Heaven for the weekend, thoughts en route

Written 13 July 2012

I love the moments I spend traveling alone. I don’t think there’s any better place to reflect upon the world, people, countries, LIFE, than when passing between places, seeing so much in a small unit of time. It’s possible I’m only saying this because I’m presently on the TGV from Grenoble to Paris, blazing by everything from lush parcels of farmland – complete with grazing cows and snowy-white lambs – to ancestral farmhouses proudly dominating the landscape, nestled near brooks that the Romans probably drank from. It’s hard not to feel like Charlotte Grey returning to Lézignac right now. 

While Grenoble has been fine, I’m aching to get back to Paris for the weekend, where I’m celebrating Bastille Day (simply known as le Quatorze juillet or la Fête nationale) and seeing my friends before I leave in – sniff – three weeks. Interestingly, the capital was not where “it” all started in 1789…I actually just left the birthplace of the Revolution. The ancient province of Dauphiné, where Grenoble and the Isère department are located, claims to have seen the first demonstrations for liberty in the nation. Yesterday, I visited Château de Vizille – about 30 minutes by bus from the city – home of the Musée de la Révolution française, a store of famous art and media from the first rebellions to 19^th century interpretations of the major events. The château was built by François de Bonne, duc de Lesdiguières, and exemplifies both the glory and rusticity of provincial nobility with its cracked stucco and locally quarried stone, worn and rounded by centuries of baking in dauphinois sunshine.   

I have only two remaining weekends before I leave, so I won’t have any more time to play with William and friends in Paris before I head to Charles de Gaulle on August 3. The thought kind of makes me want to cry. Before I left the U.S., I knew I’d love France even more than I did my first two stays here, but I’m still quite surprised at how incredibly comfortable I feel in this country. (I know there's still much I haven't seen and still don't know.) As I’ve said before, I’ve been welcomed and befriended so fast and with such sincerity that I’ve become accustomed to it, something that – honestly – doesn’t happen so often in the U.S. I’ve never before been away from my country for more than 10 days, and here I am – a month and half later – feeling, frankly, unprepared to let this life go for the one I know best. That says something.

I’m planning my return as soon as possible.

Chez Laurence: A French household

What struck me first about my new French home was its bare-bones simplicity. Despite knowing perfectly well that space throughout the rest of the world is not what it is in America, I explored the apartment of my mère d’acceuil with a curious appreciation, aware that its arrangement would have been considered somewhat awkward and even careless in my country. I think this has nothing to do with sophistication and everything to do with cultural attitudes about practicality. Despite a fabulously rich history in the decorative arts, setting standards for artistic movements over centuries, the French tend to be extremely practical when it comes to living space.

Furniture in France has never been formulaically arranged as in the Anglo-Saxon tradition. Born of the feather-light elegance of the 18^th century, there are more groupings of tables and chairs, and less sofa-and-end-table combinations. Pieces float away from the walls in a room, rather than clinging to them. There really is logic to this seemingly odd habit, as – space in Europe being so limited – it’s easier to maximize the utility of furniture by easily moving it around a place as needed. Chez Laurence, chairs from my bedroom have become additions to the kitchen table when extra guests arrive for dinner. The tiny central “living” area in the apartment contains a television, but there are only two small salon chairs for viewing. Is it aesthetically pleasing? Not to an eye trained to see a couch with matching armchairs, horseshoed around an entertainment center. But in a flat with three people, no more than two are ever watching TV in the first place. An unused sofa suddenly seems silly. My bedroom has merely a comfortable double-bed, a desk and chair, and a few small tables. The spare assortment of mismatched furniture seemed clumsy at first, and then I realized how easily the mountain breeze passed through my balcony windows and cooled the apartment, unhindered by clutter.

If human beings were musical instruments, Laurence would be a chime. Her voice is soft, feminine, and liltingly French, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye that betrays her fun-loving, jolly manner. Theatrical, not dramatic, she bursts with flair, and no story comes without hand gestures. She’s the quintessential French host mom, sending me out for baguette at her favorite boulangerie in Place Notre-Dame, and insists on doing everyone’s laundry and pressing my shirts. Dinners are simple but classic affairs at her heirloom country table, with a charming service of blue-and-white china from her native Alsace.

The cooking is fabulous: naturally fresh and light, but bursting with flavor thanks to her stellar sauce recipes. Naturally, wine and five different cheeses are de rigueur. I could stay at table with her forever, and often do. How does one even think about homework after hours of stories about Nazis occupying the family home during the war?

I think I especially like Laurence because she is – in surprisingly many ways for a woman multiple-times my age, of a different nationality AND gender – much like me. She has many traditional ideas about the way the world should work, and loves to reminisce about the France lived by her ancestors. (Coming from a woman who can trace her family history back to the Middle Ages, I listen intently.) But Laurence also studied and lived in China and Japan, a period in her life that continues to influence her tastes and philosophies. A voracious news consumer, she keeps up with many intelligent radio and TV programs, and always has something new to discuss over tartines (yesterday’s baguette topped with anything from butter and jam to Nutella) and coffee in the morning.

Watching French television with Laurence for the first time was something of a cultural initiation that I didn’t find in Paris, an ordinary woman consuming her nation’s media and reacting to it as only an interested citizen would. Perhaps to help Ruth and I follow the rapid pace of the voice-overs, she whistled and shook her head in disgust at reports of sexual harassment in Egypt, gasping and oh-la-la-ing at an exposé on scam lotteries aimed at senior citizens.

With Laurence's other American: Ruth

Just for fun, here’s a brief compilation of classic expressions chez Laurence. I love these SO much, that I've included pronunciation guides in the videos below.

C’est fou, quoi! – That’s crazy/foolish/insane! (Quoi means “what”…for emphasis. Not unlike the British usage: “That’s jolly, what.”)

Fin – Anyway… (short for enfin: “finally”)

Ohh, je me damnerais pour ça... – I’d kill/give anything for that (literally: “I’d damn myself…”)

C’est génial! – It’s great/fab/wonderful!

C’est sympa, ce truc, hein? – This is pretty neat/cool/fun, right?  

J’sais pas (pronounced shay-pa) – “I dunno.” (familiar register French)

C'est une chose spéciale... - That's something particular... (a slightly negative/worrisome connotation)

And while this is a totally mundane couple of words, used by practically every native speaker, it's my drug:

Ben, oui! - Well, yes!  

Grenoble: Part Deux

I at last arrived in Grenoble, capital of the Isère département, around 3.30pm on June 23, a positively sweltering Saturday. Stepping out onto the quai, I was blasted by sizzling heat, quickly reminded how incredibly far I’d blazed across the French countryside in 3 hours, now deep in the southern half of the métropole. After waking from a luscious nap on the train, I spent my time gazing across la France profonde. This is the term for all the country's rural domains to which French urbanites flock with a seemingly religious observance every weekend and summer (merely one way to spend five weeks of vacation, I suppose). Despite the new surroundings – and the trial endured hours before – I had vastly matured in Paris, and thus felt surprisingly adjusted and prepared for the next six weeks in a new city.

Feeling like a completely different human being since my arrival at the Pigalle apartment two Saturdays prior, it was strange meeting my academic program directors from the University of Michigan at the station. The fact that I was just beginning my experience abroad hadn’t really occurred to me until then. I had felt oddly suspended between two continents, pleasantly detached from my American life while slowly adopting my new French reality. I felt for my new peers in the program, just arriving in a daze of culture shock…and jetlag. I gratefully realized how fresh and content I was, by comparison.

We were a small group of about three or four at the moment, meeting our mères d’acceuil (“host moms”) at the train station. I also met up with my friend Alex, the program assistant, who had been of major emotional support during my hours of drama at Gare de Lyon. Earlier on the phone, he had already assured me that my mère d’acceuil, named Laurence, was a veteran host mother with a history of patience under pressure and a relaxed attitude. That was certainly one thing in my favor on a day when everything seemed to blow up in my face.

“Last time, one of her students went into apoplectic shock, and she couldn’t have been cooler about it. Believe me, this woman is the most laid-back person in the world.”

 

For once, a promising start.

I had sent Laurence an email back in May, introducing myself and thanking her in advance for welcoming me at the station. She had given a brief description of herself – tall, with short brown hair – and had mentioned that she had a son. Other than news of her famously pleasant personality, I knew nothing about the person with whom I’d be living until August.

I also realized I was speaking in French…entirely. In Grenoble, everything was quickly becoming official. As I stood in the lobby of the gare, adjusting to the thought of becoming a summer student for the first time in my academic career, heads turned to peek behind me.

“Bonjourrrrr!” sang a buoyant voice at my back, slightly short of breath, “Oh la-la! Cette chaleur, c’est affreux!” (“This heat is awful!”)

Almost my height, in a precious white peasant blouse, jeans and Roman sandals, the woman approaching me resembled numerous past elementary school teachers. Harried and quirky, Laurence sashayed into the station with a perky giggle that indicated we would be friends before we reached her apartment in town. I eagerly leaned in and we exchanged the famously French bises (one kiss on each cheek) in greeting, a custom that doesn’t exist – beyond eccentric circles – in the U.S. (As much as I love hugs, definitely NOT a French norm outside the closest friendships, I absolutely prefer the intimacy and elegance of this traditional salutation.)   

An unofficial adoption ensued, as Laurence gathered her two Americans and gabbed cheerfully for the entire tram-ride to her home in Grenoble proper. From information on local swimming facilities to recent gossip about city officials, my classmate Ruth and I were treated like natives in a city we had never before seen. Laurence spoke energetically but clearly, enhancing her speech with theatrical gestures. “So this is immersion,” I thought, suddenly feeling more and more confident that I could speak more than I’d thought. Fears about not knowing enough idiomatic expressions, speaking inanely in textbook French, disappeared when I realized Laurence understood everything I said and actually appreciated my level. 

Whatever I had learned in so many years of studying French, the moment was at last upon me to make it count. 

Grenoble: Part Une

Life in France has become so natural that I haven’t felt the need to post much. I’ve also been completely absorbed in my first week of coursework since last Saturday. I’ve officially begun my student life during this summer in Grenoble…but not before a mildly traumatic beginning. Of course.

I bid au revoir to my darling Parisian apartment in the 9^th at 7am on Saturday, June 23, enough time to arrive at Gare de Lyon with 15 minutes to spare before boarding my TGV train to the South. Certainly, this doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but with my ticket already purchased - and the convenience of printing kiosks throughout the whole place - this was not supposed to be a cause for concern. But, stressful travel plaguing me thus far abroad, the machines didn’t recognize my name…in every combination possible. Misdirected by numerous, indifferent staff, I finally arrived at the guichet (ticket service counter)…in just enough time to miss my train to Grenoble. Naturellement.

I was told I would have to purchase an entirely new ticket for the next departure, at full fare, since I wasn’t able to refund before my original train departed. Customer exploitation aside, I just wanted to get on a train and apologize profusely to my host mother for the extensive delay. I handed my card to the lip-pouting woman at the counter, knowing painfully that the only difference between a coach seat and the first-class ticket I was forced to buy was 40€ in price. She swiped and slid my card back under the glass barrier, lips pouted, eyes fixed on her screen.

“Cette carte ne marche pas…” (“This card doesn’t work.”)

I SO wanted to rewind an hour and start the day over. My card had worked just FINE for two full weeks in Europe, and I had informed my bank of my travel plans. This was a nightmarish joke.

I insisted the card had worked since God was a boy, but realized how much time I was losing. I had a ton of cash in my wallet (or so I thought), so I started counting. Of course, I had several euro less than what I’d thought. I just stood there - staring blankly - telling the woman I was short, like a gambler to a loan shark. Pouted lips and an indifferent expression indicated that a ticket was not coming my way, regardless of whose fault the whole mess was.

I just roamed Gare de Lyon in a daze for the next 10 minutes, totally bewildered. This morning was supposed to go like clockwork – the simple part of my trip! Getting into the country was always supposed to be the difficult part, not traveling within it. Utterly exhausted and starving (I had been planned to eat something on my now vanished train), I ventured out into the streets around GdL, suddenly feeling just as alone and vulnerable as the day I arrived in Paris two weeks prior.

For the next hour, I felt like I had come full-circle. My credit card didn’t work at any ATM, everyone I knew in Paris was out of town for the weekend, and I had no means of calling my bank at home until I bought another calling card. This being France at 8am on a Saturday, I’d be waiting an hour before ANYthing opened. Even then, the first two shops happened to have technical difficulties this out of all days, and therefore couldn’t process a ticket téléphone. Naturally.

Tried another ATM machine…card rejected. The world was suddenly conspiring to prevent me from taking a three-hour train ride to the southern half of the country. Train stations aren’t supposed to be such nightmares – that’s what airports are for! God help me – how would I get out of Paris? I was completely stuck.

Being a relatively “together” adult, I had avoided tears thus far. The worst phase of the morning was a 20-minute panic-session on the streets surrounding the gare. I finally spotted a bar where – observed by a group of beer-swilling, Saturday-morning regulars – I bought an international calling card. A frantic call to my impossibly patient mother ensued (2.30am Michigan-time), walking her through an online RailEurope purchase for a ticket to Grenoble. This was literally the only trick I had left. Just as she clicked Confirmer, an error message appeared. Something fabulously vague about a processing error.

Verging on a true meltdown, my dignity flowing out of the phonebooth and into a Parisian gutter, I suddenly recalled an episode last summer when my bank card mysteriously stopped working for approximately two hours in New York City, without a hold. I hung up the phone and stumbled over to a BNP Paribas. Removing my card, I entered my PIN, trembling.

BEEP. BEEP. Success. I marched back to Gare de Lyon with a wad full of vibrant currency, pride still in tow.