The Year Elsewhere

I came to France with the impression that all of the women are thin, stylish, and above all, proper (i.e. a bit cold to other females). There was the incident when Lindsey and I were in a pâtisserie with Susan, who was buying a cookie. We turned to walk out while Susan finished paying, and the woman said "Au revoir!" And then again, insistently, "Au reVOIR!" Lindsey and I turned in the door to find her glaring at us. "Au revoir," we chorused, and and she harrumphed triumphantly. Dang young'uns ain't good for nothing no more. No, in all seriousness, I can see why we might have ticked her off, coming into her tiny shop and not buying anything. It could be considered a personal affront, not to be tempted off the "diet" (the staples of which are dark chocolate, cheese, and bread at the moment) by the plum tarts, the brioche raisin snails, the sablés, the éclairs (both café and chocolat). But the experience scarred us, and during the rest of the afternoon, whenever a vendeur murmured "Au revoir," Lindsey and I stumbled over each other in our haste to be the first to respond.

But truly, this is the only experience that comes to mind in which a woman has been a bit...testy. I mean, Hui-Wen, Miwa, and I (classmates, from Taiwan and Japan, respectively) had to go out into the streets to interrupt the lives of complete strangers to see how they felt about the construction of a tramway smack in the middle of the centre-ville. (It was a big project; I don't do this for fun.) All of those women (and men) were unbelievably understanding; more understanding than I would have been in similar circumstances. So there's one preconception overthrown.

But they're thin. They're stylish. I don't know how they do it. Actually, I do. They walk a lot, and in my family at least, they don't eat dessert, except for some fruit or some yoghurt with a butter cookie. For the first two weeks I was here, I was a loss as to how they manage to last between the big lunch and the supper. We don't eat until 20h00 most nights, which is eight hours after lunch for me. Eight hours that are full of concentration and then relaxing by walking several miles in centre-ville and trying to speak French to additional understanding French people. It works up an appetite. Granted, the French women don't have to concentrate on how to communicate with others, but they still walk. They have other business to attend to. How do they do it?

Then one day after school (so, like, 17h00, 5:30, getting to be dinnertime, right?), walking through the centre-ville on the way to Monoprix (to pick up snacks, bien sûr), I noticed: everone was eating. The bistros were full. People had packed the streets, devouring pastries. Children were trailing behind parents, toting their backpacks and fisting small baguettes aux pepittes de chocolat into their mouths. It was a revelation. This was how they didn't eat until so late. I had been berating myself for having a snack at what I considered to be approaching the dinner hour, when in fact, I had just fallen into what was expected. Eat a snack at five, have dinner (supper) at eight. It all made sense.

But my revelation only extended so far. So they have a snack. If they have a viennoiserie (pastry) for snack, that still begs the question: how is everyone staying so thin in this country? My only answer is that even though I see people eating the viennoiseries every day, they must not be the same people from day to day. It seems to be of utmost importance to look one's best here, and weight is the most important aspect (to the point of smoking incessantly. Not everyone smokes, but sometimes it seems like it). Take this headline from yesterday's paper: Battue pour avoir trop mangé à la cantine, and under, "Ella avait pris du 'rab' à la cantine et ne l'avait pas dit à ses parents. Parce qu'elle était un peu trop ronde, et au régime, ils ont sévèrement corrigé la fillette de 7 ans. La père a écopé de six mois de prison ferme." Roughly translated: "Beaten for eating too much at the cafeteria -- She took seconds at her school cafeteria and didn't tell her parents. Because she is supposed to be following a diet for weight reasons, they firmly reprimanded her. The father received a sentence of six months in closed prison."

It seems ridiculous. And yet, I'm glad this is in the paper. It means it's news. It doesn't happen often. And yet, it happened. I think this obsession with obesity, or having thighs that meet (okay, not true, but it seems like it sometimes), is as personal as smoking or rudeness. I was describing to Mme the other night all of the girls here who are tiny and chic in their skinny jeans and sacs à mains, and then me in the middle of them, sweaty and windblown, back aching from lugging my backpack all day. She said that guys don't like skinny girls, and that she likes to be fat (sidenote: she could gain fifty pounds and be totally healthy). Then she added that it must be refreshing to be freed from belonging to a society, at least temporarily, to observe from the outside and act the way I want to. People have expectations of the way I should behave, certainly. I should be loud and obnoxious. Which I am sometimes. But other times I'm just me. This is one of the few times in my life when I don't have to operate according to some larger network of mores. I don't have to be American, and being French is not an option. There's no way for me to fit in right now, so the best I can do is to be me.

In other news, if you're reading this, could you either comment or send me an email to let me know (unless you're my parent; I know you're reading)? I'd really like to have an idea of to whom I'm writing, if anyone.

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 12:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I watched the news with Mme before dinner last night. It was a new experience, probably because the last time that I really watched the news was September 12, 2001, and the only news that I've really had playing in the background since then has been the "local on the eights" on the Weather Channel. We were just watching "les titres," the headlines, but I was expecting them just to be some local news. I don't know why I was expecting that - I don't think it's like that in the U.S. - but the true mixture of all types of news surprised me. There was a girl learning cello, a powdered milk scandal resulting in four infant deaths in China, voltage regulations in a French neighborhood, and an airplane that exploded upon takeoff in Spain, causing 150 deaths (and, morbidly, I now know the word for "mushroom cloud"). Something of everything, in every country. Israel's budget juxtaposed against Christian Poncelet's (président of the Sénat) living quarters and services. As one commentator put it, Louis XIV didn't have it better.

And then the camera zoomed across the ocean to highlight American politics. When George Bush stepped stepped up to the podium to give a speech, I felt this immense surge of gratitude towards him. Never in my life have I been so happy to see him. But there he was on screen, preparing to speak English to me. I thought I would swoon. And he started talking. And then the voice-over dub started talking, and all of Bush's words were lost to me. I uttered a little cry of frustration and despair, and Mme looked over at me and chuckled.

But then the coverage continued, and everyone was dubbed. French McCain had a snippy voice, harsh and a bit pinched in the nose, while French Obama was more relaxed. Posters kept flashing up on the screen, ad hominem publicities, and the speeches targeted the opponents rather than the issues. It was typical American politics, and yet I felt a supreme discomfort in the face of such pettiness as viewed through the eyes of a foreign country.

It's obvious that Obama is favored here. And unlike in the U.S., no one is ashamed to ask you how you'll vote. It's not a private matter, as far as people I've talked to are concerned. My host family asked me my first day here. People ask you in the streets, in the stores.

Last night, I finally asked Mme what her opinion was of Sarkozy. She said that she likes him. That everyone makes mistakes, and that she's glad that he found his wife (Carla Brunei, for those who haven't been paying attention) when he did because she thinks that will make his work, and life in general, more enjoyable, more relaxed, happier. So she considers herself part of the 18% of the French who approve of the Président. I don't know if that was the real reason, or whether she was simplifying to make the notion it easy enough for me to understand. In which case, I thank her.

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I apologize in advance for the way the captions wind around the pictures to which they have no relation. I'll work on that little bêtise for next time. In the meantime, it can be a matching game, right? It's fun, right?

Promenading on the ramparts of St Malo last weekend, followed by la glace cérise, followed by beachcombing. Does it get better? I think not.

The Willamette group, minus Casey (with Linfield-Matt working the camera), before going to a spectacular dinner in a cave. You'd think that would be sarcasm, but it's not.

And for those of you who desire a face for the monniker, Linfield-Matt (with what seems to be a tree growing out of his head...I need to work on my portrait skills).

Susan and me on our Saturday morning walk. It was cold, I was sick, but Susan's scarf (which should probably be burned because of contamination) kept me comfy. We spoke French with each other the entire way, across the river, by a lake, back across the river, through town, and back to her house (i.e. we talked a lot, but it was all in our own little pidgin French, so it was technically "homework").

Stained glass windows at Chenonceau.

For those of you with Facebook, you can probably see more pictures on other people's profiles. I just tend not to go for publishing albums. I have a thing against convenience, I suppose. I'm still getting used to the fact that people read this. Anyway, it's way past my bedtime, so I'm going to go work on getting seven hours, hopefully. I have so much more to write, but I think I should pace myself, otherwise I'll go dry in a couple of weeks. Bonne nuit!

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 12:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You wouldn't think that there would be a lack of stories to tell when you're living in a foreign country, and it's true that there aren't. However, the kind of stories that I have are not the ones that I think would enthrall those who aren't here to taste the perfectly ripe pears and plums that I picked up at the market during my lunch break yesterday. The perfect snap of the dark chocolate filled with fèves de cacao (cocoa nibs). The stink of the cheese and how it oozes out the sides of the slices after a couple days. How Mme keeps leftovers in cooking pots in the oven. Sausage in the cupboard. Eggs on the counter. Dirty dishes in the pantry. Things like that. It's an adventure, but not necessarily enthralling.

We visited châteaux on Sunday. It was...lackluster. Our local fortress, for some reason, appeals to me so much more. The whole time that we were running around the towers and the courtyards and the palacial (literally, I guess) staircases, all I could think about were the rich people who had lived here, and how insignificant they are now. The houses are better known than their owners. I guess that was the point of building them -- to establish a reputation through tangible symbolism, but ironically, a lot of the owners were exiled because of their homes. King François got a bit jealous and he shooed several couples out of the way so that he could own their castles once they were done constructing them. Anyway, I think pleasure palaces are kind of a waste, both of resources and time. I prefer the fortresses that were built for protection and safety. Plus they date a lot earlier, so they have even more history. More than I can conceive. Anyway, that was Sunday, from 7h30 to 21h00. It wasn't bad -- we got some good Would-you-rathers and 20-Questions out of the bus ride. Susan, Lindsey, Linfield-Matt, and I all sat around a table on the bus and chattered incessantly after we woke up from our naps.

I wasn't expecting to be so tired. But experiencing France all day is exhausting, and it's logistically impossible for me to get eight hours of sleep. I need about two more hours in a day.

In other news, one of those adventures that won't appeal to anyone else, Lindsey and I joined the university choir last night. It meets from 18h00 to 19h30 Monday nights (which means we get home at 20h00, which means we eat at 20h30, which means we finish at 21h30, which means I would have to be in bed, asleep, within thirty minutes of finishing dinner in order to get eight hours of sleep, which I couldn't manage even if I had no homework, hence the logistical problem). But it was fun, laidback, serious, small. Something that might be able to put the pleasure back into singing. I'm looking forward to next week. We're singing about five works in Latin, so it's as if there is no language barrier. A couple of the other sopranos even talked to me. (Your expectations of social interactions vastly decrease in foreign countries, especially in choir, where you suddenly find you don't know the word for "half-step.") But I discovered that French singers have trouble sightreading too, they shoot too high, they shoot too low, and when you look around in bewilderment at what seems to be everyone reading in perfect solfeggio syllables, the girl next to you tells you that she only knows "do." It's an adventure.

Well, I need to go to expression orale now. I had hoped to post pictures, but they aren't on this campus computer, so maybe I'll do another picture post tonight or tomorrow. You know, if I'm not sleeping. Hopefully I'll have some more adventures to recount soon. (I just found a cheap shoe store in centre-ville, so my guess is that I am going to have MANY adventures, just none worth reading, especially if you have no shoe fetish.)

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 03:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

We're almost a week into intensives here at UCO (l'Université Catholique de l'Ouest). The placement test went fine...a little too fine, in fact, if you ask me. Out of the nine levels possible, I placed into the ninth, along with a forty-year-old French teacher from America, a thirty-year-old lawyer from Germany, and a bunch of traditional students just as freaked out as I am. Our first day of class started at 8h30 and ended at 19h00, although every day, we have at least two hours for lunch. And everyday, all of the students walk out of their last classes and fall down because we're all so dizzy from concentrating so hard on evrything that we hear and see. You think you have a respectable grasp of the language, and then you go to country and find out that you're hopeless. You wake up and think, "This is the day that I'm going to remember to do the subjunctive every time." And then you forget the difference between the conditionnel and the futur, and your host family looks at each other and says, "Do you understand what she's trying to say?" And if you're lucky, someone does.

Other than convulsing in our attempts to understand and be understood, we've been knocking around the French countryside and reconnoitering the layout of Angers. Whenever we get lost in the centre-ville, we look at each other and head back to the local château to get our bearings again, as Lindsey and were forced to do a couple times on Saturday as we searched for first a pâtisserie, then the Monoprix to buy cheap snacks to tide us over from lunch at noon to dinner at 20h00.

Yesterday we went to Mont-St-Michel, an abbey that used to be an island before the tourist road disrupted water currents so badly that it all drained away, leaving only the quicksand. And I managed to slide down half of a narrow circular staircase in the last tower that we visted. Summer, another student here from Oregon, managed to stop me after four steps. All of the Frenchmen in front of me made sure I was alright -- "Il faut tenir à la corde!" -- but all I could say was "Je suis d'accord!" which is grammatically correct and everything, but completely not what I meant to say. That entire half of my dérrière is a brilliant violet now though, and I'm sitting off to one side. It's a cheap souvenir though, much like a t-shirt with "I ate it at Mont-St-Michel" emblazoned across the front, except my method is much more private. After that, our trip to St Malo, a resort town on the beach, was rather anticlimactic, but all of us Midwesterners were happy to search for sea glass and shells.

And then I walked home with my lovely neighbors Lindsey and Susan (WUers) and Bryan (from KU). And Mme fussed over making a beet salad with a baguette and Saint-Nec-Terre and Pyrenées (both cheeses), along with an apple for dessert. The only problem with the food here is that fruits are seen as desserts, so it's not as common to eat them throughout the day, like I do. There's another thing I bought at Monoprix. Fruit. I need Vitamin C right now. And a good cup of coffee. But I wouldn't trade this experience for either of those at this point. I mean, I live down the street from a château.

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 04:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

It's been a few crazy days, and it seems like it may continue that way. I left Kansas City at noon on Saturday, and I finally arrived in Angers at 13h00 Sunday. It was a long day, made longer by the fact that I think the sun set for about five minutes. But everyone here has been so nice -- it was wonderful to see friends from Willamette again, and Sue Crust, our director, is one of the nicest people ever.

So many things are different here, but not in the ways that I expected: everyone is so skinny, beyond thin. It's really a relief when a healthy-looking person comes down the street. My host family is so understanding about everything. I got lost on my way to the campus this morning because I missed the final turn to get to the International Education building. Sue had already called MMe to make sure I was on my way, so Mme came up to the campus to make sure I had made it, and we had a big discussion about it when I got home in the evening. Needless to say, I got a cell phone today in order to be able to make local calls. This way people can call me directly.

The meals are one of the best things about this so far. Everything is so relaxed. I always seem to dread encounters with the members of the family just out of fear of appearing a fool, but then when we convene around the table, I remember that they already know I'm a fool. It's allowed, right? I'm a foreigner. They're used to it. I'm their fourteenth exchange student. So they just help me with my pronouns, and they're patient when I start to get frustrated with tenses, and all of this is set to the backdrop of a French meal: salad, perhaps a tart, artisan chheses with a baguette, and some fruit or yogurt for dessert. Everything is in courses. Even the meal that we had in the cafeteria at the campus today.

Placement tests are tomorrow at 8h30 though, and it's a thirty-minute walk to the campus. I need to get to bed if I have any hope of making it on time. I slept most of Sunday, and I feel pretty good today, but I don't know how the morning will feel. Maybe with a big cereal bowl of coffee, like the one Mme offered me today, would do the trick. And now I'm going to drift off to sleep under my skylight while listening to unequivocally American music. Because you have to keep tethered somehow.

Posted by Caitlin O'Neil at 01:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)