All My Peeps

 

During my time east of the Atlantic, I have been lucky enough to see some amazing places.  I’ve strolled down the Champs Elysée in Paris, dipped my feet in Lake Geneva, watched the changing of the guard in London, and even biked on volcanoes in Iceland.  For my next vacation I’ll be taking a trip to Turkey, and I have plans to spend time in Barcelona in early May.    

The Atlantic Ocean in Iceland

Changing of the Guard in London

The Champs Elysee on a Sunday Afternoon

But as cool as all this sounds, none of it has brought more depth to my life than my new routine – the fact of living, working, and playing in France.  Although I do my best to make it all sound glamorous, living in France can get a bit lonely for a foreigner. 

That’s why I’ve got my peeps.    

This post is going to be an ode (I apologize in advance for any excess cheese) to the people who have made my life here in France not only less lonely, but more meaningful and a heck of a lot more fun! 

Here they are.  In more or less the order I met them:

Gregoire: I hardly stepped into Pasteur (my place of work, not the man who invented pasteurization) and he was already inviting me to coffee and signing me up for salsa classes.  Gregoire has lived in Canada, so he knows what it’s like to be “the foreign guy” at work.  He often teases me for working too hard, and is constantly distracting me with coffee, cake, youtube videos, and stories of weekend shenanigans.  

Charlotte: Charlotte was the first native English speaker I met in Besançon. She works at Pasteur also, so I met her just one day after meeting Gregoire.  It was the first time I’d heard a Scottish accent in real life (by that I mean not on TV) and at the beginning of our friendship I found myself giggling at phrases like “wee lad,” which I had always assumed were just for dramatic effect in movies and weren’t actually said.  I honestly don’t know what I would do without my wee Scottish friend.  Some days we are together constantly  – drinking coffee in the staff room, having inappropriate conversations at the lunch table because no one can understand when we speak English, stumbling through salsa class in the evening, cooking some Asian-style chicken dish for dinner, and going out for a beer or two at the bar near my apartment where they give us discounts for being foreign. 

Gemma: When I first met Gemma, I assumed she was French.  She was wearing a stripped shirt and standing outside a popular bar, with a group French guys who were taking a smoke break.  But Charlotte ran up and hugged her, chatting away in English.  As it turns out; she’s from a town on the southern coast of England.  We became fast friends – probably because we both have the same dorky, but slightly off-color, sense of humor. Gemma is my favorite person to travel with, because she is both organized and laid-back. We’ve taken weekend trips and day trips together, and we are going to Turkey in a month.  More often that not, we crack ourselves up taking touristy pictures and talking about our own made-up country called “Janadia.” (I’m not even going to try to explain that one). On the train home, we spend hours doing nothing but cracking up at our own bad jokes. 

Katya: You may have read about Katya in my recent post about Russian Christmas.  She is truly a brave soul – being perhaps the only Russian in the whole city of Besançon. She is taller than most French men, loves hosting parties in her apartment, and drinks only the most expensive vodka (the cheap stuff isn’t really vodka, she says).  At first glance she seems quite timid and meek, but once you get to know her, you discover a fun-loving girl who is up for anything.  Katya is constantly giving advice about men, whom she claims to appreciate more than the rest of us silly girls because there are supposedly very few good men in Russia. 

“Ann Marshall, stand over here so you are in that guy’s line of vision.”
                                                                        “Don’t wear that shirt.  It doesn’t show off your figure.” 
“That guy’s not good enough for you, tell him you’ve got a boyfriend so he’ll leave you alone.”

 Let’s face it, without Katya, I’d be a lost soul – particularly in the romance department.          

Elvin: Living far away from his native Nicaragua, Elvin and I feel a bizarre camaraderie since we are from the same side of the Atlantic.  We both love to complain about the lack of sunshine and spicy food in Besançon and don’t understand why the French don’t smile or strike up conversations in the grocery store.  Elvin doesn’t own a coat, although the temperature here is regularly below freezing.  Instead, he shows up to work in the same faded-blue hoodie everyday, claiming he’s not cold.  When we hang out outside of work, I speak terrible Spanish to him while he laughs at me and we are usually a) dancing b) drinking, or c) all of the above.

Laura and Julia: These lovely sisters are my French guardian angels!! In fact, I met them before any of the others, when I was in France two years ago.  They are part of the reason I am here in Besançon.  Although they now live in Paris, they are from Besançon originally and return often.  My apartment is even in the same building as their mom’s!  Laura and Julia have introduced me to all their friends, invited me to family dinners, included me in nights out, and even extended an open invitation for me to visit them in Paris, which I do often.   Although I do not see them every day, I am constantly texting, calling, or facebook chatting them – making weekend plans or telling them about my latest French faux pas.  

Laura is my age and works at Le Pacte, a Parisian company that buys and sells the rights to international films.  She studied film production for a year at NYU.  Julia is just a bit younger – the same age as my sister.  She studies Art History at the Sorbonne and dreams of being a professor or a museum curator.   Not only do we share interests – film, art, music, traveling… etc, but Laura and Julia are truly two of my greatest friends.  When the three of us are together, it’s not two French girls and one American, but three girls talking, laughing, and at times crying, about life’s absurd twists and turns. 

Madame Nebraska

 

This weekend I spent one night at my friend Laura’s dad’s house in Lons le Saunier.  Lons is a little town in the department of the Jura, about an hour from Besançon.  The area is known for it’s wine – especially vin jaune, which is a golden-colored beverage known for its especially high alcohol content and it’s distinctive taste.  

(I could probably mention some things here about the subtle but slightly bitter nutty citrusy earthy flavor, but the truth is my palette is not that sophisticated.)  Let’s suffice to say that most people who taste it “ooh” and “ahh” before downing their glass. 

Laura’s dad is an Italian architect who told me that he has created his life around “beautiful things.”  You can see this in his home.  Each room is painted a different, slightly exotic, color and the walls are covered with works by his favorite artists.  As you drive through the Jurassien countryside toward Lons le Saunier, you are overwhelmed by breathtaking views of mountains, valleys, rivers, plunging cliffs, vineyards, and old chateaux. 

Mr. Baldiuni was kind enough to drive Laura and me up to Chateau Chalon to take photos of the view below.

Besides breathtaking views, Mr. Balduini loves delicious food.  That night he invited a whole host of people over for dinner: his Italian collegue, a French couple, a friend of Laura’s and her Spanish boyfriend, Laura (obviously), and me – the exotic American. 

Our dinner started out with a glass of sweet white wine, prociutto (straight from Rome thanks to the Italian colleague), olives, and bread.  As we progressed through the courses, the food became progressively tastier and the guests became progressively more talkative – thanks to the wine. 

Before I knew it, my new friends were asking me some all-too-familiar questions about the United States:

Who do you think is going to win the next election?

Do you approve of the death penalty?

Do you carry a pistol around in your purse?

You’re American… so why aren’t you fat?

Most of the questions were polite, even playful, so I answered honestly and with a sense of humor.  However, one of the French guests, a woman about the same age as my dear old mum, was grilling me in a surprisingly condescending tone. 

She considered herself an expert on the United States because she spent three weeks with a family in Omaha, Nebraska when she was 18.  Much to my annoyance, she proceeded to tell the other guests that all American families own guns, that all the women wash their hair every day (quelle horreur!), and that we all eat nothing but McDonalds. 

“Aren’t you so grateful to be in France?”  She asked.  “We have the best cuisine in the world.”

At this comment, I felt compelled to politely point out that we had just eaten a delicious Italian meal cooked by an Italian man with Italian ingredients. 

“Well…” She conceded.  “The Italians can cook as well.”

DISCLAIMER:  As an American, I see LOTS of things wrong with my country.  We still have the death penalty.  We have a high rate of obesity, especially among low-income groups.   We need more gun control.  We need to fix our health care system.  Our politicians are more interested in getting re-elected than in actually doing what’s best for our country.  The list could go on and on.

But when foreigners (like our lovely dinner party friend whom I shall call Madame Nebraska) criticize my home, without a proper base from which to do so, it drives me crazy.

It’s like being really annoyed at your brother.  You might say to the closest person who will listen, “my brother is such a jerk!  He did this and this and this. Ugh!” 

But if that person then turns to you and says, “yeah, your brother is really a class- A jerk.,”  you then reply, “Hey! That’s my brother you’re talking about! Say one more thing about him and I’ll punch you in the face!” 

Sure, he looks goofy.  But don't you dare insult him!  I'll fight you to the death!

 

Occasionally French people will ask me if I prefer France or the United States.  I never know how to respond to this question.  I love living in France – the beautiful buildings, the food, the language, the wonderful, kind people – my new friends.  But my entire family and everyone I have cared about for the 23 years of my life are in the United States.  That’s my home over there across that ocean.

For dessert, we had a galette des rois, which is a French cake eaten during the epiphany season after Christmas.  Inside is hidden a small figurine of some sort.  If your piece of galette has a figurine inside, you are declared “king” of the party. 

As we were cutting the cake, Madame Nebraska said, “I bet you don’t have anything like this in the United States.” 

I explained that in New Orleans, we actually do have a similar tradition called “King Cake.”  It’s a cinnamon cake with gold, purple, and green icing and a plastic baby hidden inside.  

“Plastic!”  she exclaimed, indignant.  “In France, it would never be plastic!”

I nodded.  She was probably right, I thought.  Oh well.  Gotta  love those plastic babies!

When I cut into my piece of galette, my fork hit something hard and… plastic!  I pulled out a small, white, plastic figurine of a wise man. 

I thought it best to let bygones be bygones, so I kept quiet.  But Laura, noticing my wise man, grabbed it and waved it at Madame Nebraska.

“It’s plastic!  It’s plastic!” She said. 

Let’s chalk it up to globalization.

Photo Montage

Some photos from some of my more recent adventures: Enjoy!

Arbois, France - known for it's wine!

Vineyards in Arbois

The former home of Louis Pasteur (Arbois)

Louis!  (Good thing my orange juice this morning was PASTEURized...)

Christmas Market in Colmar, Alsace

Christmas! In your face...

Colmar Cathedral

The largest baguette I have ever seen.

Dijon!  The city where mustard was invented...

I am now a real mustard connoisseur.

Gargoyles protecting their turf on the Dijon Cathedral

The lucky owl of Dijon.  Touch it with your left hand a make a wish!

Stay tuned for more stories coming up!

С Рождеством Христовым

 

Raise your glass (of plain vodka)!  It’s Christmas again!   My friend Katya (who also happens to be the Russian version of me) invited us language assistants and some French friends over to celebrate Russian Christmas, which is the 7^th of January based on the Julian calendar.  Although Katya was nice enough to wish me a Merry Christmas on December 25^th, the day has no real significance for her. 

During the USSR, Christmas (being a religious holiday) was not celebrated, so it’s  still not a huge deal to Katya and her family.  She says that during the Soviet era, New Year’s became the biggest family holiday because it celebrated a non-religious event.  But ever since the fall of the Soviet Union, Katya and her family have celebrated Christmas the traditional Russian way – they eat a large meal of sausage, potatoes, beef and pork dumplings, several salads, and of course vodka! 

Katya, who can only be called a domestic goddess, kept us eating (and drinking) from 9 pm until 1 am.  By the end of the festivities she seemed unruffled and serene (as if that clear liquid she was drinking were water) while the rest of us devolved into dancing to bad French pop, playing with lit candles, and breaking chairs. 

The company included my friend Elvin, the Spanish assistant from Nicaragua.  When Katya told him about the shortage of men in Russia, he declared that he wanted to move there as soon as possible so he could seduce the Russian women with his Latin American charm.  This made us all laugh because Elvin is about 5’ tall while Katya is about 6’2”.  Nevertheless, he insisted that we call him Elvinskii for the rest of the night.

The next night, Katya invited some girlfriends and myself to come over for “fortune-telling,” which can begin the day after Christmas. This was one of the few Russian Christmas traditions that continued during the Soviet era, because it was judged a secular tradition.  Apparently, fortune telling is just for girls.  No boys were allowed in the apartment, and we holed up drinking wine and eating chocolate by candlelight. 

The first fortune-telling activity involved drawing cups.  Each cup had something different inside: water, bread, salt, onion, sugar, hair, or a ring.  As it would happen, I drew the cup with the ring, which allegedly means I will be getting married this year.  (The next day at lunch my French friend Laura said, “Maybe this means you will be getting married in order to stay in France!”  She then started suggesting friends of hers who might not make terrible husbands for me. OK maybe a step too far…)  

For the second fortune we had to melt pieces of wax and pour the melted wax into cold water.  We then took the newly hardened wax, held it up to a candle, and tried to discern something about our future from the shadow it made on the wall. 

One girl’s shadow looked suspiciously like a camel with a pack.  We decided this means she will soon take a trip to an exotic destination.  My wax-shadow looked like a crescent moon.  Apparently something in my life is either “waxing” or “waning.”  Perhaps it’s my impending marriage to an unknown man.

Cheers!  And Merry Christmas! (Again)

Bonne Année !

After taking the entire month of December off from this blog, I now have a little hole in my heart.  Yes, it’s true.  I really miss writing quippy (I think I may have just invented that word) little posts about my life in France.  So I resolve, from now on, to write in my blog (at least!) once a week.  Please keep following!

This is my "I'm-sorry-for-neglecting-my-blog" face

 I returned to Besançon a few days ago from an epic twelve-day journey to my homeland, the United States of America.  I spent three days in Virginia, six days in New Orleans, two more days in Virginia, and finally one day in Washington, D.C., before taking off for Paris.  Whew!  By the time I got home, I was ready to sleep and watch mindless TV shows in my bed for about 5 days straight.  But alas!  I arrived in France the morning of December 31^st.  Can’t sleep away New Year’s Eve! 

My trip home was fantastic!  I enjoyed seeing all my friends and family and being in a place where everyone speaks American (as opposed to the other forms of the language we like to call “English”).  

My Family: together in New Orleans for Christmas

One thing I did miss about my life in France: here, when I do something weird or culturally unacceptable (purposefully or not), I just play the “foreign card.”   Generally, if I look cute and naïve enough, the French feel sorry for me and let it slide. 

Let’s just say the foreigner card does not work for me in the U.S.  We’ll leave it at that, alright?

When I arrived in Washington D.C. from Paris, I noticed the chirpy way the airport worker said, “Move along folks!”  Folks.  Now that’s one word I hadn’t heard in quite some time! 

My dad picked me up from the airport, and we drove past “Paris,” a small town in rural Virginia on our way home.

Paris, France

Paris, Virginia

I have been living in France since mid-September.  So I faced a bit of culture shock when I arrived back in my homeland.  I had forgotten what it was like to have people, dogs, and upcoming events thrown at you when you walk in the door.  I had forgotten what it felt like to speak English to strangers, to drive to the grocery store, to shower standing up.  I had even forgotten about that glorious combination: peanut butter and chocolate. 

When I arrived at home, I was bursting to share my new life with my family and friends.  Somehow, I expected them to have changed as much as me and to magically understand the new perspective I suddenly had about the world and my place in it.

I quickly realized I was going to have to slow down. 

At the risk of sounding like a super-nerd, I am going to make an analogy:  It’s like I had stepped onto a spaceship traveling at the speed of light.   Over the past four months, time has slowed down for me. (It sounds corny, but it’s true.) Because I constantly deal in a foreign language and a (relatively) foreign culture, I am forced to focus, to live in a kind of slow motion.  I listen to each conversation with every ounce of my attention so as not to miss some vital detail.  I find myself constantly noticing the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes around me; not only because they are different, but because they are potential clues about the meaning of this strange new world I inhabit.

Meanwhile, my friends and family back on Earth have continued to live the same life they have always lived.  Happy, comfortable, busy, and at times, on auto-pilot. 

Here, I am like a kid, constantly amazed by the simplest things: a new colloquial expression, a delicious raspberry tart, the strange rules for a French board game, my beautiful new boots from a local boutique, a glass of regional wine.

Some of the simplest tasks pose a challenge: going to the store to buy eggs, eating lunch with my French colleagues, opening a bank account.  Things that I do automatically (and while half-asleep) in the United States suddenly demand an abnormal amount of thought and energy. 

I am slightly embarrassed to admit this, but one of my proudest moments thus far in France was the day I set up my Internet box – all by myself!  This required reading a detailed manual in French, making two phone calls in French to my provider Orange, and even some technical computer work (at which I normally fail miserably). 

When I went home, I somehow expected everyone to just get it. I expected them to understand that my life has suddenly slowed down, that I learn something new every five minutes, that it is both extremely frustrating and extremely gratifying, and that despite the seeming banality of buying eggs – I am having the time of my life.  But then I realized I was going to have to be patient with these earthlings.