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Carcassonne, France

It’s hard to believe that two weeks have already passed. I’m going to try hard to make my last week count, and, although I’ve been a bit bored at times for want of more people to engage with, I’ve resisted the urge to do things alone, for better or for worse.

In my class there are only girls and one guy, who is younger than me and quite infatuated with a little love interest. Considering the fact that I live alone with an older French woman, I’ve been a bit exhausted always exercising my sensibilities in accordance with the female psyche. I wanted to go to Paris this past weekend, but there’s no one there I know, and I refuse to tour Paris by myself, no matter how wonderful everyone says it is. So I decided to go on an excursion to Carcassonne, France on arrangement with my school. Their bus-trip signup was full, however, so myself and a classmate who also missed the signup went to the train station to buy train tickets to go by ourselves. I was not thrilled with the idea of going with only one other person, but the alternative was to mope around Montpellier all day. So we took an 8:21 a.m. train because it was cheaper. I found an International Herald Tribune at the train station and evaluated the world’s crazyness from my comfortable seat on the (quite) impressive French train system. It was a short ride, only about 90 minutes from Montpellier. We switched trains at Narbonne, and exited, whereupon I realized that a friend from Montpellier that I hung out with last week was exiting the train, too! It’s strange: I know so few people here, but the town is small and I find myself constantly recognizing the same people when walking around, at the beach, etc. Anyway, my friend, Gabby, was with four other friends, and they were going to Carcassonne, too! I was absolutely ecstatic to have other people around, and my whole outlook on the day began to change rapidly. We got off at Carcassonne and made introductions, and it was such a fascinating crowd. I was the only American. One girl was born in Hong Kong, speaks Cantonese and English, and is now British. My friend Gabby’s mother is Russian, her father is Mexican, and she attends the University of South Florida (she speaks Spanish, Russian, and English fluently, and French). Then there was my classmate from Iceland, and two Canadians—one a native from B.C. who now lives in Montreal, and the other an Iranian Muslim whose family emigrated to Canada a while ago. It was absolutely wonderful, and our lunchtime conversation bustled with cultural comparisons, speaking in fake British accents to taunt the Brit, making fun of Canada (of course), and me doing exaggerated, stereotypical American things (“What do you mean American isn’t number one?”). Everyone was so nice, and we had a smashing time.

Carcassonne, by the way, is an ancient, medieval fortress that was once critical for defending the French border at Spain. It is enormous, and my weeny photos do it no justice—particularly from the outside. It is very exquisitely restored and maintained, although I’m sure many places are still quite original. The inside of the city is filled with overpriced touristy stores and boutiques, and, amazingly, around 120 people still live inside the city today. The streets are very narrow, and it was nearly absurd to see how pedestrians had to squeeze against the walls to let a resident in a car pass through. A lot of stuff flies in France that would be strictly off-limits in the states. La cité is still quite interesting, though, and the castle (a fortress within a fortress) is open for touring. Since it was so touristy, it was best to use the imagination to make the magic happen. To think of the battles that occurred, the archers that got taken down right where I stood, and the hot oil that oozed over this wall during battle, made it a viable, new experience. Then to look toward the south—toward Spain—and to think of the impending terror a watchman must have felt when he saw dust rising from amidst the forest, and to signal an impending attack: magnificent. And, of course, nothing this old exists in the states, and it’s incredibly interesting for Americans. A few French people I talked to, though, couldn’t believe we liked it so much, and quite literally sniffed at it. I found that rather amusing.

Our lunch took a while, and we had a wonderful time, as I mentioned. The service here can be spotty, but that’s the minor downside to not having to tip. I love not having to tip, although every time I don’t I nearly have a crisis of conscience. I was told by one French person you should tip maybe 10 per cent for dinner, other people say nothing—ever, and other people say leave the coins from your change, but don’t bother otherwise. It’s so stressful with so many options that I often leave something rather than nothing. Ah, oui. I found it interesting that one friend’s glass of Chardonnay cost 2 € and my Diet Coke cost 2.90 €! If I’d only known…

We toured a bit more before getting quite tired, then settled down at a café in near the train station for a few drinks, relaxing from the heat before getting back onto the train. We wound up changing our train tickets to leave earlier, and barely made it onto a train straight back to Montpellier. The train pulled in while we were still at the counter, but the woman assured us we still had four minutes before it left. It took barely over an hour to get back, I think. A few went home, and the rest of us went out to dinner.

I forgot to call my hostess earlier to tell her I wouldn’t be home for dinner. I didn’t have her number with me, anyway, and thought she would assume I’d be gone all day. When I returned to the apartment later, around 10 p.m., she had just put a lovely fish dinner in the fridge that she’d made me and was very irritated with me for not calling. I felt terrible, and apologized profusely, and, in fact, still feel terrible. I had eaten fish for dinner at the restaurant, which seemed to drive the stake even deeper when she found that out. She had not had a good day, anyway, because the shutter on her bedroom window had broken and fallen down, and her room is now completely dark. Oh, well. What can you do?

For lunch I think I’ll venture out and buy some bread and pâté again. It’s a very cheap lunch, and quite tasty. Then tomorrow it’s back to class. I will be with my new friends again this week from time to time and we want to visit another city about 20 minutes away. It will be a great way to end my time here. My hostess offered to take me on a vineyard tour on Friday, and I’m extremely excited about that. I was flabbergasted when she made the offer, and could barely express my excitement in French. It didn’t help that there is no direct French translation for “I’m very excited” that doesn’t resound with innuendo. So I just beamed vibrantly, and I think she got the message.

Until later.

Photos

Hey all: here's my first installation, finally. The rest of these photos are available at http://picasaweb.google.com/lstoltzfoos

Enjoy. I am.

Compilation of France Blogs so far

Le Premier Jour Passé En France

I’m tired, and I love the language. More later.

Le Deuxième Jour Passé En France

After a long journey—just under twenty hours, including airport travel time in the city—I finally arrived in France. The realization struck while standing in line at customs at the Montpellier airport. Everywhere around me, French. French writing, French speech, French people. However confident I felt before didn’t matter. I greeted and thanked the customs lady in French, then asked where the baggage hold was, but those are extremely simple. I desperately needed a restroom and sprang into the nearest one. Here, an even stronger realization occurred: I needed to learn how to pee like a Frenchman. Then I discovered, to my great relief, that they do it the same way I do.

My baggage finally rolled out, and I went off to greet my hostess, whom I had spotted earlier holding a sign with my name. Madame Le Chevanton, as I call her, is in her early sixties, energetic, and lives alone in “new” Montpellier, outside the ancient part of the city. She has been very gracious, and is comfortable enough to correct my French, thank goodness. I was so terrified about what to say for the first five minutes, I believe I could recount everything we said. Or, rather, she said. After we took her car out of the garage, a Honda Civic coupe, she told me how she had thought up until Thursday, when I called her, that I was a girl! In France, Lonnie is a girl’s name. Most words and names ending in –ie are feminine in French. I thought of this before, but years ago. It never occurred to me to verify my sex with the French, although the US organization I applied through knew what I was born with. I apologized, of course, for being a boy, but she said that’s completely fine, but she has a small apartment. Oh, big deal. I’m pretty sure she wanted a girl anyway, so I resolved immediately to be the best exchange student possible. I always offer to help with the dishes, and usually do, and the fact that I like pâté and bloody meat doesn’t hurt, either. She is puzzled, though, by my affection for red wine and chocolate—it’s too sweet for the French, who pour water into their orange juice to lighten it.

Mme. Lechevanton took me on a walking tour of Montpellier after we returned from the airport. I was a mess, so she asked if I wanted to shower before we went out. That felt much better. It helped to have a French person with me while seeing France for the first time. She spoke lovely, reassuring French during the whole tour, pointing out certain architecture, making blunt comments on some art expositions by some flighty, socialist students, and giving mini-reviews on restaurants. Apparently, just about everything is good in France. Some stuff is okay—C’est moyen—but has a good atmosphere. Mme. Lechevanton, just like me, generally prefers the hole in the wall restaurants with excellent food and decent prices. I haven’t really gone out to eat yet. The first, and most obvious reason, is that I grossly underestimated the language barrier and how I would react to it. I hate being the dumb one, and I hate asking people to repeat sentences that I know were properly spoken and loudly enough. Speaking English became a forbidden indulgence overnight. It actually got to the point where I felt great relief while speaking English on the phone with an American friend in France. “Now,” I assured myself, “Mme. Lechevanton knows I am a capable speaker in at least one language.” In my language class, the reason I came to France in the first place, there are at least seven Americans out of ten. Only four (including me) are serious learners; the other three are extremely annoying girls, probably still in their teens, who speak loudly in class while the instructor is speaking, wear atrocious, ill-fitting pink things in class, and pass off their wild, bleached hair as presentable. They even speak English to the instructor, a pretty French woman in her twenties, who, of course, may not speak English in the classroom. No one is technically allowed to speak anything but French in the classroom. I think they’re from California, but it’s bad enough to know what country they come from, or that one needn’t guess by looking at them where they’re from. One becomes acutely aware of their nationalistic streak and how their fellow countrymen exhibit themselves when abroad. I hope it gets better before I leave.

Overall, I like Montpellier enough, but am quite surprised at its griminess. There always seems to be dog excrement (I am using the long, inefficient word) spread around—people step in it by accident, etc., and it can be generally unpleasing to the senses at times. If New Yorkers, with a population of 8 million, were as dirty as Montpellier residents, population 200,000, New York would be impassable. There are already those of that opinion, but that’s ridiculous, especially when making the comparison.

I love food, you know, and I love how France does food. This is the one area where, at least so far, France has exceeded my expectations. Mme. Lechevanton is a fine cook, an old order French woman, who seems to enjoy bustling about the kitchen. My first meal in France consisted of a tomato, cucumber, and olive salad, a side of pork with a mustard cream sauce, and pasta. Very enjoyable. Breakfast is equally simple, yet very delicious. A huge cup of coffee (Mme. Lechevanton asked me if I like a lot of coffee with a little milk, or a lot of milk with a bit of coffee—I chose the former, of course), le toast with the most delicious jam (confiture) I’ve ever had, and yogurt with la confiture.

Mme. Lechevanton and I talk quite a bit, and she’s a patient but firm teacher. I’m learning loads, but there is so far yet to go. And a lifetime to do it, I suppose. The Lechevanton apartment has high-speed wireless internet, thank God, so I can avoid carrying my heavy laptop with me all day just to get a few emails in.

Le troisième jour passé en France

I was up just a bit late last write writing yesterday’s blog entry, so I stayed in bed just long enough to make me 5 minutes late for class, which didn’t matter too much. The classes are good, and I do learn in them, but I feel it’s a tad too slow for my taste. I get a bit confused at times and miss instructions, because sometimes you can only concentrate extremely hard on comprehension until your brain drifts elsewhere. The two dowdy American girls are still a problem, but they’re leaving soon, thank God. There are two other girls, one from Sweden, one from Iceland, who are thoughtful and work hard. They both speak quite decent English, too, but I’m extremely leery about hanging out with English-speaking people. I don’t want people to see us all in a group, speaking English loudly, and immediately writing us off. That is what I do here when I see Americans together, exclaiming loudly and with incomparable brevity about ridiculous things. A good example is forthcoming.

I went to the beach today. I incorrectly believed before that Montpellier is directly on the water, but it’s not. The beaches are about 15 minutes by car, 30-40 by bus. Mme. Lechevanton loves the beach, and was there already when I came home after class, so I took a bus. I had directions that said to take the tram to Port-Marianne, then the number 28 bus to Pérol. All right, whatever. The tram is very close to our building, so I examined the map, trying to figure out which tram goes in which direction and which one I want—exactly the sort of touristy thing I dread doing. Finally I gave up, not finding anything I was looking for, and asked someone. He noticed my beach towel, asked if I was going to the beach, and said all I need to do to get there is take the number 28 bus which actually stops là-bas—he pointed. “You can buy a ticket at this machine, or pay on the bus—two euros forty centimes (about $3) round trip.” I was so thankful for his help, and thrilled that I understood him, that I talked to the bus driver and asked someone in line if such and such a bus was the number 28. His accent easily indicated his American nationality, but he didn’t know that about me. Ha!

The beach was okay. It’s boring going by yourself, and the sun became enshrouded behind a thin layer of clouds within an hour of my arrival, so I left early. On the way back, I was waiting at the bus stop and saw two guys approaching. I thought they looked very not-French—probably American—but I forgot about it. Later, when the bus came, I was standing in line and I heard English. Gasp! Oh, and it was American English for sure. “Oh my gosh dude, are you serious?” “Yeah! And I’m like, why is she, like, so obsessed with money? It’s all she cares about! And her parents think that the only reason we’re in a relationship is because I’m funny (he stated this as a fact, not a proposition), and when her dad found out about me he was like, ‘But doesn’t he have, like, a lot of student debt?’” “Oh my gosh, dude, that tooootally sucks man!”

Grrr.

I watched them from the other side of the bus for the entire return trip, brimming with pleasure at what asses they were making of themselves as they driveled on and on and on and on. I have, therefore, come to the conclusion that I only like Americans in their natural habitat. Except me. I like me wherever I am.

Maybe tomorrow I will propose that Mme. Chevanton and I eat dinner out, but it’s rather expensive to cover two dinners. Maybe towards the end of my stay. She is so nice for cooking such enjoyable meals, and for being a willing and fortuitous conversation partner. She was worn out today from the sun, but still trudged on through dinner, explaining the French healthcare system (It’s not free!), why the young rioters in the suburbs of Paris hate the new President Sarkozy (largely because he’s against drug trafficking), and getting me to explain what my favorite meals are to cook and why. Whew! I feel sometimes like I’ll never get French, but it’s only the third day. She wants me to make French friends so I can practice my French because, after all, why would I want to hang out with my grandmother all the time? she says. She’s in her early sixties, and barely old enough to be my grandmother, but I guess she doesn’t mind stretching the truth a bit. I asked her what French students would think of me, an American. She said they’d be curious, probably, just like with anyone else. I’ve been told before, and I think more and more that it’s true, that many French, despite the stereotypical America-bashing, are somewhat fascinated by the US. There are lots of McDonalds, which I was absolutely shocked to discover, although I love how they pronounce it. Today I saw a Toys R Us, and there is a mall in Montpellier that looks and feels just like any American mall. And it’s crowded with people. The most hilarious thing I saw, though, had to be the knock-off Outback Steakhouse, called Café Australien. Haha! I never thought twice about eating there, but Mme. Lechevanton says it would be a great place to make French friends because that’s where the students hang out. I am beginning to acquiesce to a sense of resignation on this matter: of eating at the French Outback Steakhouse. The food is probably a bit better than in the states, but just as much of a rip-off.

I think tomorrow I’ll try crêpes, although I prefer to order things that are easier to pronounce. There are little crêperies everywhere, so I guess I’ll go to the one with outdoor seating. À bientot!

Le septième jour en France.

There’s quite a leap from day three to day seven, but yes, it’s finally been one week since I arrived in France. It feels a lot longer, probably because so much of it has been free time, and the constant exertion with the language seems to draw things out. It might be hard, but I’m pretty sure I can recall enough things to make this interesting.

Firstly, I decided to hang out with a few classmates for the first time. I’ve been turned off by a few of them, as you probably sensed, but these two are the more respectable, eager learners in my class, although some of the worst are leaving this weekend, which, hopefully, will bring up the quality of the class. The classes, by the way, are not bad, nor are they extremely strong. I may be underestimating the power of constant exposure, however, since the teacher never speaks any English. I’m pretty sure she’s studied it before, though, although I’m nearly positive she’s not fluent. Nearly all younger French people, it seems, speak either good or at least limited English. At the train station several days ago, I had to pick up tickets I bought online. I thought I could just stick my debit card into a machine and retrieve them, but you have to do it with a person. I rehearsed the entire time I stood in line, but still completely crumbled from anxiety when I got up there (Which is stupid, by the way, and I’ve stopped taking myself so seriously.). When I was having all that trouble, the lady leaned forward a bit, cocked her head and said, “Do you speak English?” I said, Yes, and immediately began to rattle off what I wanted, but I lost her, so I switched back to French. I had the unfair advantage of rehearsing before I got there.

On Thursday night, I met several more French people my age with whom it was possible to communicate only through a hybrid of French and English. I hung out with a truly interesting crowd. An Indonesian girl who speaks good French, two French guys my age, a Swede who’s in my class, and a girl from the University of Florida who’s half Mexican, half Russian, and speaks English, Russian, Spanish, (fluently) and French (not just yet fluent). It makes me sick. Each summer, on the eve of summer, nearly every city in the south of France has a Fête de la Musique, a city-wide music exhibition where you can listen to any kind of music you like for free, and for a long part of the night. Everyone comes out for it, and it’s crazy. We had an excellent time, walking around listening a bit to what we liked, grabbing food and drinks at kiosks, and practicing languages. It’s really very funny to speak with someone in two languages, with neither fluent in the same one. It’s like caveman speech, with huge emphasis on physical gestures, substitutions of English words in French and vice versa, and a tacit contest to see which imperfect speaker will back down and speak his native language the most. But it’s funny and the message usually gets across. We wound our way over to an Australian-themed nightclub (the Outback Steakhouse knock-off), and it was just as ridiculous and funny as I initially thought it would be. All the music was American, extremely loud, and all the French kids knew all the songs. Very humorous. I left relatively early and was in bed by 1 a.m. because we still had class the next morning. I may quite honestly have been the first person under age 25 to go to bed in Montpellier that night. One classmate, an American, came to class at 9 a.m. and hadn’t even slept. That was interesting.

The week finally ended, and I proceeded with my plans of traveling to Nice (pronounced neese), a city on the southeastern coast of France, very close to Monaco. It is an incredible city—everything I expected and hoped for in France, and I was just a bit disappointed that I hadn’t chosen to undertake my studies there for three weeks. I had considered it, actually. Next time.

I have a friend of a friend in Nice who is no longer just a friend of a friend. He’s American, named Noah, and is from Washington state. He’s working with a Calvary Chapel plant in Nice, and has been in France for one year, I think. Maybe two. In any event, it was a huge relief to speak rapidly and fluently, and to have your conversation partner understand it all. All in all, I probably spoke too much English that weekend, although I was with many of Noah’s friends from time, nearly all of whom spoke excellent French and at least very limited English, if not fluent English. It was basically possible to get around without French at all, but it was useful to fill in the blanks, so to speak.

So yes, Nice is beautiful. It is an ancient city, like many in France, and is situated directly against the Mediterranean. It was probably the most beautiful water I have ever seen. The beaches are not sandy, they’re rocky. That is how the water stays so clear, and why the color changes at a certain distance from the shore. I got plenty of photos from a great height, which were taken upon the Colline de Château. There used to be a castle or fortress on top of it, and Louis XIV, the Sun King, had it destroyed in a fit of rage. There are only a few ruins left, but the rest of the cliff is a park now, and includes the ruins of a church which date back to the 11th century, if I remember correctly. There was a festival on the cliff that night, and it was interesting. The stands people set up ranged from singing with a guitar, to food vendors, to birth-control activists and a group called “Féminisme et Communisme.” You gotta love the French. Before we climbed the cliff, however, Noah and I had lunch at an outdoor restaurant on a relatively quiet strip, not too far from one of the main drags in Nice. The food was quite nice, and we ate quite a bit. I had the Fleurs de Courgettes, which is a dish that varies from region to region, I think. In this instance, the dish consisted of fig skins stuffed with eggplant, red peppers—that sort of thing—and baked, I suppose. It was served over a salad, and was quite tasty. I had expected more food, but I was talking too much to work on it with any intention of speed, so it wound up being quite sufficient. Since Nice is so close to Italy, a lot of the cuisine is Italian-influenced, and they had Tiramisu on the menu. It was like no Tiramisu I’ve ever had, and I wasn’t sure what to think of it. It was basically just mascarpone cheese and raspberry syrup. It was high quality, of course, and tasty, but I was looking for the chocolate and liquor. Overall, it was a success and I think we were there for several hours. I spent the night in Nice at Noah’s apartment, and I went to the Calvary Chapel the next morning. It was very nice, although a sad service because a member of the church around my age had drowned that week. I spoke with many people afterwards, and was impressed by their welcoming spirit. I left thereafter for the train station for the five hour ride back to Montpellier. The trains in France are quite good. The standard trains are of a higher quality than Amtrak, and probably travel at similar speed. The TGV, however, which stands for “high-speed train” in French, is incredible. At around 90 miles per hour you can barely hear a hum, and it’s extremely smooth-riding. The real TGV, which runs mostly to Paris from other large cities, has recently exceeded speeds of over 200 mph, and I was hoping to get me some of that. I didn’t, unfortunately.

On the way back to Montpellier, a young lady from New Jersey sat next to me. I saw her reading Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World,” so I spoke English to her. She was surprised because she thought I was French (huzzah!). It was really humorous because she’s not too far from New York City, and it was so funny to use tri-state speech (such as “Exit 9 on the turnpike” and “take the PATH”) on a train in south France. When I returned to Montpellier around 9 p.m., famished and rather wearied, Madame Lechevanton had a homemade quiche in the oven, and the first thing she said was, “You’re hungry, I suppose?” I shrugged before giving in and fully acknowledging that I was indeed quite hungry, and would love to eat.

This morning it was back to school, and there were several new students in my class. Two girls, one Swiss and one Swede, and both with quite decent French, and serious about learning, thank goodness. The Swiss speaks German, and they asked where I was from. I told them to guess. I decided to throw a pipe in the spokes, and said in German that I speak German but am not German. They guessed Belgium, South Africa, Switzerland, etc., and I finally had to tell them I was from the good old USA. I’m not sure whether their reaction was one of surprise or disgust or a combination, but it was quite funny how they just couldn’t get close. The level of the class has already been brought up, and I learned quite a bit today, I think.

And now as I write this, at around 4 p.m., I have a hankering, rather, to walk around the city and explore shops. I want to get something very French, but who really knows what, exactly?