Joyeux Thanksgiving!

November 24^th, 2011 was just any old workday for my French coworkers and me.  I had a few moments of Thanksgiving nostalgia- particularly when my dinner consisted of plain pasta with butter – but for the most part, I was too busy to even notice.  I taught classes in the morning and then rushed over to the art museum to help prepare for the press lunch (which featured several stacks of my newly-translated dossier de presse) and the opening event Friday evening. 

The lunch went well, and the opening was even better! 

J.J. Grandville was a French caricaturist whose satirical drawing inspired several filmmakers including the Lumière brothers, Charlie Chaplin, and Walt Disney.  The exhibit is a mix of Grandville’s sketches and silent films that clearly demonstrate his influence.  

Me at the Press Lunch, taken by one of the photo-journalists (embarrassingly enough, this photo appeared in the local newspaper,  L'Est Republican)

The same day that the Grandville exhibit opened, the Besançon Christmas market began!  Set up in the main square of the town, the Christmas market is a mix of live music, pastries for sale, colorful scarves, and the smell of spiced vin chaud. 

At school, my students kept telling me I had to try tartiflette at the Christmas Market, so when I saw a stand, I went on over.

Tartiflette is made with thinly sliced potatoes, Reblochon cheese, and little bits of fried ham.  Ok, so maybe it’s not the best thing to eat if you are watching your cholesterol… Good thing I’m not!  

I washed down my tartiflette with a glass of vin chaud (hot wine with spices), and was feeling cozy and satisfied.  

Les "week-ends"

On Monday morning I wanted to throw my alarm clock out the window.  It was the end of two very busy weekends that have left me grateful I will be staying in Besançon for a while now. 

Weekend 1: Lausanne

Friday, November 11^th, was Armistice Day (in commemoration of the WWII treaty with Germany), so I had yet another little holiday!  Two friends and I decided to spend our long weekend in Lausanne, Switzerland – a beautiful Swiss city that is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Besançon.

Lausanne is home to the International Olympic Committee and the Prix de Lausanne dance competition, so there is a lot of “excellence” around.  

It is situated on Lake Geneva, which is quite possibly one of the most beautiful bodies of water I have ever seen!  

Lausanne is a very efficient city.  Its population is only about 125,000, so it is the smallest city in the world to have metro system. 

On a night out – we met people from all over the world who live, work, and study in Lausanne – a few English people, French, German, Chinese, and Pakistani.  I immediately got the impression that Lausanne is a relatively open place.  But when I went to the restroom at the bar, I noticed a ton of graffiti all over the bathroom stall saying things like, “I hate Switzerland!”  “All Swiss are racists.” “You have to be white to be Swiss.” 

I was curious, so I checked the other stalls and found all the same type of graffiti.

It was odd to be in Lausanne, because although it is so close to Besançon, and the official language is French (albeit with a bizarre accent), it felt like a completely different country.   It is difficult to put my finger on why.  This is all I can come up with:

French people, like Americans, have a definite sense of being French.  It is not something they constantly discuss, but it is part of their identity, especially when they meet foreigners.  When I (as an American) meet a foreigner (which happens every day at the moment), being American is a large part of the way I present myself.  It is somewhat of a source of pride to announce to my new acquaintance, “I am American.”  In the same vein, they usually take pride in telling me, “I am French,” “I am Italian,” “I am German,” “I am English.” 

A photo of my friend Gemma and me in Lausanne.  (She happens to be English, and is quite proud of it!)

With the Swiss, I didn’t sense this same type of urgency to announce their nationality.  They are Swiss and they weren’t so worried whether or not we knew it.  This feeling I have about Swiss identity also probably comes from the fact that most people who live in Lausanne aren’t actually Swiss.  The city has more foreigners living and working there than actual Swiss citizens. 

Back in Besançon for the Week

We arrived back from Lausanne late the night of Sunday, November 13^th.  I woke up early the next morning and went in to Besançon’s Fine Art Museum, where I have been doing some odd jobs.   They had asked me to do a translation for the press release announcing an exhibit that is opening today (Friday, November 25^th.)  I strolled into the museum and found the place in a flurry. 

They needed me to stuff envelopes for the press lunch, oh yeah, and also get to work on that translation!  Other than a few small things I did for class when I was in college, I had never done a translation before.

Let’s just say it was harder than it seemed.  A rather large part of my week was consumed with perfecting this translation, which ended up sounding like a French person trying to speak English.  We had to settle for a less-than-perfect version because of time constraints, but I was frustrated because I knew I could have done better, given another week. 

Oh well, all was forgotten as I embarked on my next weekend adventure: Paris. 

Weekend 2: Paris

I hoped on a train after work on Friday and arrived in Paris around 8:00 pm.  I was staying with my friends (sisters) Laura and Julia.  We went to dinner at a little Italian restaurant near the girls’ house, where Laura and Julia (whose father is Italian) spoke in lilting Italian to the waiters.  I was practically green with jealousy. 

But it wasn’t long before I got to show off my own bilingual skills!  My friend Greg from UVA was in Paris with his parents, so he came to meet us!  We had a confusing ten minutes of trying to explain to Greg how to get to the restaurant.

He was calling us from a pay phone, speaking English to me, then Spanish to his parents (who are Mexican-American) waiting behind him.  I then had to turn to Laura, asking directions in French then translating what she said into English for Greg.  Finally, Laura got on the phone and said the directions in Italian, hoping Greg might understand (since sometimes Spanish and Italian sound similar.)  In the end, with a mix of all these attempts, Greg arrived at the correct metro stop and off we went! 

We went to a “DJ Party” at the music venue connected to the Moulin Rouge – no, we were not in the old cabaret hall, but we did get to queue outside it while waiting to go in.

Greg and me outside the Moulin Rouge

Seeing my friend Greg was an absolute joy, and reminded me that I’m really never THAT far away from the people I love….

During my days in Paris, I walked around with Laura and Julia.  They live in the Bastille neighborhood, which is in the 11^th arrondissement.  They are right on the border of the Marais, which used to be a primarily Jewish neighborhood, but has slowly morphed into one of the most chic shopping areas in Paris.  This may be because the Jewish shop owners had no qualms about opening their stores on Sundays, so Parisian shoppers flocked to the Marais to buy the latest fashions after Sunday mass. 

For a break, we relaxed in the Gardens of Tuileries.  Later, we had a coffee at the top of the Pompidou Center, and saw a lovely panorama of the Parisian night skyline. 

Champs Elysee on a Sunday Afternoon

Outside of the Pompidou Center

I definitely caught the Paris bug this weekend, and I have to admit, it was with a bit of reluctance that I boarded my train for Besançon Sunday night. 

Long Live the South?

On Monday night I met my new friend Virgile for drinks.  He had insisted that I meet him Monday so that I could talk with his friend Cyrile.  (I know, Virgile, Cyrile… kind of rhymes doesn’t it?)

“Cyrile is a big fan of the United States,” Virgile told me. 

We met at a bar and started out the evening with a round of beers; and so our conversation began to flow. 

Virgile works for a pharmaceutical company in Besançon – the town where he grew up and where his parents still live.  Right away, he seems like a very stable and sensible guy.  He is wearing a suit, has neat haircut, and doesn’t smoke. 

Cyrile lives and works in Vesoul, a smaller city about forty minutes away from Besançon, but he was born in a tiny unknown town of one thousand inhabitants.  He tells me this town is still where he feels most comfortable and at home.  Although Cyrile studied history when he was at university, he now owns a motorcycle dealership.  He is wearing jeans, a baseball cap, and a blue hoodie that says “Dunder-Mifflin.” (Yes, like The Office)  He smoked between six and eight cigarettes throughout the evening. 

Cyrile asks where I am from in America.  I tell him and he immediately says, “Oh! You’re from the South!” 

It turns out that Cyrile is a regular history buff, and is particularly passionate about the American Civil War.  For reasons I can’t quite comprehend, he has chosen the Confederacy as his preferred “team.”  He said he has a small confederate flag in his room and used to dream about being a confederate soldier as a boy.  He asked me all about different battles, and wanted to know which battlefields I had visited.  He told me about the brilliant strategies of Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee.  When I told Cyrile that some of my very own relatives had been proud confederate soldiers, he was near ecstatic.  Turns out, my new French friend knows more about American history than I do. 

Virgile, Cyrile, and I mused about how what the Confederacy really wanted, was to be a bit like the European Union: separate countries, with separate leaders, armies, and laws; but loosely tied economically and diplomatically.  

“Well then,” Virgile said, “You should be glad America is not that way.  Because it is not working here.” 

He and Cryile then launched into a long tirade about the situation in Greece.  They explained that France is often seen as a bridge between two different EU factions: the warm-blooded, laid-back southern/Mediterranean countries, and the cool efficient northern countries.  They said that both types of mentalities exist in France, often divided between the public and private sectors. 

Virgile said, “In France, government employees can relax.”  “They do nothing and have holidays every other week.” "They are like Italians." 

“Yes, and Virgile and I have to work long hours with very few holidays,” added Cyrile.  "We are like Germans."

At this, I smiled sheepishly.  I am, after all, a government employee.

So of course, this Friday, I have another vacation, which I will be using to travel to Switzerland with two girlfriends.  (I didn’t mention this to Virgile and Cyrile.) 

So... Long Live the South!  (And thank God for the French government!) 

Vive les Vacances!

 

Vacation is very important in France (an attitude I wish my workaholic American friends would adopt).  So naturally, three weeks after I started my job, it was time for a 10-day vacation.  It may be true that the French don’t celebrate Halloween, but they get 10-days off school (or work) instead!  Fair trade?  Possibly… 

So what should I do during my ten days off?  A responsible teacher might have stayed in town and worked on lesson plans, but I’m not all that responsible so I had to come up with a different plan.

Then I realized- I have three lovely friends who are living in England at this very moment.  It’s time I paid them a visit!  I started off my vacation in Lyon, France, a city not far from Besançon.  Then moved on to Brighton, a beach city in the south of England, then to London, and finally to Oxford. 

Lyon

My friend Altaire, who studies anthropology at the University of Sussex and lives in Brighton, met me in Lyon the weekend before my English holiday.  We saw Yelle in concert – a French electro-pop group with a lively female singer.  

The concert was Saturday night, so we spent the day exploring Lyon.  We walked along the Rhone river, through the Parc de la Tête d’Or (Park of the Golden Head), and finally found ourselves outside Lyon’s famous contemporary art museum. 

 

Now, some of my friends might know that I’m somewhat of an “art freak.”  I thoroughly enjoy looking at blank canvasses called “untitled” and trying to contemplate what they might mean.  So I was pretty thrilled to spend the afternoon doing just that.  Together, Altaire and I contemplated the arbitrary nature of gender roles, our preconceptions about the uses of everyday objects, and the inequalities and assumptions inherent in Western culture.  Pretty heavy stuff for our first morning in Lyon.   

The major theme of all these exhibits seemed to be that life is senseless and that we have no reason to hope for any kind of meaning.  Or as my old friend Thomas Hobbes once said, “The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

Yikes.  I have to disagree with Mr. Hobbes.  I may be naïve, but I simply can’t stand to believe it.

We left the museum feeling a bit solemn, but figured it was nothing a beer and a walk in the Lyon sunlight couldn’t fix.  But as we were walking I noticed a large, white Church at the top of a very, VERY steep hill (or was it a mountain?) and said, “let’s go there!”  Next the weird art, old European churches are another fetish of mine. 

So we walked, and walked, and walked, stopped to catch our breath, walked some more, crawled, climbed.  You get the picture.  Finally we made it to the Church. Notre-Dame de Fourvière.

 

The inside of Notre-Dame is meant to make everyone who enters it feel the opposite of the way I felt on leaving the contemporary art museum: that life has a purpose; that people have the capacity to love one another; and that we should be in constant awe of life's beauty.

The ceilings of the church were ornate mosaics and moldings, not unlike the churches in Florence, but the ceilings of  Notre-Dame de Fourvière were decorated with geometrical shapes, rather than biblical figures. 

 

As we were leaving, mass was beginning, so we stayed for the opening hymn.  French singing was still echoing in the foyer as we left. 

As we were walking down the hill, Altaire and I talked about how we had seen two completely different outlooks on life that day.  I’m not sure if it’s really possible to choose the truth, but if it is, I’m definitely going with the second one!

Brighton

We got to England late Sunday night and went straight to a 24-hour convenience store.  Wow.  I had forgotten those existed.  I couldn’t believe I was hearing English all around me, albeit in a funny accent. 

The majority of my day in Brighton was spent, eating scones, drinking tea, taking stupid pictures with Altaire’s camera, and striking up conversations with shopkeepers in my beloved native language.

They call Brighton the “San Francisco of England” because of its large gay population, it’s quirky art scene, and it’s large quantity of vegan and vegetarian restaurants. 

Perhaps the oddest part of Brighton was the Royal Pavilion, an old government building modeled after the Taj Mahal.  Unfortunately for whichever Duke built it, the pavilion ended up looking more like a Disneyworld attraction than an official government building.   

In all, I really liked Brighton.  It’s basically a beach city with a flair for culture and all the quirks of the Brits :)

London

It probably goes without saying that London is an amazing city.  I arrived on Wednesday morning and met my friend Freddi at Picadilly Circus.  She lives in Soho, so we wove through the crowds on the main streets back to her secluded alleyway apartment.  

We went first to get coffee at Freddi’s new favorite haunt, The Society Club.  I’m not sure where this name came from, but The Society Club is anything but an exclusive social club.  It’s an all-inclusive bookstore, coffee shop, art gallery, event space, and general hang-out.  I couldn’t tell who was working from who was actually purchasing coffee. Everyone just sat around chatting about books, about art, in French (I felt at home!), or just telling jokes.  Occasionally someone would get up and make coffee for someone else but it was never a big deal.  In the short time I was there I met, a girl who’s mom wrote a book about living in a random French town, an actor/dog-walker, the seventy-five-year-old woman who owns the place, and a aspiring photographer who showed us his work. I couldn’t help falling in love with The Society Club, so if any of you ever find yourselves in London, do me a favor and GO THERE

Freddi had class so I went on a “Free tour of London” to see the obligatory sights – Wellington arch, Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben.  This tour actually is free – but the guide will ask you for tips at the end.   

During the tour, I hit it off with two German girls who were also visiting London this week, so I joined them for lunch afterward.  We decided to be as British as we possibly could, so we went to a nearby pub and ordered beer and  “Fish and Chips with Mushy Peas.”  

This dish is actually as unappetizing as it sounds.  Fortunately, my lunch was cut short when I realized I was late to meet my cousin’s English beau for tea in Chelsea.  Au revoir fish and chips! 

Alastair is a clean-cut British chap who met my cousin Margaret when he spent a year studying abroad in America.  He visited UVA a few times while he was in the states, so he and I had a grand old time reminiscing about events such as Foxfeilds and Beach Week over our cups of English tea. He taught me about the different types of accents in England, explaining that you can tell by someone’s accent, not only where they are from, but also their level of education and their financial situation.  This made me grateful for my own very American accent, basking in relative anonymity.

A day later, I hopped on a train for Oxford.  

Oxford

When I arrived at the train station my friend Laura bounced up and gave me a huge hug.  She was glowing and clearly in her element in this intellectual paradise.  We walked all over Oxford, visiting the two famous Magdalen and Christ Church “colleges.”  

When I say college, I mean a sort communal living, dining, and learning situation that takes place in a large castle-like structure.  The closest comparison I can find is “houses” in Harry Potter – you know like, Gryffindor and Slytherin.   In fact, the entire time I was at Oxford I felt like I was wandering around Hogwarts (I swear the staircases changed at some point!) Some parts of Harry Potter were actually filmed at Oxford, and the “Great Hall” from the movie was allegedly inspired by the dining hall at Christ Church college.  

Laura invited me to a diner at her college.  We ate at four long tables, and had to stand as professors entered the room and took their place at “high table.”  It was all very exciting!! 

My second day at Oxford, I attended a talk by a professor from Harvard about the future of journalism education, a topic that interests me since I am an aspiring journalist myself.  Most of the time I tried to hide behind a pillar, because I was afraid something about me might be screaming “I DON’T GO TO OXFORD!”  But luckily no one found me out…

The talk was given in front of a panel of journalists from all over the world.  Harvard-man was arguing that journalism education is only good if students are also educated in the discipline they plan to report on.  He said we should all require our journalists to learn political theory if they plan to report on politics, religious studies theory if they plan to report on religion…etc.  I was nodding along comfortably agreeing with everything he said, until the journalist from Yemen raised his hand and said, “but sir, in my country we don’t have journalism school.” 

Before leaving Oxford I made sure to rummage through the bookstore.  I wore my glasses and bought two highly intellectual books about Africa, one of which I read on the train ride home.  

Now I am back in France, and it is starting to feel like a very familiar place indeed.