in me from my own culture and family and I do my best to convey it to my offspring. However, the culture of debate, of discussion, of arriving at your opinions through heated arguments... this is something I have cultivated since I arrived on French soil. I do believe I was more willing to be bland when I was younger. Certainly I was politically apathetic and rather horrifyingly ignorant. "I don't know" and "whatever" were more common to my vocabulary than "I believe" and "I insist."
Upon my arrival in France it was soon quite clear that the French are aware of and informed about American politics. They have opinions and express them. And if before them I was less knowledgeable than they about my own country and its recent history... Well, suffice to say that I am proud enough to inform myself and remedy my ignorance when faced with such a situation. And so, I read, I learn, I think, I care and I express myself.
Would I have done so to the same extent had I stayed in the US? I just don't know. To a certain extent no doubt. The US has lived through very interesting times (to quote Chuang tzu if I'm not mistaken) in the past two decades. I can't deny being a person who cares and who reads the NYTimes since high school. However, it wasn't till I lived in France that I jumped from the Arts and Leisure section to the Opinions and Editorials...
That France and the French in general prize the intellect. Yes, I appreciate this. The most daily evidence of this social value is the art of conversation. Witty, sensitive, attuned to others, liberally sprinkled with references to politics, literature, cinema, history, song, public radio debates...
Still in operation here is the carefully designed table and social get-together. When invited to my friend's wedding years ago, we were just two amongst over a hundred, but it was clear that the table placements had been carefully thought through and we were with individuals we had much in common with, and with whom we were able to enjoy a marvelous evening of varied subjects.
The conversation is a living entity to be enlivened, encouraged, spread throughout the table. Monologues are discouraged. Sensivity to your neighbor is prized, but the forcefully expressed opinions of one who's drunk a bit much are not undesirable.
As I often told my French language students: the French will not ask you personal questions, however, they do love discussing sex, religion and politics. These being traditionally taboo at the WASP tables of my youth, I find this unceasingly entertaining when I am proven to have spoken truly again and again and again. Unfailingly, one of these directions (or all three) will be the chosen spark for a dinner table discussion. These do have the virtue of not excluding others, as in general, we do all have opinions on them that could be expressed. (A tête à tête is another matter). You can thus understand perhaps, why we sit from 8pm till Midnight over the many courses, wines, and coffee, perhaps topped off with a cognac. When pursuing subjects of this nature, a simple hour just isn't enough.
And so, we are back to why one would choose to live in France. It all converges at the dinner table. And, if we follow that thought to its natural extension, there's sense in the family dinner sans TV, with multiple courses, shared by all. But I do believe I've already gone into this... No?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A Village Ball
When was the last time you've been to a village dance? So many movies of the 50s showed them as part of the local scene -- Carousel comes to mind. But have there been any since the uproar of the 60s? Did they continue in their sleepy, gentle way amidst the turmoil and upset of the Vietnam War peace demonstrations? Did any survive the arrival of disco? Motown and punk rock?
If not in my world of Westchester County in New York, perhaps elsewhere? As I remember it, both my parents knew how to dance: my mother was in the folk dance club at her university, and my father as a good Southern gentleman who'd been to many a debutant's ball could be counted on to do a competent turn at a waltz and even a light fox trot.
But when my parents went out for an evening it was not to dance. Elegantly decked out, with cologne tapped around his throat, perfume spritzed behind her ears, a jacket and tie for him, hair up and occasionally the elegant long skirt for her, they went out to restaurants, concerts, theatre and to gatherings of friends where food, conversation and alcohol were the main events. I never heard tell of a night of dancing.
In our family, there was a tradition of dancing at weddings. However, this was a tradition dominated far more by square dances that encouraged all ages to participate, than elegant waltzes. Yet I have memories of at least one when I, perhaps 5 at the time, took over the dance floor in my favorite pink dress. At some point a parent was inspired to push a little boy of a like age in my direction. At which point, I fled. Though my love of dance was already a confirmed trait, femme fatale, I was not.
And so, here I am dating a man from a village. A man whose roots go back a number of generations, and who is more than a bit enamoured by his village's traditions. I've spoken elsewhere of the club taurine, and the summer bull games, paëllas and carnival fairs (post Fête Votive). Yesterday evening the yearly Bal des Commerçants was on the program. We, a couple who love to dance, couldn't miss this now, could we? Particularly as JP has aspirations to be a local politician. Thus, turned out and rarin' to slide across the dance floor we were there: to see and be seen. A mere 10E a person at the door (all for a good cause) led us into the salle de fêtes decked out with lights, tables surrounding the piste (dance floor), a band specializing in 70's classics with a twist and a selection of locals.
We found a spot to sit and put our coats, got our drinks in plastic cups, and contemplated the scene. Oh yes, we did first do a round of bises to all known folk, of which there were quite a lot. Three kisses for each of his fellow political aspirants in the Socialist circle, three kisses each to the many friends and colleagues he's worked with through the cultural and social centers in town, and the occasional handshake to simple acquaintances known from the market or the local shops.
The watchmaker was tending bar between dances (he was quite fluid and fun to watch). The local documentarian was photographing the event for posterity, when not inviting a friend to waltz. And when the piste was clear of tall dancers, those a meter and shorter happily took over the space, with the occasional parent coming in to keep order.
Somehow we danced the cha cha to The Doors' Come on Baby Light My Fire, followed by a Passa Dobles in simple step rhythm, and a Rock to Serge Gainsberg. Edith Piaf was best danced as a waltz. A European tango was played and I tried to adapt to the slow slow fast fast fast, slow slow fast fast fast rhythm, but was often tripped up by the simple idea that this was supposed to be a tango. To me, it wasn't.
When not dancing I watched. I observed the couples of a certaine age who've clearly been dancing together for at least thirty years. A large tummy and stiff joints were not going to deter them now. Then there were the husbands who love to dance, dancing with the wives who love to dance, none of them with their respective spouses who didn't love to dance on hand. Happily, these re-paired couples seemed delighted with this arrangement.
JP would point out one or another man who'd confided to him his private dancing passion, and consequent frustration that his spouse was not of like mind. They'd thus taken classes on their own and here in this public spot, were lightly and gracefully partnering their neighbors across the floor. What a contrary world. As many a woman can attest, it is far more often be the other way around! Somedays I think I could as easily give up dancing with my partner, as settle for a smoker. Deal-breakers both.
One couple in particular caught my eye. He had a grand mane of fluffed gray, nearly all white hair, an elegant striped black suit, and freshly shined black shoes. She was coiffed rather severely in a variation of a Dorothy Hamill, in a simple but elegant outfit, her face drained of all color with not a spot of make-up to brighten it, and rather clunky black shoes. He, heavy set though he was, moved with grace and joy, swinging her around in a rock, a passa dobles, and a waltz with ease. But clearly, they'd never danced the cha cha together before. He tried teaching her, but suddenly, where heretofore she'd been quite graceful, she became stiff and uncertain. They were a newly formed couple; he the adept and passionate dancer, she his new muse. They made being 60 look like quite a lot of fun.
Yes, the mean age at the ball was definitely 55 and upwards. And yet, when that disco medly came on: Freak Out, Staying Alive and all your favorites, there they were boogieing away. I must say, I was impressed and enchanted. No, I've never seen people of my parents' generation, much less those of my elder cousins dance the night away at a ball. I've had my share of nights in Manhattan clubs and raves in Seattle, square dancing at weddings, but a small village ball open to the public? No, this was a first.
I do hope this tradition doesn't die out here as well. Though I'm afraid, it is highly likely. Other than the little tots on the dance floor, I was nearly the youngest person there.
If not in my world of Westchester County in New York, perhaps elsewhere? As I remember it, both my parents knew how to dance: my mother was in the folk dance club at her university, and my father as a good Southern gentleman who'd been to many a debutant's ball could be counted on to do a competent turn at a waltz and even a light fox trot.
But when my parents went out for an evening it was not to dance. Elegantly decked out, with cologne tapped around his throat, perfume spritzed behind her ears, a jacket and tie for him, hair up and occasionally the elegant long skirt for her, they went out to restaurants, concerts, theatre and to gatherings of friends where food, conversation and alcohol were the main events. I never heard tell of a night of dancing.
In our family, there was a tradition of dancing at weddings. However, this was a tradition dominated far more by square dances that encouraged all ages to participate, than elegant waltzes. Yet I have memories of at least one when I, perhaps 5 at the time, took over the dance floor in my favorite pink dress. At some point a parent was inspired to push a little boy of a like age in my direction. At which point, I fled. Though my love of dance was already a confirmed trait, femme fatale, I was not.
And so, here I am dating a man from a village. A man whose roots go back a number of generations, and who is more than a bit enamoured by his village's traditions. I've spoken elsewhere of the club taurine, and the summer bull games, paëllas and carnival fairs (post Fête Votive). Yesterday evening the yearly Bal des Commerçants was on the program. We, a couple who love to dance, couldn't miss this now, could we? Particularly as JP has aspirations to be a local politician. Thus, turned out and rarin' to slide across the dance floor we were there: to see and be seen. A mere 10E a person at the door (all for a good cause) led us into the salle de fêtes decked out with lights, tables surrounding the piste (dance floor), a band specializing in 70's classics with a twist and a selection of locals.
We found a spot to sit and put our coats, got our drinks in plastic cups, and contemplated the scene. Oh yes, we did first do a round of bises to all known folk, of which there were quite a lot. Three kisses for each of his fellow political aspirants in the Socialist circle, three kisses each to the many friends and colleagues he's worked with through the cultural and social centers in town, and the occasional handshake to simple acquaintances known from the market or the local shops.
The watchmaker was tending bar between dances (he was quite fluid and fun to watch). The local documentarian was photographing the event for posterity, when not inviting a friend to waltz. And when the piste was clear of tall dancers, those a meter and shorter happily took over the space, with the occasional parent coming in to keep order.
Somehow we danced the cha cha to The Doors' Come on Baby Light My Fire, followed by a Passa Dobles in simple step rhythm, and a Rock to Serge Gainsberg. Edith Piaf was best danced as a waltz. A European tango was played and I tried to adapt to the slow slow fast fast fast, slow slow fast fast fast rhythm, but was often tripped up by the simple idea that this was supposed to be a tango. To me, it wasn't.
When not dancing I watched. I observed the couples of a certaine age who've clearly been dancing together for at least thirty years. A large tummy and stiff joints were not going to deter them now. Then there were the husbands who love to dance, dancing with the wives who love to dance, none of them with their respective spouses who didn't love to dance on hand. Happily, these re-paired couples seemed delighted with this arrangement.
JP would point out one or another man who'd confided to him his private dancing passion, and consequent frustration that his spouse was not of like mind. They'd thus taken classes on their own and here in this public spot, were lightly and gracefully partnering their neighbors across the floor. What a contrary world. As many a woman can attest, it is far more often be the other way around! Somedays I think I could as easily give up dancing with my partner, as settle for a smoker. Deal-breakers both.
One couple in particular caught my eye. He had a grand mane of fluffed gray, nearly all white hair, an elegant striped black suit, and freshly shined black shoes. She was coiffed rather severely in a variation of a Dorothy Hamill, in a simple but elegant outfit, her face drained of all color with not a spot of make-up to brighten it, and rather clunky black shoes. He, heavy set though he was, moved with grace and joy, swinging her around in a rock, a passa dobles, and a waltz with ease. But clearly, they'd never danced the cha cha together before. He tried teaching her, but suddenly, where heretofore she'd been quite graceful, she became stiff and uncertain. They were a newly formed couple; he the adept and passionate dancer, she his new muse. They made being 60 look like quite a lot of fun.
Yes, the mean age at the ball was definitely 55 and upwards. And yet, when that disco medly came on: Freak Out, Staying Alive and all your favorites, there they were boogieing away. I must say, I was impressed and enchanted. No, I've never seen people of my parents' generation, much less those of my elder cousins dance the night away at a ball. I've had my share of nights in Manhattan clubs and raves in Seattle, square dancing at weddings, but a small village ball open to the public? No, this was a first.
I do hope this tradition doesn't die out here as well. Though I'm afraid, it is highly likely. Other than the little tots on the dance floor, I was nearly the youngest person there.
Friday, January 22, 2010
If you're in need of a hospital in Avignon...
Well, I'm home and my minimal intervention (a conisation of the cervix) is done and over. Time now to teste what they removed, and simply keep an eye on things to see whether more abnormal cells appear or not. Patience... Perhaps also a time to visit my friend the healer and seer. A truly amazing woman. She is perhaps one of the major reasons Jonas has no scars from a vicious burn he received when he was about five.
However, I wanted to praise the Clinique Urbain V in Avignon, the private hospital in Avignon. All paper work went smoothly.Signing in and getting a room was easy, the nurses were attentive, good-humored, at times downright funny (telling jokes as they wheel you to the bloque). The meal after the surgery was a bit spartan (a slice of ham, a pat of butter, a small chunk of baguettish bread, some camembert, peach purée/compôte and a super sweet hot chocolate with milk.
As in all good hospitals I assume, one is constantly asked one's name, why you're there and who your doctor is -- safety measures that are quite appreciated, or perhaps simply sanity tests? And, just before the anaesthesiste comes to knock you out, there's my doctor with her smiling face, reassuring me that she is present and she'll be handling my procedure. It's a small thing, but it is nice to be conscious all the way to the operating room, to be greeted personally by your doctor and thus be reassured that all is well and as it should be.
I woke up just thirty minutes after I went under (those large clocks on the wall are easy to read even for a blindman like myself!) in the salle de réanimation. A couple nurses were calmly going about their business and quickly noted my open eyes and came to check with me, how I felt, whether I had any pain, etc.,
Within twenty minutes of my emerging from complete grogginess my doctor was there to reassure me that all had gone well, and she'd removed the offensive lesion of cells.
Then, back to my own room which I shared with a very pleasant woman operated on by my same doctor. We lay there, a bit out of it, and slowly returned to this universe.
The above-mentioned snack, a quick peepee, and a bit more patience (four hours from wake up to departure from the hospital minimum). And then, JP there to carry my things and steady me, off into the night I went.
So, be reassured as to the pleasantness, the efficiency, the quality of care, and the attentiveness possible and present in French hospitals. Perhaps we're particularly lucky in Avignon. Perhaps the team of nurses and doctors are particularly tight-knit, content with their jobs and competent, but, I think you'll find people like this elsewhere too.
However, I wanted to praise the Clinique Urbain V in Avignon, the private hospital in Avignon. All paper work went smoothly.Signing in and getting a room was easy, the nurses were attentive, good-humored, at times downright funny (telling jokes as they wheel you to the bloque). The meal after the surgery was a bit spartan (a slice of ham, a pat of butter, a small chunk of baguettish bread, some camembert, peach purée/compôte and a super sweet hot chocolate with milk.
As in all good hospitals I assume, one is constantly asked one's name, why you're there and who your doctor is -- safety measures that are quite appreciated, or perhaps simply sanity tests? And, just before the anaesthesiste comes to knock you out, there's my doctor with her smiling face, reassuring me that she is present and she'll be handling my procedure. It's a small thing, but it is nice to be conscious all the way to the operating room, to be greeted personally by your doctor and thus be reassured that all is well and as it should be.
I woke up just thirty minutes after I went under (those large clocks on the wall are easy to read even for a blindman like myself!) in the salle de réanimation. A couple nurses were calmly going about their business and quickly noted my open eyes and came to check with me, how I felt, whether I had any pain, etc.,
Within twenty minutes of my emerging from complete grogginess my doctor was there to reassure me that all had gone well, and she'd removed the offensive lesion of cells.
Then, back to my own room which I shared with a very pleasant woman operated on by my same doctor. We lay there, a bit out of it, and slowly returned to this universe.
The above-mentioned snack, a quick peepee, and a bit more patience (four hours from wake up to departure from the hospital minimum). And then, JP there to carry my things and steady me, off into the night I went.
So, be reassured as to the pleasantness, the efficiency, the quality of care, and the attentiveness possible and present in French hospitals. Perhaps we're particularly lucky in Avignon. Perhaps the team of nurses and doctors are particularly tight-knit, content with their jobs and competent, but, I think you'll find people like this elsewhere too.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Thank you French Healthcare
Yet again, I am and will be in debt to the French healthcare system. It has been not quite a year now since I first had an abnormal pap smear. From that day through to a snipping and biopsy to the surgery that removed the lesion of cells, barely three months passed. And, in my currently financially challenged state, I did not pay a centîme.
It is now six months later, and I've had two subsequent visits to the doctor, and another abnormal pap smear. This one is a bit more dubious, and might mean there are further areas out of sight and reach of a pap smear that are activating. My doctor contacted me immediately. I had a rdv in her office two days after I called. And not ten days later I'll have the less invasive of the two options she proposed.
I face now the choice of a pre-emptive hysterectomy, including the ovaries as there is a history of ovarian cancer in my family, or to choose the lesser option of removing what is visible plus a chunk and keeping a close eye on the rest.
My choice is personal, moral, physical, and not based on money and access. This is rather incredible. I am free to be freaked out at the idea that I might be harboring what could develop into a cancer. I have the option of choosing one intervention and following it up shortly with the more drastic choice. I have a present, bright, and competent doctor who is reactive, proactive and patient. Her schedule and the hospital can take me in. Whatever care I choose and need I will get. And, in my current economic position, I won't even have the minimal co-pay to handle (which would be a max of about 200E for the simple operation, and no doubt a bit more for the more dramatic one).
So yes, I don't like the thought of losing my interior organs at the age of 43. I don't like the thought of being on hormone replacement therapy till I choose (at a later age) to go through menopause. But, I have the option to deal with these personal feelings and worries. The care is there. I will be provided for. I'm not in the midst of going, "Shit! no job, no insurance and thus who and how to pay for such an invasive procedure?!"
If I were actually living in the States, I'd be royally screwed right now. Yes, I've family that would come through for me. I wouldn't be left without help and care. But, that would cause hardship and take funds away from other possibilities.
I have options. I have choices. I am just unbelievably lucky to be living in France right now. I simply need to decide on a when that coincides with free time on the part of friends and others who could help out while I'm following doctor's orders to take it easy.
It is now six months later, and I've had two subsequent visits to the doctor, and another abnormal pap smear. This one is a bit more dubious, and might mean there are further areas out of sight and reach of a pap smear that are activating. My doctor contacted me immediately. I had a rdv in her office two days after I called. And not ten days later I'll have the less invasive of the two options she proposed.
I face now the choice of a pre-emptive hysterectomy, including the ovaries as there is a history of ovarian cancer in my family, or to choose the lesser option of removing what is visible plus a chunk and keeping a close eye on the rest.
My choice is personal, moral, physical, and not based on money and access. This is rather incredible. I am free to be freaked out at the idea that I might be harboring what could develop into a cancer. I have the option of choosing one intervention and following it up shortly with the more drastic choice. I have a present, bright, and competent doctor who is reactive, proactive and patient. Her schedule and the hospital can take me in. Whatever care I choose and need I will get. And, in my current economic position, I won't even have the minimal co-pay to handle (which would be a max of about 200E for the simple operation, and no doubt a bit more for the more dramatic one).
So yes, I don't like the thought of losing my interior organs at the age of 43. I don't like the thought of being on hormone replacement therapy till I choose (at a later age) to go through menopause. But, I have the option to deal with these personal feelings and worries. The care is there. I will be provided for. I'm not in the midst of going, "Shit! no job, no insurance and thus who and how to pay for such an invasive procedure?!"
If I were actually living in the States, I'd be royally screwed right now. Yes, I've family that would come through for me. I wouldn't be left without help and care. But, that would cause hardship and take funds away from other possibilities.
I have options. I have choices. I am just unbelievably lucky to be living in France right now. I simply need to decide on a when that coincides with free time on the part of friends and others who could help out while I'm following doctor's orders to take it easy.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Traditions
Wherever you turn the lights are blinking and the shoppers are strolling. In many a village square, school, and country barn there is a Christmas fair to tempt the generous. You can find all the classic Provençal items: pottery, honey, tapenade, olive oil, wine(s), salt mixtures, table linens, santons, ... Some are for the foodie-centric: foie gras, truffled foie gras, smoked duck breast, magret fumé, smoked salmon - both home-smoked (something Erick does brilliantly) and imported from organic producers in Ireland - eaux de vie flavored with pears, raspberries and more, vins de noix et d'orange - a classic apéritif in this world of social gatherings made by many a housewife with some sugar, fresh walnuts or bitter oranges, wine and alcohol.
The main squares of Avignon and Arles have been transformed to accommodate wooden shelters for the seasonal vendors and artisans. Chocolatiers are creating magnificent center pieces for a Christmas table, bûches de Noël in many flavors (though hazelnut cream is a local favorite), and tiny squares filled with many a flavored ganâche, caramel or almond praliné. Feast and be merry. Taste the winter cheeses imported from the Haute Savoie, the Massif Central and Normandie, made with the richer milk of the late season, aged for a month or more, these will stick to your ribs and help you get through the cold winter months!
Christmas and New Year's season is a time to prepare meals, to contemplate menus, to pre-order special items, to browse the market stands, to go through family favorites and special edition food magazines for ideas. Will this be an elegant, all-white themed party? Shall we go scrounging in the woods for greenery and make a natural garland to drape about the house? Will the weather cooperate and permit us to forage for mushrooms or truffles ourselves and add these to our festin?
At the Steiner/Waldorf school the Advent Wreath, la couronne d'Avent, is a yearly tradition. We mothers gather together at one house or another and façon then decorate these small rounds to be topped with four candles that our children know already how and when to light from class. (as an aside, the Manhattan Waldorf school [amongst others I believe] also has menoras and encourages its Jewish student body to share their songs and prayers through this winter month). But, the wreath is a Northern import (Waldorf schools being much linked to the German and Swiss worlds) and is not typically found in Provence, nor did the Christmas tree, le sapin de Noël, used to be so ubiquitous. Mistle-toe however, le gui, is a common vine in the trees that is sold in large branches on the market to hang in your foyer. Holly, le houx, is brought down from the Cévennes where it grows to large heights in that moist and somewhat higher altitude.
What you find in nearly every Provence home at Christmas is the Crêche. The Crêche focuses on the Nativity scene of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the ox and ass, the stable and the arrival of the three kings. There's generally an angel hovering above as well. For many, this is all you might see, but in Provence the tradition of the Santons, or little saints, is widespread. I've put a link to a fun blog that has many many photos to give you an idea. There are artist santon-makers, a guild of santon-makers, families who've made them over multiple generations, each with their own variation of what is still a very unified style and code. In all cases you will find a wide cast of common local characters: the shepherd, the blind man, the baker, the wood gatherer, the fishwoman, the local crazy man (he who has his hands in the air), the hunter, the mayor, the curate, the elegant Arlesienne, the gypsy woman, and on and on. The full cast of a local village is recreated in miniature to people a table, a shelf, and thus host and share in the birth of baby Jesus. To fill out the scene we have bridges, fountains, stables, trees, schrubs, gazebos, hills, paths... whatever's necessary to animate a village.
If you come to Provence via the Marseille Airport you can see a wonderful display of santons in the Air France departures' lounge (upstairs). Grandmothers store their collections -- gathered over their lives -- preciously, pulling them out each year and bringing in the kids to help set up the magical little world. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jesus is not there till Christmas day (makes sense) and the three kings are placed at a distance, to slowly make their way to the stable for Kings' Day, January 6th.
Though the pastry shops have their selection of yule logs, bûches de Noël, in fact these too are imports from the North. Our local tradition is the thirteen desserts:
•fougasse,
• the four mendiants, referring to the religious orders who took oaths of poverty:
- the Augustinians symbolized by walnuts or hazelnuts,
- the Franciscans symbolized by dried figs,
- the Dominicans symbolized by raisins, and
- the Carmes symbolized by almonds
• the locally produced honey almond nougat (both dark and light),
• fresh oranges or clementines (remember, Provence has always traded with other countries on the Mediterranean, so getting these from Corsica or Morrocco is an ancient custom)
• and depending upon your village and custom: quince paste, pâte de coing, candied fruit and almond paste calissons d'Aix, a melon carefully stored from September, apples or pears, and a variety of late ripening green grapes.
Voila for a touch of Provençal Christmas...
The main squares of Avignon and Arles have been transformed to accommodate wooden shelters for the seasonal vendors and artisans. Chocolatiers are creating magnificent center pieces for a Christmas table, bûches de Noël in many flavors (though hazelnut cream is a local favorite), and tiny squares filled with many a flavored ganâche, caramel or almond praliné. Feast and be merry. Taste the winter cheeses imported from the Haute Savoie, the Massif Central and Normandie, made with the richer milk of the late season, aged for a month or more, these will stick to your ribs and help you get through the cold winter months!
Christmas and New Year's season is a time to prepare meals, to contemplate menus, to pre-order special items, to browse the market stands, to go through family favorites and special edition food magazines for ideas. Will this be an elegant, all-white themed party? Shall we go scrounging in the woods for greenery and make a natural garland to drape about the house? Will the weather cooperate and permit us to forage for mushrooms or truffles ourselves and add these to our festin?
At the Steiner/Waldorf school the Advent Wreath, la couronne d'Avent, is a yearly tradition. We mothers gather together at one house or another and façon then decorate these small rounds to be topped with four candles that our children know already how and when to light from class. (as an aside, the Manhattan Waldorf school [amongst others I believe] also has menoras and encourages its Jewish student body to share their songs and prayers through this winter month). But, the wreath is a Northern import (Waldorf schools being much linked to the German and Swiss worlds) and is not typically found in Provence, nor did the Christmas tree, le sapin de Noël, used to be so ubiquitous. Mistle-toe however, le gui, is a common vine in the trees that is sold in large branches on the market to hang in your foyer. Holly, le houx, is brought down from the Cévennes where it grows to large heights in that moist and somewhat higher altitude.
What you find in nearly every Provence home at Christmas is the Crêche. The Crêche focuses on the Nativity scene of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the ox and ass, the stable and the arrival of the three kings. There's generally an angel hovering above as well. For many, this is all you might see, but in Provence the tradition of the Santons, or little saints, is widespread. I've put a link to a fun blog that has many many photos to give you an idea. There are artist santon-makers, a guild of santon-makers, families who've made them over multiple generations, each with their own variation of what is still a very unified style and code. In all cases you will find a wide cast of common local characters: the shepherd, the blind man, the baker, the wood gatherer, the fishwoman, the local crazy man (he who has his hands in the air), the hunter, the mayor, the curate, the elegant Arlesienne, the gypsy woman, and on and on. The full cast of a local village is recreated in miniature to people a table, a shelf, and thus host and share in the birth of baby Jesus. To fill out the scene we have bridges, fountains, stables, trees, schrubs, gazebos, hills, paths... whatever's necessary to animate a village.
If you come to Provence via the Marseille Airport you can see a wonderful display of santons in the Air France departures' lounge (upstairs). Grandmothers store their collections -- gathered over their lives -- preciously, pulling them out each year and bringing in the kids to help set up the magical little world. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jesus is not there till Christmas day (makes sense) and the three kings are placed at a distance, to slowly make their way to the stable for Kings' Day, January 6th.
Though the pastry shops have their selection of yule logs, bûches de Noël, in fact these too are imports from the North. Our local tradition is the thirteen desserts:
•fougasse,
• the four mendiants, referring to the religious orders who took oaths of poverty:
- the Augustinians symbolized by walnuts or hazelnuts,
- the Franciscans symbolized by dried figs,
- the Dominicans symbolized by raisins, and
- the Carmes symbolized by almonds
• the locally produced honey almond nougat (both dark and light),
• fresh oranges or clementines (remember, Provence has always traded with other countries on the Mediterranean, so getting these from Corsica or Morrocco is an ancient custom)
• and depending upon your village and custom: quince paste, pâte de coing, candied fruit and almond paste calissons d'Aix, a melon carefully stored from September, apples or pears, and a variety of late ripening green grapes.
Voila for a touch of Provençal Christmas...
Sunday, December 6, 2009
A rainy weekend in the Cévennes
A chance to get away, a chance to see other horizons. Stone houses in every direction. Windy roads. Vast vistas, closed and tiny spaces, little perched villages overlooking the valleys. A hike up to the top of a peak, cold, buffeted by the chilly and moist wind, scrambling over rocks, leaving the tree line below. A cozy fire in the b&b, friendly hosts, low ceilings, rain pouring down, muddy dirt roads to navigate on foot and in the car. Simplicity, quiet, otherness. Streams running into rivers, ancient stone bridges crossing over them.
The Protestant history is never far away. Though currently it is more a question of the neo-ruraux (i.e. the newly settled country-folk) and the long-time residents vying for power at the local Mairie, town hall. The former wish to renovate and safe-guard the ancient patrimony, the latter want to at long last get some money from that scrap of land Pappi left them, and to hell with the view.
Here, you are far away from all the major cities (by an hour or so) and yet there are yoga teachers, horse clubs for the kids, mountain biking, donkey rides, choir practice, mushroom picking hikes, and much much more. Out of the way, but not culturally isolated. Not a bad way to live. Though taking the car out every time you leave to go anywhere could get rather tiresome fast. Not to mention having a windy and lengthy ride to any activity so desired. Careful to have your brakes checked!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Teaching my Native Language
I am now teaching English three to six hours a week. I've from three to eight students and my main role is to get them to use whatever vocabulary and grammar they've gotten into their heads. Thus, I ask questions, I encourage dialog, I get them to read articles, I ask them to write about what they did last weekend, where they went to school, what they want to do tomorrow, or as a job in the future. I ask them about their best memories, and their dreams. I get them to practice various past tenses, to describe meals, to tell me about people in their lives. I get them writing up and acting out conversations and dialogs between customers and hotel receptionists, restaurant waiters, etc.,
It's challenging for me. I speak more slowly than normally -- by necessity as anyone who knows me will confirm! I prepare all my classes with relatively minimal advance notice -- zooming through the internet, seeking ideas, vocabulary, descriptions, texts, etc., And, as each class is a three hour marathon with minimal breaks (the two smokers in the group are good at making sure these happen), it is rather intense.
However, what I find most challenging is simply being confronted by young and middle-aged, out-of-work chomeurs struggling to make sense of this life. They are more than a bit sad and depressed. If I ask what they did over the weekend, the answer is often as not watched a film on TV, slept late, ate lunch with my mother. I feel at times like I'm pulling teeth, but also that I'm there to encourage them in their accomplishments, to reinforce the possibilities of finding a new job, getting their lives in order, etc.,
I feel the weight of the ruts they are in, and at times fear being pulled in with them. I too am juggling, coping, seeking, hoping. I too am sending out resumes for other jobs in marketing, teaching, translating. I too am wishing to hear the phone ring, get my chance at an interview, eager to move forward and upward in this world. I too am scared and at times demoralized, before I get out the bull whip and kick myself out of my seat and get back to work.
It's a curious sensation.
My mother taught beginning French for years. And I wonder how it is that I am revisiting this world of beginning language study. It is not an easy area of study for the students, particularly when adult. You have individuals with a certain limited vocabulary left over from their high school years-- perhaps just 5-6 years ago, or twenty--. Their lives keep them somewhat busy; they have limited resources to learn what you're teaching. It is necessary on the one hand to move along slowly, so they have the time to absorb, take notes, etc., Yet on the other, if you move too slowly, they get bored and annoyed and stop taking said notes (I noticed this when I was putting quite a bit of vocabulary for food on the board yesterday).
And, I don't have the brightest of the bright in front of me. I have the individuals who are not coping in many areas of their lives. They are here having failed elsewhere. It is brave to strive to acquire a new skill, not sure if they're even capable of it. It is clear that too few actually study and work at home. So much of what I've tried to put across each week has simply gone in one ear and out the other (or gotten clipped into a notebook and shelved). As such, the building blocks to more interesting conversations, more depth and greater comprehension are only very very slowly coming into place. For every two steps forward I think I've brought them, I realize that I need to take at least one step back, and perhaps three.
It is humbling, fascinating, challenging and more. There are days I get stumped, and days I get them laughing. Do I dare bring in pop tunes and try to get them singing?? I remember reading about a teacher of English in Cuba who began with the Beatles, "I want to hold your hand," and with time brought his class up to the level of complexity evinced by "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." May I do so well.
It's challenging for me. I speak more slowly than normally -- by necessity as anyone who knows me will confirm! I prepare all my classes with relatively minimal advance notice -- zooming through the internet, seeking ideas, vocabulary, descriptions, texts, etc., And, as each class is a three hour marathon with minimal breaks (the two smokers in the group are good at making sure these happen), it is rather intense.
However, what I find most challenging is simply being confronted by young and middle-aged, out-of-work chomeurs struggling to make sense of this life. They are more than a bit sad and depressed. If I ask what they did over the weekend, the answer is often as not watched a film on TV, slept late, ate lunch with my mother. I feel at times like I'm pulling teeth, but also that I'm there to encourage them in their accomplishments, to reinforce the possibilities of finding a new job, getting their lives in order, etc.,
I feel the weight of the ruts they are in, and at times fear being pulled in with them. I too am juggling, coping, seeking, hoping. I too am sending out resumes for other jobs in marketing, teaching, translating. I too am wishing to hear the phone ring, get my chance at an interview, eager to move forward and upward in this world. I too am scared and at times demoralized, before I get out the bull whip and kick myself out of my seat and get back to work.
It's a curious sensation.
My mother taught beginning French for years. And I wonder how it is that I am revisiting this world of beginning language study. It is not an easy area of study for the students, particularly when adult. You have individuals with a certain limited vocabulary left over from their high school years-- perhaps just 5-6 years ago, or twenty--. Their lives keep them somewhat busy; they have limited resources to learn what you're teaching. It is necessary on the one hand to move along slowly, so they have the time to absorb, take notes, etc., Yet on the other, if you move too slowly, they get bored and annoyed and stop taking said notes (I noticed this when I was putting quite a bit of vocabulary for food on the board yesterday).
And, I don't have the brightest of the bright in front of me. I have the individuals who are not coping in many areas of their lives. They are here having failed elsewhere. It is brave to strive to acquire a new skill, not sure if they're even capable of it. It is clear that too few actually study and work at home. So much of what I've tried to put across each week has simply gone in one ear and out the other (or gotten clipped into a notebook and shelved). As such, the building blocks to more interesting conversations, more depth and greater comprehension are only very very slowly coming into place. For every two steps forward I think I've brought them, I realize that I need to take at least one step back, and perhaps three.
It is humbling, fascinating, challenging and more. There are days I get stumped, and days I get them laughing. Do I dare bring in pop tunes and try to get them singing?? I remember reading about a teacher of English in Cuba who began with the Beatles, "I want to hold your hand," and with time brought his class up to the level of complexity evinced by "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." May I do so well.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Misty Moisty Morning...
Somedays, it is simply a religious experience to walk by the side of a River...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Halloween, or the Eve of the Toussaint
Soon it will be Halloween. I have memories of being a child in NY, dressing up as a princess, or a can of TAB, not to mention a clown or a ghost. A large shopping bag in hand I scoured the neighborhood. My mother would confiscate most all my stash of candy, and certainly anything that wasn't wrapped -- all those worries of razor blades in the apples, or poisoned caramels, or whatever. I'd have my UNICEF box in hand, and Trick or Treat from home to home with my clutch of friends. Losing the candy wasn't that big a deal. It was the evening outing that was the most memorable and important part of the day.
Having children in France, as they came of a certain age, I attempted to Trick or Treat with them. After all, the local stores (this is seven years' ago) were selling Woolworth style plastic pumpkin containers for candy, witches' hats, ghost costumes, and fake blood and vampire teeth galore. The French commercial industry grasped at another opportunity to sell cheap China-made stuff at a time when normally, only the flower industry earns anything.
You see, the French do celebrate le Toussaint, or All-Saints' Day. It is a family day to gather, visit the graves of your ancestors, clean the grave stones, and put fresh flowers there. It is a chance to share family memories with the children, and to think of your long-gone loved ones.
And so there was an attempt to bring Halloween to France. This was most often greeted by harumphing folk sensing yet a further invasion of American culture. Now our English and Scottish friends also celebrate Halloween, and do so more in the style that the French attempted to borrow it -- all scary costumes of ghouls and vampires and witches, nothing fantastic like what you might see in Georgetown this October 31st. But of course, if someone is going to get the bad rap, it is the Americans.
Valiantly, I attempted to communicate the origins of this night of festivities. That in reality it is an ancient Celtic festival, closely linked to All Saints' Day (remember, All Hallow's Eve?) and as Arles is in fact identified with its Celtic history (Arlate is the Celtic name for city in the marshes), how appropriate that we celebrate this aspect of this ancient rite. I simply got blank stares.
Nonetheless, twice, I went out with my boys and a couple of their friends, costumes donned, and bags at the ready, and we Trick or Treated (Bonbons ou Betises is the closest I can come to this in French). At some doors, we were greeted graciously. The inhabitant smiled, rather amused, and found a little something for us. At others, old women looked fearfully through a curtain and shooed us away, and than at others, they looked at us rather quizzically and found a cookie or an apple or some such to toss into our bag. They tried, as did we, but truly, it just didn't catch on.
And so, years later, Halloween is a bit of a joke here. The occasional night club will have a theme party, and if you really must purchase paraphernalia in orange and black, one shop in town just might have some.
And for dress-up and costumes? Well the French celebrate Carnival before Lent, and there, costumes are encouraged, silly games and more. With that, who needs Halloween?
In fact, I've been berated as to the scary and negative nature of this holiday. In Alsace and areas north, they celebrate the St. Martin, by walking into the woods at night with lanterns in hand, bringing warmth and light to Nature as she signals her time of sleep and hibernation. A very different way to greet the end of autumn and the beginning of winter.
I'm trying to adapt, and have been trying for years now. But old habits persist.
Here is my Scottish friend's Pumpkin soup made from the scoopings of her kids' Jack-o-Lanterns. At least in her house, Halloween still has some meaning:
Pumpkin soup:
One chopped onion – butter and olive oil (flavor)
Pepper, salt and garlic
Optional: smoked bacon
Cook till browned, add three cups of pumpkin scoopings (what you’ve scooped out when you make your Jack-o-Lantern), a chopped apple and sweat.
Add 2 cups of chicken stock, one bottle of dry cider (bubbly), and grate a good nob of fresh ginger root.
Cook till tender, then blend with an immersion blender.
Happy children eat the soup of their labor.
Having children in France, as they came of a certain age, I attempted to Trick or Treat with them. After all, the local stores (this is seven years' ago) were selling Woolworth style plastic pumpkin containers for candy, witches' hats, ghost costumes, and fake blood and vampire teeth galore. The French commercial industry grasped at another opportunity to sell cheap China-made stuff at a time when normally, only the flower industry earns anything.
You see, the French do celebrate le Toussaint, or All-Saints' Day. It is a family day to gather, visit the graves of your ancestors, clean the grave stones, and put fresh flowers there. It is a chance to share family memories with the children, and to think of your long-gone loved ones.
And so there was an attempt to bring Halloween to France. This was most often greeted by harumphing folk sensing yet a further invasion of American culture. Now our English and Scottish friends also celebrate Halloween, and do so more in the style that the French attempted to borrow it -- all scary costumes of ghouls and vampires and witches, nothing fantastic like what you might see in Georgetown this October 31st. But of course, if someone is going to get the bad rap, it is the Americans.
Valiantly, I attempted to communicate the origins of this night of festivities. That in reality it is an ancient Celtic festival, closely linked to All Saints' Day (remember, All Hallow's Eve?) and as Arles is in fact identified with its Celtic history (Arlate is the Celtic name for city in the marshes), how appropriate that we celebrate this aspect of this ancient rite. I simply got blank stares.
Nonetheless, twice, I went out with my boys and a couple of their friends, costumes donned, and bags at the ready, and we Trick or Treated (Bonbons ou Betises is the closest I can come to this in French). At some doors, we were greeted graciously. The inhabitant smiled, rather amused, and found a little something for us. At others, old women looked fearfully through a curtain and shooed us away, and than at others, they looked at us rather quizzically and found a cookie or an apple or some such to toss into our bag. They tried, as did we, but truly, it just didn't catch on.
And so, years later, Halloween is a bit of a joke here. The occasional night club will have a theme party, and if you really must purchase paraphernalia in orange and black, one shop in town just might have some.
And for dress-up and costumes? Well the French celebrate Carnival before Lent, and there, costumes are encouraged, silly games and more. With that, who needs Halloween?
In fact, I've been berated as to the scary and negative nature of this holiday. In Alsace and areas north, they celebrate the St. Martin, by walking into the woods at night with lanterns in hand, bringing warmth and light to Nature as she signals her time of sleep and hibernation. A very different way to greet the end of autumn and the beginning of winter.
I'm trying to adapt, and have been trying for years now. But old habits persist.
Here is my Scottish friend's Pumpkin soup made from the scoopings of her kids' Jack-o-Lanterns. At least in her house, Halloween still has some meaning:
Pumpkin soup:
One chopped onion – butter and olive oil (flavor)
Pepper, salt and garlic
Optional: smoked bacon
Cook till browned, add three cups of pumpkin scoopings (what you’ve scooped out when you make your Jack-o-Lantern), a chopped apple and sweat.
Add 2 cups of chicken stock, one bottle of dry cider (bubbly), and grate a good nob of fresh ginger root.
Cook till tender, then blend with an immersion blender.
Happy children eat the soup of their labor.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
My experience with the French school system (a bit of history)
School. A subject all of its own. At the bright age of three, Leo was potty-trained, propre as they say here, and ready for the first year of kindergarten, or the petite classe of the Maternelle. And off he went. I was all set to have my children in one of the world’s best public education systems and happily entrusted him to the school.
But little by little, things just went off. I read the teacher's notes on his drawings “n’a pas suivi les consignes” – didn’t follow the directions. Hm? Complicated directions for a three year old? Or, scribbles on a page that was supposed to be chestnuts colored in. Or many many tasks of taking stickers of round colors and placing them on a line.
Then there was the day the teacher was mad because Leo, dressed in blue, chose to sit at the blue table, even though he was apparently a yellow. Leo and his closest friends were perpetually kept separate from each other (especially after the incident when they flooded the bathroom…) As the year went on, Leo began stuttering.
The teachers decided it was my fault for speaking English with him, and for hiring American au pairs. “Madame vous faites une erreur”. When I brought Leo to the US during school time to see my family, forcing him to skip a week’s school, the teacher complained, stating, “il faut qu’il puisse se plier au système”. He needs to fold himself to the system, i.e. fit into the box, adapt. I wasn’t sure I was in full agreement with these ideas. And, to my mind, Leo's stuttering wasn’t so much a problem of language as of the stressful environment he was not adapting to.
So, after receiving the school work of the year, reviewing the many negative statements of the teacher in some amazement, I started wondering what could I do? For someone who did well in school and who comes from a scholarly family it was truly frightening to contemplate a child who already hated school and resisted going at the tender age of four. Imagine what that would lead to for adolescence? When school is actually hard!
Where might I enroll my child? Were there other choices? Perhaps a Montessori? None in the area, or an alternative school? The town boasted a Catholic school, and many parents who wished their children pushed a bit more sent their kids there. But I'm not Catholic and was a bit leary of a clearly religious institution.
It was then I heard that outside of Avignon there was a Rudolf Steiner school. My mother’s first boy friend had been in the Manhattan Steiner school during the War. My cousins had put their kids through a Steiner school in Chicago. A dear friend was a devoted anthroposophist. Hm. It sounded interesting.
So Erick and I took Leo to an interview at the school. We were received by two of the kindergarten teachers who actually wanted to know who Leo was, where he came from, what might have influenced his growth to this point, was he a desired child? When and how did he learn to walk and talk? Had there been any major events in his life to this point that might have shaped him?
After the cold and neutral reception of the public education system, I was in heaven. The rooms were warm, filled with toys of natural materials, and so many objects to be used to build, design, construct: wood blocks of every shape, silk scarves of many colors, a kitchen area, a play house area… There was warmth and thought behind every gesture. Pregnant with my second child, I felt at ease confiding my son to this school. And to top it off, the teachers waived away any worries I had about raising my children bi-lingual. It will improve his singing ear, they said. And not to worry about the stuttering. It will pass as he finds his way. We will speak in clear and good French, and he will gradually imprint the language of his birth-land. Reading and writing will come when he is older. We don’t force it early upon a child before he is ready to develop these intellectual gifts.
And so began a major shift in my life. Suddenly, a daily commute of an hour each way was part of our existence. It was something to ask of the au pairs, and something imposed upon our child. Late night meetings to learn about the educational methods used by the school, weekend parties to help clean and garden or paint walls.
The community of the school was tight-knit and varied. There were the French-German boys whose mother was an airline hostess for Lufthansa. and the Belgian-French girl who spoke Flemish with her mother. The French woman who’d lived in Australia for 15 years and whose children were fully bi-lingual. And as the years passed, the English families who came to settle in Provence, the American families who came to spend a year abroad, the Japanese-French family who put their children in the school. For Leo it became a ritual to sit beside the new English speaker in his class to help her or him adapt to the French swirling around them.
The Rudolf Steiner school is an international phenomenon. The major elements of the program are the same throughout the world, and the school welcomes exchanges and the movement of its pupils. In Southern Europe, the Avignon school represents the only school that goes all the way to high school, in a Southern climate. Thus though the school is state subsidized in Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Belgium and Germany, and is costly in France, many Northerners come and settle near the school to benefit from the better climate. The Avignon school has become a hub of over a dozen different cultures and languages. My bi-lingual children are simply normal. In Leo’s class alone there are children from Germany, Slovakia, Italy, Spain, Scotland, England and Brazil. And, here, I am almost normal. A bit enthusiastic, energetic, frantic at times and a swirl of emotions, but, my Anglo-Saxon heritage is accepted here as it often wasn’t elsewhere.
Leo, followed by Jonas, are enrolled in the Rudolf Steiner school. There, they are raised on the universal stories of the Brothers Grimm, the fables of the crow and the fox, Greek myths and more. With this school, perhaps more than by any other means, I am able to raise my children in an international context. Born in a small town in the South of France, they nevertheless have the horizons of the world open to them.
But little by little, things just went off. I read the teacher's notes on his drawings “n’a pas suivi les consignes” – didn’t follow the directions. Hm? Complicated directions for a three year old? Or, scribbles on a page that was supposed to be chestnuts colored in. Or many many tasks of taking stickers of round colors and placing them on a line.
Then there was the day the teacher was mad because Leo, dressed in blue, chose to sit at the blue table, even though he was apparently a yellow. Leo and his closest friends were perpetually kept separate from each other (especially after the incident when they flooded the bathroom…) As the year went on, Leo began stuttering.
The teachers decided it was my fault for speaking English with him, and for hiring American au pairs. “Madame vous faites une erreur”. When I brought Leo to the US during school time to see my family, forcing him to skip a week’s school, the teacher complained, stating, “il faut qu’il puisse se plier au système”. He needs to fold himself to the system, i.e. fit into the box, adapt. I wasn’t sure I was in full agreement with these ideas. And, to my mind, Leo's stuttering wasn’t so much a problem of language as of the stressful environment he was not adapting to.
So, after receiving the school work of the year, reviewing the many negative statements of the teacher in some amazement, I started wondering what could I do? For someone who did well in school and who comes from a scholarly family it was truly frightening to contemplate a child who already hated school and resisted going at the tender age of four. Imagine what that would lead to for adolescence? When school is actually hard!
Where might I enroll my child? Were there other choices? Perhaps a Montessori? None in the area, or an alternative school? The town boasted a Catholic school, and many parents who wished their children pushed a bit more sent their kids there. But I'm not Catholic and was a bit leary of a clearly religious institution.
It was then I heard that outside of Avignon there was a Rudolf Steiner school. My mother’s first boy friend had been in the Manhattan Steiner school during the War. My cousins had put their kids through a Steiner school in Chicago. A dear friend was a devoted anthroposophist. Hm. It sounded interesting.
So Erick and I took Leo to an interview at the school. We were received by two of the kindergarten teachers who actually wanted to know who Leo was, where he came from, what might have influenced his growth to this point, was he a desired child? When and how did he learn to walk and talk? Had there been any major events in his life to this point that might have shaped him?
After the cold and neutral reception of the public education system, I was in heaven. The rooms were warm, filled with toys of natural materials, and so many objects to be used to build, design, construct: wood blocks of every shape, silk scarves of many colors, a kitchen area, a play house area… There was warmth and thought behind every gesture. Pregnant with my second child, I felt at ease confiding my son to this school. And to top it off, the teachers waived away any worries I had about raising my children bi-lingual. It will improve his singing ear, they said. And not to worry about the stuttering. It will pass as he finds his way. We will speak in clear and good French, and he will gradually imprint the language of his birth-land. Reading and writing will come when he is older. We don’t force it early upon a child before he is ready to develop these intellectual gifts.
And so began a major shift in my life. Suddenly, a daily commute of an hour each way was part of our existence. It was something to ask of the au pairs, and something imposed upon our child. Late night meetings to learn about the educational methods used by the school, weekend parties to help clean and garden or paint walls.
The community of the school was tight-knit and varied. There were the French-German boys whose mother was an airline hostess for Lufthansa. and the Belgian-French girl who spoke Flemish with her mother. The French woman who’d lived in Australia for 15 years and whose children were fully bi-lingual. And as the years passed, the English families who came to settle in Provence, the American families who came to spend a year abroad, the Japanese-French family who put their children in the school. For Leo it became a ritual to sit beside the new English speaker in his class to help her or him adapt to the French swirling around them.
The Rudolf Steiner school is an international phenomenon. The major elements of the program are the same throughout the world, and the school welcomes exchanges and the movement of its pupils. In Southern Europe, the Avignon school represents the only school that goes all the way to high school, in a Southern climate. Thus though the school is state subsidized in Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Belgium and Germany, and is costly in France, many Northerners come and settle near the school to benefit from the better climate. The Avignon school has become a hub of over a dozen different cultures and languages. My bi-lingual children are simply normal. In Leo’s class alone there are children from Germany, Slovakia, Italy, Spain, Scotland, England and Brazil. And, here, I am almost normal. A bit enthusiastic, energetic, frantic at times and a swirl of emotions, but, my Anglo-Saxon heritage is accepted here as it often wasn’t elsewhere.
Leo, followed by Jonas, are enrolled in the Rudolf Steiner school. There, they are raised on the universal stories of the Brothers Grimm, the fables of the crow and the fox, Greek myths and more. With this school, perhaps more than by any other means, I am able to raise my children in an international context. Born in a small town in the South of France, they nevertheless have the horizons of the world open to them.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Ah, those Manifestations!
Sorry for the quality of the photos -- I only had my cell phone with me, so, they are what they are. But perhaps Nathalie at Avignon in Photos will have some better shots soon. (see my list of blogs to the right).
Les Jeunes Agriculteurs are angry, scared, and desperate! And so, let us dump carrots, beets, grape must and more all over the main roads around Avignon. And let us block the two bridges coming into and exiting Avignon, and let us do this during rush hour on a Friday night! And we will... what? Wreak havoc and put poor women like myself (and thousands upon thousands of other people) in a car for four and a half hours covering no more than 40 km? In the vain attempt to go from home to school (normally 15 minutes -- I left at 3:45 and arrived at 4:30), from school to the train station (I've two kids to put on the train on Friday evening, remember?) to which we arrived at 6:15 -- a full hour and and fifteen minutes after the departure of Gaetan's train. From which we then zoomed through town (amazing) to my bridge, which we were dissuaded to attempt crossing by the friendly policemen as it was blocked by trucks and more. At which point I then headed south to another bridge across the Rhône, -- it took another hour to get out of Avignon. And we arrived home at the tender hour of 8pm. And to think, I thought I'd be able to have a nice shower quietly by myself at 5pm and prepare for the weekend ... silly me.
Arghghghgh. OK, life is pretty rough for anyone who's farming. Here, as in the US, if you try to sell in bulk to the major buyers, you are offered less than it cost you to produce your wares. So, there is a system of primes which pay farmers for what their farms used to produce at rates that were set a few years back. And, these primes don't change, as the farmer is encouraged to produce less. To the point at which these primes have no longer any connection to production. They are designed to keep farmers afloat while maintaining the sanctity of a buyers' market that refuses to pay decent rates for produce farmed locally.
Now, if you go organic, and you sell directly to the consumer as much as possible (through the markets, monthly crates, etc.,) you're far better off. Nevertheless, it is still a difficult life, and yet one which would like to choose.
Another barrier to setting up keep as a farmer is acquiring the land to do so -- good farming land is more often sold at high rates to developpers than at affordable rates to farmers. Haven't we heard that somewhere before? It is the same world-round I believe, be in the Ohio River Valley or ...
However, rarely in the US do farmers have the chutzpah to gather together and block a major city for an entire afternoon. So, cultural moment for all: my kids, myself ... and a time to hear tales of Gaetan's father's dumping goat manure in a local McDonalds way back when. I laughed with my boys in the car, stretched my legs when possible, took stock of the apples, carrots and various mashed and rotten fruit on the street, rolled through puddles of car-crushed refuse, eyed the many riot police hanging out on street corners, and when possible, made a brief stop for cookies and iced tea and other yummies to tide over the empty stomachs of my boys during the last stretch home. All's well that ends well. But aieeeee, I would have preferred to have Spain or the Alps or Italy at the end of my 4 1/2 hour drive! Not moving, barely inching along for hours at end is not fun, no matter that I maintained an optimistic outlook and the kids sang along to FUN radio.
Now myself, I was more in the mood for "Do you remember..." the strikes of the winter of 95? Do you remember walking or biking or roller blading or hitch-hiking all over Paris? in the cold winds of winter? (my legs have never since been as lovely...) Do you remember, missing your plane due to trucks blocking the highway exits? But be reassured, when this happens, the tickets are changed no questions asked. Ah yes, free speach and the right to demonstrate. T'is wonderful non?
Les Jeunes Agriculteurs are angry, scared, and desperate! And so, let us dump carrots, beets, grape must and more all over the main roads around Avignon. And let us block the two bridges coming into and exiting Avignon, and let us do this during rush hour on a Friday night! And we will... what? Wreak havoc and put poor women like myself (and thousands upon thousands of other people) in a car for four and a half hours covering no more than 40 km? In the vain attempt to go from home to school (normally 15 minutes -- I left at 3:45 and arrived at 4:30), from school to the train station (I've two kids to put on the train on Friday evening, remember?) to which we arrived at 6:15 -- a full hour and and fifteen minutes after the departure of Gaetan's train. From which we then zoomed through town (amazing) to my bridge, which we were dissuaded to attempt crossing by the friendly policemen as it was blocked by trucks and more. At which point I then headed south to another bridge across the Rhône, -- it took another hour to get out of Avignon. And we arrived home at the tender hour of 8pm. And to think, I thought I'd be able to have a nice shower quietly by myself at 5pm and prepare for the weekend ... silly me.
Arghghghgh. OK, life is pretty rough for anyone who's farming. Here, as in the US, if you try to sell in bulk to the major buyers, you are offered less than it cost you to produce your wares. So, there is a system of primes which pay farmers for what their farms used to produce at rates that were set a few years back. And, these primes don't change, as the farmer is encouraged to produce less. To the point at which these primes have no longer any connection to production. They are designed to keep farmers afloat while maintaining the sanctity of a buyers' market that refuses to pay decent rates for produce farmed locally.
Now, if you go organic, and you sell directly to the consumer as much as possible (through the markets, monthly crates, etc.,) you're far better off. Nevertheless, it is still a difficult life, and yet one which would like to choose.
Another barrier to setting up keep as a farmer is acquiring the land to do so -- good farming land is more often sold at high rates to developpers than at affordable rates to farmers. Haven't we heard that somewhere before? It is the same world-round I believe, be in the Ohio River Valley or ...
However, rarely in the US do farmers have the chutzpah to gather together and block a major city for an entire afternoon. So, cultural moment for all: my kids, myself ... and a time to hear tales of Gaetan's father's dumping goat manure in a local McDonalds way back when. I laughed with my boys in the car, stretched my legs when possible, took stock of the apples, carrots and various mashed and rotten fruit on the street, rolled through puddles of car-crushed refuse, eyed the many riot police hanging out on street corners, and when possible, made a brief stop for cookies and iced tea and other yummies to tide over the empty stomachs of my boys during the last stretch home. All's well that ends well. But aieeeee, I would have preferred to have Spain or the Alps or Italy at the end of my 4 1/2 hour drive! Not moving, barely inching along for hours at end is not fun, no matter that I maintained an optimistic outlook and the kids sang along to FUN radio.
Now myself, I was more in the mood for "Do you remember..." the strikes of the winter of 95? Do you remember walking or biking or roller blading or hitch-hiking all over Paris? in the cold winds of winter? (my legs have never since been as lovely...) Do you remember, missing your plane due to trucks blocking the highway exits? But be reassured, when this happens, the tickets are changed no questions asked. Ah yes, free speach and the right to demonstrate. T'is wonderful non?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Wine Tasting in Châteauneuf-du-Pape
Sometimes I forget how good wine can be. And then I spend a day truly tasting, savoring, sniffing, swirling and it all comes flowing back. With two savvy and interested (and interesting) clients, I spent Monday tasting at a few of Châteauneuf's finest cellars. Bright, round, full, balanced, lively whites. Delightful now, and yet with the possibility of cellaring should we be so inclined.
And then the reds: dark black cherries, rich cocoa, cooler dark chocolate with perhaps a touch of mint, red pie cherries, peppery fresh blackberries, earthy, structuring tannins, ... chewy, round and rich, these wines coated our tongues and lingered on the taste buds.
And what is this? a faggot of wild asparagus is the filter of choice to hold back the lees from the juice as it flows from the press? Curiouser and curiouser. And here, there are no pumps to remove the marc from the tank, just the glistening and powerful muscles of the son-in-law as he shovels away, filling bucket after bucket.
One winery vinifies every one of its 20 some odd parcels of grapes individually, awaiting January to decide upon blends of these precious juices, choosing to age a small portion in new oak, keeping the rest in stainless or cement. And yet across town, their neighbor makes just one wine per year, and thus, no matter his many parcels (30 acres divvied up into 20 chunks), and no matter the juice from the press and the juice from the drip -- all goes back into the same tank as all will eventually be one wine.
The first carefully removes the grapes from the stems, aiming for flattering fruit flavors, smooth and elegant velvet on the palate. The latter keeps the stems in -- enjoying the ripe tannins they contribute to the structure of his powerful red.
And you thought the label of an AOC could describe a wine? Only in the broadest of strokes. Yes, they're both mostly grenache grapes, and yes, they were hand harvested, and yes, the alcohol content will be somewhere between 14 and 15 degrees alcohol (and occasionally higher), and yes, they will not be bottled for a minimum of 18 months - 2 years. But there, the similarities end.
Taste and find out! If you can find them, we reveled in the elegance of Domaine Marcoux, and the power and heart of the Domaine Lucien Barrot et Fils.
To top off the day, Guy Brémond at the Cave Verger des Papes shared a few more bottles and arranged shipping for my clients' favorites. With that accomplished, I, having carefully (and ever more skillfully) spit throughout the day (drinking only water with lunch) was able to safely back my van out of the tight parking lot of the Domaine Beaurenard, and deliver my guests to their hotel in Avignon.
An Amazing Playground of Stones
Imagine rough-hewn stone walls crumbling about you, over-grown with trees and bushes sprouting in the middle of what once was a king's bedroom. Down steep cobbled paths beneath, rooms carved into the stone of the hill-side, troglodyte caves that once were homes. Are there hidden passages? The climb up is perilous and steep (particularly in slippery sandals). The views from above magical.
We're in another world, another time. Oppède-le-vieux no longer houses bustling villagers. It is the ruins of a medieval town. The castle on the peak stands witness. The church beside it reveals vibrant painted ceilings, recessed alcoves, crypts beneath the flagstones.
Of all the villages of the Lubéron, this is my favorite. We're rarely dodging a plethora of other visitors. It is truly off the beaten path. Far less chic, barely renovated, it is the poor cousin to the magnificent Gordes. But, for small, scrambling legs, bright eyes and nimble feet, it is a playground bar none. -- And free but for a minimal parking donation.
With Leo and Jonas' close friends and their mom, we climbed under the early fall sun, picnicked amidst the stones, chatted and explored the secret grottos. A drink at a nearby cafe topped off the day.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Day One making cheese
I arrived early this morning to be able to spend a bit of time with Isabelle and Paul Pierre and their family before joining Aurelie (their former intern, now the resident goat-cheese maker) for the morning milking, la traite. Isabelle has just finished five days of chemo, and is clearly exhausted and much affected by this most recent round of treatments. I’d thought she was on more paliative care now, but, I suppose it is difficult for an oncologist to not wish to do the utmost with his arsenal at hand. I hope she’ll be better when I visit next week. Her weariness is deeply visible in her eyes, and in the hesitancy with which she approaches breakfast: coffee or chocolate, bread or no, jam, and which flavor. In each case her husband encourages, suggests, does for. He waits a bit, but sees that if she’s not nudged towards a choice, she’ll simply shut down and stop. She’s mentally in and out, almost mini-naps with her eyes open. As she puts it her head is dans la pâté.
And yet amidst this moment of sickness and family intimacy, I've been welcomed to share, to learn, to participate. I tell little stories, but keep them short. I'm attentive to her level of energy, and seek a smile or two, but go no further. It is more aptly a time for quiet and simply being together.
When the sound of Aurelie’s arrival reaches the kitchen, I clean my coffee cup and walk the short trip from the kitchen to the barn to watch and most importantly, to do. Aurelie is relaxed with me, at ease and pleased that I'm eager to get in and mettre mes mains à la pâtee" as we say here ("get your hands dirty" is the closest equivalent in English). I’ve watched so many times, but had never laid my hands upon the milking machines, nor the teets aka mammary glands aka breasts, called mammelles here.
The first gesture of the morning is to prepare the small mangers with yummy feed. Today it is organic corn, but normally, there is a blend of soaked corn and soaked and sprouted barley. ¾ of a coffee tin is put into each manger. Then the goats are allowed to come up to feed. They are all waiting, in their pecking order. As with many animals there is a world of hierarchy amongst the goats. The first goes up the ramp, all the way to the furthest manger (the only one open to her) and puts her head down to eat, triggering the mechanism that locks her in. The next follows suit, and the next, etc.,
The next movement is to do a quick squirt of the premier jet, putting it into a bowl that the dogs will enjoy. Then, the clean and prepped milking suction cups are attached to the teets. There is space for 12 goats at a time to feed, and 4 sets of suction cups. To each her turn. Aurelie massages the warm, firm teets to help the goats with let down. The younger goats often release their milk slowly, whereas some of the older seemed to have double the milk. Teets come in all shapes and sizes, but those of these goats were all-in-all pretty easy to place into the cups. I had memories (doesn’t every mother?) of massaging my painfully full breasts to send milk flowing into Jonas’ mouth when he was a newborn – he was a particularly bad nurser. In any case, touching and handling these goat teets felt normal and quite pleasant. Beyond helping in the milking, the goat cheese maker/shepherd also does this to better know his/her goats, with all their individual quirks. For instance, spotting a cyst requires knowing what the normal teet felt like before the cyst appeared. It is good to learn to distinguish the firmness that is a sign of full milk ducts, or simply lumpy bumps, or something to worry about etc.,
Aurelie is using the system and structure designed by Paul Pierre and Isabelle when they set up their business here twenty two years’ ago. With their design and architectural backgrounds, Isabelle and Paul Pierre were creative and originals, yet observant of known-methods. The plumbing, the flow from barn to milking station to barn, a system for soaking and subsequently straining the barley. This all takes place in the barn.
The fresh milk is then transferred to the dairy on a small trolley where it is put through a strainer into 15 litre bins. These are placed on shelves made of 1 ½ in PVC (rows of 2). Into the full bins of fresh goats' milk -- that she did not cool down -- Aurelie puts an eye dropper of rennit (6-7 drops per litre), and a ladel-full of whey from an earlier batch.
The dairy is kept at 20C (70F) and the now treated milk will sit for three days and ferment gently till the curdle is nicely taken. When ‘ready’ the curdle will be a solid mass amidst a clear liquid, with a fuzzy white skim on the surface.
My next job is to remove day-old cheeses from their molds and place them on stainless steel racks – as neatly as I can, leaving a minimum of thumb prints, rubbing off a minimum of cheese, and--as my skill-level permits--place them in neatly staggered rows. I did my best,... and gratefully, Aurelie is a very patient teacher.
While I was handling these more solid of cheeses, Aurelie was flipping out and returning to the molds the far softer and more humid cheeses from the evening before. (Goats are most often milked twice daily, and so the cheese-making can occur twice daily).
I moved my firmer cheeses to the de-humidifying room, and the molds to their large baskets to be first doused in a bath of acide de soude, and then into the dishwasher. We then hosed down and cleaned off the two meter by one meter stainless tilted trays upon which we put the cheese molds. These drain directly into open plumbing, and down the drain. In some farms, the whey and small milk solids collected in this manner are fed to pigs – a source of protein-rich liquid for their feed. Yet another example of the intelligence and non-waste possible on small, multi-animal family farms. However here, there are no pigs, and thus the whey is treated as gray water, dispersed through the septic system.
Once our sliding trays are cleaned (there are 6, but this being August, we’re nearly at the end of the season, and are using only 4), we set up the cleaned molds (those that have chilled) in rows of 5 x 6. Upon these we place the stainless grid that permits to fill many molds at once. Aurelie takes a large quart/litre sized cup and uses it to ladel the curd from the bin into the molds. However first, she has gently poured out and brushed off the excess whey and the white fuzz atop. Her cheeses will be milder in flavor if she does not include the last. With a squeegee, we finish filling through the grid – filling the molds to nearly over-flow. A couple minutes’ wait is required as the curd descends, the whey already escaping through the holds of the molds, and then we transfer the grid to the next batch of 30 molds. And so on.
This morning, August 23, we milked 36 goats and made 130 cheeses with the three-day-old curd. We filled three 15 litre bins fully, and a fourth perhaps 7/8 or 5/6 full of fresh milk. Yesterday’s milk, alongside (but distinctly placed apart) the milk from the day before yesterday are quietly fermenting away.
Immediately after the milking we cleaned and rinsed the suction cups and tubes, followed by the molds, bins, etc., A last gesture is to spray down and squeegee the terra cotta tile floor. Aurelie has prepared her packets of cheese that she distributes Monday in weekly crates of fresh vegetables and more organized by a local AMAP (farmers’ coop).
There were three of us, and two hours later, we’re free to be off to other projects. Not so bad, eh?
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