Adieu à la France qui s'en va

Possibly my most pretentious post title yet*, but it seemed sort of appropriate. (Sort of appropriate because technically it was me, and not France, which was s'en va-ing.)

After not sleeping most of the night, I got out of bed and had a cup of coffee. At eight, it occurred to me that it was still dark outside. Closer inspection revealed the unmistakable presence of snow. Hmm. Probably should watch the weather more often (by which I mean ever).

Heroic Annie (of Annie & Richard fame) drove me to the train station, a thrill ride involving uncleared streets, questionable breaking stalled trucks and u-turns. At the station, she abandoned cultural convention and gave me an honest-to-goodness hug. It felt fantastic. I have nothing against la bise, I rather like it in fact, but it occurs to me now that hugs are the corporal equivalent of comfort food.

More to follow on the adventures of La Rentrée aux USA, but for the moment I thought I'd share a few snow pictures:

*Adieu à la France qui s'en va is the title of a 2003 book by Jean-Marie Rouart, a member of the Académie Française. I know, totally pretentious, right? Particularly since I haven't actually read the book.

Le Mans Does Christmas...

... in its own humble way.

Click here to see photos of the gigantic slide show they inflict on our otherwise quite lovely cathedral. I happened across it while waiting on the bus tonight and spent most of the time squinting and wondering what the crap I was looking at. I mean, I guess it's fine and all, if you're, you know, interested in cartoon drawings of trees and aquariums and whatnot projected onto a large stone surface.

Tomorrow I'll post pictures from my weekend in Lille, which just put Le Mans to (further) shame.

The Joys of Mass Transit

Today I was trapped on the bus as usual, and my iPod produced this song for my listening pleasure. It so encapsulated all my thoughts and feelings that I just had to share it with you. Take a couple of minutes to listen to the pre-emo existential rage of Gordon Gano as he preaches my sermon:

Ah, Sundays...

Edith Piaf famously sang "Je hais les dimanches." (I hate Sundays.) The reason? Because she lived in a country where everything is closed and otherwise vibrant city centers become ghost towns. The buses which normally run every 15 minutes run once an hour; it's easier to walk the two miles into town (and two miles back) than to wait. And Lord help you if you run out of toilet paper on a Saturday night; you'll be scrounging around for Kleenex, paper towels and possibly old socks until after work on Monday.

Sundays are very, very sad around here.

Socially Acceptable Spying

I meant to get a lot of work done today, I really did. But around two, my phone rang, and it was Annie. She'd just heard about a manifestation in town and wanted to see if I were interested in meeting her and Richard in front of city hall. (Side Note: Manifestation is the word used for demonstration, so I was a little confused about why they seemed so enthusiastic about checking out a protest. Later I remember that it can also more generally mean "an event," which made a lot more sense but was a lot less exciting.) I said sure, then scrambled to find matching shoes, a rubber band for my hair, my house keys and bus pass. And then I ran.

The event is called Entre Cours et Jardins, and it's yet another let-the-peasants-admire-our-bounty event. In the old city (which I visited in previous adventures), families open their normally well-shuttered courtyards and share their private gardens with the ticket-holding masses.

It was fascinating. Unlike the U.S., where everything is open (big front yards, picture windows, etc.), in France everything is insular. From the outside all you see is stone walls and imposing iron gates, none of which even hint at the sumptuous beauty of the houses and gardens inside. I can't tell you how many people said something along the lines of, "Who would've guessed all this was right here?"

The weather was beautiful and the gardens were lovely. You can see them here. When we finished we stopped in a gorgeous little bar and had some liquid restoration. Since this is one of the few places in town that specializes in cocktails, I splurged and had a margarita. (Neat, since "frozen" and "on the rocks" are not concepts here.) Richard had a Manhattan. Annie had tea. (Party pooper.) We talked shop and they both gave me great ideas and advice on how to handle my monster class.

It was a lovely day (though chilly, I don't think it broke 60), and well worth every hour it set me back in lesson planning. I'll get around to that one of these days.

In Which Our Intrepid Author Attempts Sport

Tonight I went to a beginners' class on Nordic Walking, which is basically hiking with poles. (Not to be confused with hiking with Poles, which is completely different.)

Getting to the place was a bit of an adventure; the bus deposited me here:

and my first thought was well, what the crap do I do now? And I felt really stupid when a couple of minutes later, the bus came back around and drove past me again. So I grabbed by cell phone and held it to my ear so that all four people on the bus would think, "Oh look, there's someone taking a phone call before heading confidently to her destination" instead of, "Oh wow, that chick has no idea where she is."

Worse than that was when I looked at the bus schedule and saw that the last one of the day came by in about an hour. Okay. So after my hike through the woods, I'd have to hike back home. (It's moments like these that I have to force myself not to dwell on The Car Situation but instead remind myself of the suffering of others: victims of genocide, puppy mills, how my poor mother can't see her driveway from the window. It could always be worse.)

I eventually found the meeting point and the group of 20 or so complete strangers who were going to learn how to walk with sticks alongside me. And I soon as I got there, I remembered one tiny, inconsequential detail: I am incapable of small talk in French.

Here is my problem: people think my French is a lot better than it is. I can't count the number of people who rave about how well I speak. I'm not bragging here, because it makes me want to claw my face off when they say it, as all I can think is if my French is so freaking good then why do I only understand half of what you're saying?!?! Ultimately it boils down to two different understandings of the phrase. When I say "You speak well," I mean "with an ample vocabulary formulated into structured sentences." When French people say "You speak well," they mean "without a horrendous accent."

There's the rub: apparently I am going to have to start speaking with a profoundly obnoxious American accent just to get people to friggin' slow down when they talk to me. As we were walking around with our sticks, people would walk up alongside me and say... something. If their intonation indicated a question, I muttered an agreement; if their intonation indicated a statement, I would use my fallback phrase, "Ah, bon?" Which means, roughly, "Oh, really?" And that was it.

So I met a very nice lady whose name may or may not be Nadia, and who does some kind of roller skating activity that might be roller derby, I'm not really sure. And I also met a guy who just moved from Paris a week ago and is here to coach... something. He liked the park because, you see, they have woods in Paris, but you can still smell all the pollution from the city, and so this park is much nicer. I also met a girl who does karate and is going to email me about this group who meet once a month to practice speaking English. Because, of course, that's going to improve my French. But who cares, I'll go.

The hiking bit was nice enough I guess; I didn't realize we'd be walking quite so long, and after a while all I could think was okay, it's trees, I get it already. (This is not entirely my fault. I was raised by city folks who failed to instill in me a great appreciation of nature. In the same vein, it's also their fault that poor Miss Cake's ficus nearly died, because I honestly thought "ficus" was a generic term for "fake plastic tree," and didn't realize I had to water the thing.)

Well, at any rate, it was fine, and afterwards everyone got in their cars and drove away while I started walking slowly down the dirt path back towards the city. I felt very stupid walking alone while all the cars went past, but what could I do? Then a car pulled up and it was Nadia-- she went out of her way to give me a ride home (and to talk more about this roller skating thing she does), which I thought was terribly nice. Even if I only understood half of what she was saying.

Yup, It's Old

This afternoon I took a guided tour of "the old city," the theme of which seemed to be, "Check it, this place is old." At first I assumed the tour would be guided by some boring old fart who wants to drone on and on about construction materials, but then I saw this sassy old broad looking at everyone's tickets. She was wearing a fedora and a fanny pack and smoking a cigarette; I was beyond excited.

I figured we were waiting on her to finish her ciggy before getting started, but right about the time she stubbed it out with her shoe, another dame showed up and proceeded to drone on and on about construction materials. (I tried to pay attention at the beginning, but I confess to having major vocabulary deficiencies when it comes to masonry, so before long I'd tuned her out.)

We started out at the cathedral, where there was quite obviously a wedding taking place, but the guide just took us on in anyway. I'm sorry to say that I was unable to get photos of the groomsmen, whose suits were grey and, I am not exaggerating, shiny. It looked like they were wearing aluminum foil-- I've never seen anything like it.

A note about Le Mans: they are very, very proud of their old city. They love the fact that it has been used in numerous films, most notably the Rappeneau version of Cyrano de Bergerac. (Great movie-- see it if you haven't.) Anyway, they mention this constantly, the way people in Tours mention that theirs is the purest form of French, or people in Mobile mention that they had Mardi Gras first.

As we were about to leave the cathedral, a handsome young man walked in, and the hat lady snagged his arm and asked him a question. I couldn't hear what it was, but I didn't think much about it. The group left the cathedral and walked down to admire some really old walls, and when I looked up again, Hat Lady and Cute Guy were getting in his car and leaving together. What the heck just happened there?!? I have no idea, but whatever it is, it's awesome.

You can see lots of pictures of old buildings here.

French Women Don't Get Fat Because They Don't Eat

I always lose weight right after I arrive in France. Generally this doesn't last long, since my body eventually adjusts to the boost in exercise around the same time I find a great place for pastries.

And right on schedule, I'm already falling off a bit. This is due partly to the fact that I have limited food supplies-- I spent most of last night wandering the neighborhood in search of a grocery store, and by the time I actually found one, I was so tired that I just grabbed a baguette and some cheese and came home to sleep for 13 hours. Then breakfast got cut short because I couldn't figure out the $*#@ oven, and I had places to go. Namely, the post office. I studied the map and used my new trick wherein I write down the names of streets going the wrong way. (As in, "If you pass THIS street, you should turn around and go the opposite direction.") I got to the post office (!), got my package, and hauled it home for a total trip of three miles, half of which was spent carrying a 15-pound box.

After a caffeine re-load, I took the bus downtown and dutifully admired a bunch of old buildings:

I don't mean to sound snotty, but every town in France has its "old city" and after a while they're just okay. As I wandered around some more (lost!), I accidentally found this market:

Amidst the produce, flowers, meats and cheeses, there was also a wide selection of polyester clothing. Which explains why the general population needs a serious talking-to from Stacy and Clinton.

From the market I proceeded directly to the mall, where I was reunited with my one true love, the FNAC. (If Barnes & Noble and Best Buy had a fling, the FNAC would be their love child.) I surprised myself by spending time in the kids books-- and can I just say, Everyone Poops is just as informative and entertaining in French. I also noticed the large display of (excuse me while I throw up a little) Twilight books, which here are titled Fascination, Tentation, Hésitation, and Révélation. I don't know too much about the storyline, but something about a romantic saga with the title Hésitation cracks me up.

After a few more stops at the Office de Tourisme (for maps) and the mass transit office (for maps), I went and found an unoccupied park where no one could see me looking at my maps. (I don't like reading maps in public, so sue me.) I felt brave enough to walk home. This all totaled eight miles on the day, which I assumed at first was a mathematical error on my part (me + math = catastrophe), but a few hours later my shin splints beg to differ.

But it's been a lovely day, lots of sunlight, a strong breeze. It's warm but I wouldn't call it hot-- think Mobile in October, when it's just ridiculously fantastic weather, and that's what I've got going on here. I just hope it keeps up.

Ooh, looky!

See what I found? Cool-- if, you know, you consider six minute videos of traffic to be cool.