Yellow sky

Last Wednesday, I visited the IMEC under a yellow sky, which quickly turned to sprays of rain and wind mixed with sun. Rainbows are fairly common in Normandy, but this was particularly exquisite. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves:

Instantanés

It's time for a little post about my daily life in France. As I'm writing this, I'm looking out over the ubiquitous Normandy Grey Sky, which seems to have come for a nice, long visit. Oh yay.

So I decided to create a little picture show. I often take pictures with my BlackBerry around town, etc. Here are a few that I've been meaning to post:

It's Christmas in Flers!

Aren't the lights in the town center pretty?

Buchette de Noel. This is a little Yule Log, filled with chocolate cream, and complete with a tiny saw to hack into it. Gotta love French Christmas treats.

Christmas is approaching, and the teachers at the school where I work in Flers are more and more comical every day.

I took this photo in November, when the gingkos across the street from the Residence where I live had turned yellow. They were beautiful. Now the leaves have all blown away with the fierce Normandy wind.

I guess this is what you get in response to a lesson based on "What are you doing for Christmas?" when half your students don't celebrate Christmas. Welcome to Flers. :)

This is what happens when French schoolchildren who didn't care to learn English grow up.

Never a dull moment with the Jeunes du Gros Chêne. Yes, that is a mattress being transported down the hall.

Here's how you make a rainy night a good night. Tea with Jenette and François, chez moi.


Life here is actually quite good, in spite of the spitting rain and the charcoal skies. In fact, maybe this romantic setting makes the rare moments of sun feel even better...

The Beautiful Ruins

"Your country is in ruins, my dear", I said to my boyfriend as we walked amidst the shambles of a former seaside resort. Broken ceramic tiles mingled with sand and seashells along the beach; lamposts, their bulbs shattered, lined the pier we walked upon. Behind us, a large hotel effort stood, its barren structure left naked, unfinished. It was my first day in Tunisia, and yet the effects of deterioration had not escaped my notice. From the remnants of the Phoenicians, of which barely a trace remains in modern-day Tunisia, to the crumbling remains of the once-glorious ancient Roman baths, temples, and aqueducts, to the barbed wire lining the streets, left over from the Arab spring revolution, to the peeling posters of parties from the more-recent election, plastered on almost every walled surface in every town or city we visited... Tunisia is a land of evolution. It's a beautiful, amazing, magnificent evolution.

I have seen olive trees and eucalyptus dotting an arid landscape. Mountains covered in dense fog, wind beating against their sides. Cliffs and rocky hills plummeting towards the Mediterranean, covered in wild rosemary and cypress. Boiling hot springs. Cool blue water. Mountain men who live in distant areas, where the weather changes at a moment's notice, and the roads are sometimes impossible to travel. I've visited Souk and Medina and Casbah and Marabout. I've eaten tuna and sea bream and lamb, mechouia and brik and harissa. Wild clementines, pomegranate, and dates for breakfast; fennel at lunch and dinner; thé à la menthe with pignoli. I've traveled the hour-long car journey from the baths at Carthage to the springs at Zaghouan, lined with the aqueducts the ancient Romans built to transport water between the two cities. I've touched soft lambswool drying on a rooftop terrace, and watched children playing soccer in narrow streets. I've seen cows' heads hanging in front of butcher shops, and heard the lingering, melodic call to prayer throughout the day. I've seen amazing views of mountain and sea, sunrise and sunset, perched beyond streets lined with buildings and homes painted in blue and white. I've even seen a Tunisian cemetery: graves buried on previous graves, buried on previous graves, in a lush garden overlooking the city. Evolution. Transformation. Ruin. I've walked through so many doors; but not just doors: memorable doors. Doors that mark the event of one's passage through them. New doors, old doors, ancient doors.

This evolution, perpetual state of transformation, has left its mark, still leaves its mark. The trail of change is evident in every area of the city, with new neighbourhoods built over or next to old; with cars almost as old as the automobile itself sharing space with more-recent versions; with evidence of French colonization alongside centuries-old mosques and arches. It's like a tree's rings, from which you can trace the periods of plenty by the thickness of the circumference: you can tell the metro system was built at a more prosperous time, for example, just by looking at the trains. You can see that now is the moment of a thinner ring (but isn't that the case in most places in the world today?), as trash is left alongside the streets in the popular areas, but not in the tourist sections of town. You must see it all, the old and the new, the endless accumulated transformations; and most of all, you must see the beauty in the ruins, in order to see, really see, Tunisia.

"A friend took me to the most amazing place the other day. It's called the Augusteum. Octavian Augustus built it to house his remains. When the Barbarians came, they trashed it, along with everything else. The Great Augustus, Rome's first true, great Emperor; how could he have imagined that Rome, the whole world as far as he was concerned, one day would be in ruins?"
"During the dark ages, someone came in here and stole the Emperor's ashes. In the 12th century it became a fortress for the Coloma family, then a bull ring. They stored fireworks in here after that. Nowadays it's used as a bathroom for the homeless people, so you'd better watch your step going down."
"It's one of the quietest and loneliest places in Rome. The city has grown up around it for centuries. It feels like a precious wound, like a heartbreak you won't let go of, cause it hurts too good. We all want things to stay the same. Settle for living in misery because we're afraid of change, of things crumbling to ruins. Then I looked around in this place, at the chaos it's endured, the way it's been adapted, burned, pillaged, then found a way to build itself back up again, and I was reassured. Maybe my life hasn't been so chaotic, it's just the world that is, and the only real trap was getting attached to any of it. Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation. Even in this eternal city, the Augusteum showed me we must always be prepared for endless waves of transformation."

[Julia Roberts as Liz Gilbert; Eat, Pray, Love]

"Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure."
[Rumi]

The Amaricka Poster

If you kept up with my friends' blogs, you'd have seen that a few weeks ago, my South African pal Jenette was working on a fine piece of artwork to present her native country to the Foyer folks.

About a week ago came a knock on my door, and it was my turn. I was delivered a large piece of paper with instructions such as "dessine ton drapeau" (oh God help me) and "pose tes photos" (much easier). The whole lot came with a package of freshly-sharpened colored pencils. Imagine drawing the American flag with colored pencils. Oh God help me.

Here is the beautimous result of my artistic and anthropological efforts:

As the unofficial patron saint of America, I figured the squirrel needed a prime spot on my poster:

My version of Cartman looks seriously possessed:

A fine piece of Americana, if I do say so myself. Please overlook how royally I f*%&#ed up the flag. My hand felt like it was going to fall off after outlining and filling in around those fifty f*%#@ing stars.

French Thanksgiving

I had expected that this year would be the first time I'd miss Thanksgiving. Certainly it's the first time I've passed the holiday away from my family. But last week, I was delighted to partake in a French Thanksgiving. One of the schools that I work at does a traditional meal on Thanksgiving day every year, so the requisite turkey and mashed potatoes was not missed. As it turns out, and not surprisingly, the French do Thanksgiving pretty damn well:

Clockwise from top: Pumpkin soup, Cheesy broccoli/cauliflower, Turkey with cranberry gravy, Mashed potatoes with mushrooms, Sweet corn/pepper salad with apples, Camembert cheese, Brownie with walnuts and chocolate chips (there was even a little crème anglaise in the bottom of the bowl).

I'm thankful for... the Frenchies' extraordinary skills in the kitchen. Even cafeteria food is amazing, most of the time. ;)

Amuse-gueule...

Paris leaves / Paris remains

France is like a treasured scrapbook, lovingly constructed of the sweetest and grandest memories and moments, handed down and added to from generation to generation. It's a brilliant patchwork of homages and memorials, dedicated to the most illustrious and beloved figures to have walked its land. Every school, every street, every official building and restaurant and park and museum, every avenue and allée, each fountain and square, is named for a famous writer, artist, engineer, political or social leader, saint, resistant fighter (during WWII), activist, teacher, philosopher, historian, singer, and of course, citizen. And if this scrapbook has a heart, a center, a point of convergence of all the souvenirs and tributes collected over the centuries, it is most definitely Paris.

The scrapbook is enormous, and it continues to grow and evolve as the years pass on. Thus it was without any hesitation that I decided to return to Paris this past weekend. After all, there's so much to see!

We (myself and two other assistants, Danielle and Finn) departed early on Friday morning (11.11.11) and headed to Versailles through a thick fog, that did not lift for the whole day. We arrived at the chateau and promptly spent another hour or so slowly driving around trying to find orange juice (because Danielle had a craving), getting pulled over for an illegal u-turn, and attempting to find parking that didn't cost les yeux de la tête. It was a wasted excursion, because we didn't find orange juice, and ended up springing for the 12 euro fee to park at Versailles, plus incurring a 22 euro fee for the u-turn. OUCH!

The chateau was very interesting to see, but it was the gardens that fascinated me most of all. Miles and miles of gardens, stretching to infinity in every direction, made it seem like heaven and earth had converged. The fog added mysterious white shadows to the larger-than-life landscape.

I loved this staircase in the garden:

It's the same staircase Kirsten Dunst is posing on in this unforgettable Marie Antoinette Vogue photo shoot, shot by Annie Liebovitz, where the actress wore a fantastic black dress by John Galliano for Dior, made of aluminum foil sewn into organza:

After finishing our tour of Versailles, we headed off towards Paris, by way of a tunnel that took slightly less than ten minutes to go through, and that was probably the most tense place I have ever been in in my life. The ceilings were barely high enough for cars, and the space stretched on for miles, with endless turns and a monotonous, sci-fi-esque characteristic. It rather reminded me of the escape scene from the film Hanna, with its intensely freakish Chemical Brothers soundtrack.

We finally made it to Paris, just in time for Friday afternoon traffic, which was even more hair-bending thanks to the holiday. Everywhere we went, we had brushes with death. Our hotel was in the neighbourhood of Bastille, and in order to get there we had to navigate the Place de la Bastille, a large roundabout with multiple cars going and coming at once, in all directions. Finn handled it quite well, and he is now confidently ready to take on the Place de l'Etoile. *Right*.

That evening, after a pizza dinner, we went to watch the soccer match between France and the USA. USA lost. *Moving on...* No, in fact, we had a really wonderful time at the game. The Stade de France is huge, and I could hear NTM playing in my head when we arrived at Seine Saint-Denis.

We spent the next day exploring Paris: Notre Dame cathedral with the Discover Walks tour, which is free and which I highly recommend (my parents went on a few of them when they were in Paris in April and loved them); then a long stroll through the Latin Quarter, around the Panthéon, and down the lovely Rue Mouffetard, followed by a gelato break (I had a cup with four flavours: Amareno, which tasted like Amaretto mixed with fresh cherries, Marron Glacé, which translates to Iced Chestnut, Banana, and Limoncello sorbet; amaaaazing); a quick walk through the Jardin des Plantes and mainly its beautiful Labyrinth; a claustrophobia-inducing rush through the Salon de Thé at the Grande Mosquée de Paris (I will go back on a calmer day, because there were far too many people, but the place is stunningly gorgeous, decorated in Moroccan tiles and painting); dinner (delicious onion soup, for me) in the Latin Quarter; and finally a visit to La Défense, for M's birthday party (soirée de ouf malade; thanks to Jane for the expression!).

We finished our weekend on Sunday with a long stroll through Père Lachaise cemetery. None of us had ever seen it, and I had been wanting to for a long time, but I had not even imagined how enjoyable it would be. The leaves were falling, but the grand trees and autumn colours created the perfect backdrop for the spectacular tombs all around the graveyard. We didn't buy a map (big mistake), and therefore had trouble finding the famous graves, but we did hunt down Oscar Wilde's tomb, only to find it was being restored. N'empêche; the very sign posted on it was covered in kisses for the brilliant writer.

Everywhere we went, we felt history staring back at us: in the images of Abélard and Héloïse (France's real-life Romeo and Juliet) on the door of the home where they met; in the statues of Montaigne, Ronsard, Rousseau, etc., that we encountered on the streets; in the names of the avenues and boulevards that recall great events and figures; even in the titles of parking complexes (Parking Camille Claudel, for example). This history greeted us, but not with a stark, museum coldness; rather, in a friendly, warm manner, as if to say, "I lived, I laughed, I loved, I left." Even the leaves at Père Lachaise seem to remember, like leaves of a book of memories...

Paris Autumn

The End of the World is Bigger Than Love

Guess what...

The End of the World is Bigger Than Love :) Now time for a run!

Grey skies

So glad it's still grey out! I was afraid the sun would dry things up! *insert sarcasm here*

For the last, oh, week or so, every morning when I've awoken, I've opened my shades to the ubiquitous Normandy Grey Sky. A fine, spitting rain - so fine that at first you're unsure whether it's raining at all - always completes this panorama. Although when it's sunny in Normandy, it is truly beautiful, I have to admit that as we approach winter, it rains an awful lot. And as I've heard, this is gonna continue. See you in the spring. Hibernation time.

Unfortunately, I'm just kidding. I still have work to do, so I can't hole up in my apartment as I'd like... except on weekends. Consequently, I spent most of my weekend reading/watching bootleg Friends episodes online/talking to boyfriend/daydreaming about upcoming vacation to Tunisia (read: SUN).

I did emerge from my den a few times, to make comfort food down in the kitchen, for example, or to fail miserably at a match of ping pong. And I actually went out one night, with some merciful friends from the Foyer who invited me to taste some delicious wine (Jurançon, from the Jura region; I cannot even begin to tell you how amazing it was), and to go bowling.

So who won?

Well, of course, yours truly, or better known in the bowling world as "Lorene" * made a stupefying comeback at the bottom of the ninth... oh, wait... nevermind.

That's me on the far right, by the way. Black tights with bowling shoes = "la classe."

*or Laure, Laura, Laurine, Laureen, Lorraine, Laurent, Laurence, Lauren; I have seen it all, and the French seem to interchange these names at will.

Pauses

I've got some reading to do... :)

A walk in the woods

Tuesday, I was invited to spend All Saint's Day en famille, with F and her family (if you remember, she's the one who made me the delicious roast hen a few weeks ago). Of course I accepted, mostly because she and her family are simply wonderful, but the thought of her excellent cooking certainly had an influence, as well.

The day started at Lonlay l'Abbaye, where we went to mass. You may have seen their world-famous tea biscuits somewhere in the farmer's market or grocery store. I jumped at the chance to see this 11th-century Abbey, located in a tiny little town tucked behind rolling hills covered with the colours of autumn.

Afterwards, we drove around a bit, near the ruins at Domfront, and then headed back to the family's home in St. Cornier des landes. We shared a warm, hearty lunch of lentils simmered with carrots, onions, and sausage, and jarret de porc with potatoes, carrots, and onions (that would be a part of the pig I've NEVER eaten before... but it was pretty good, although I ate attempted to eat around the fat). Chocolate tart and a rustic tarte tatin, the French version of apple pie, completed the meal. Then we were out again, to explore the countryside a bit with some relatives of the family. F's family is wonderful. In the immediate family, there are two pre-teen daughters and two younger sons. To say that these children are well-behaved would be an understatement. They are sweet, sociable, and easy to relate to. Kind-of reminds me of my eldest sister's family.

We visited another abbey, this one the rather abandoned Blanche Abbaye.

It's a huge building, and for the last few years it has not been inhabited, because the religious community that was living there before could no longer afford to keep up the repairs. Rumour has it it's been sold, apparently to an American, for a symbolic 1 euro. (insert jealousy here)

What I loved most about it were the abandoned potager (kitchen garden) and verger (orchards).

After that, we crossed the street to explore the waterfalls located on a few hiking trails nearby. The smell of autumn permeated the woods: wet leaves and sunshine and a chill in the air. There were two waterfalls, aptly named La Grande Cascade (the Big Falls) and La Petite Cascade (the Little Falls).

Grande Cascade:

Petite Cascade:

We emerged from the woods into a small village, with the backdrop of autumn colours over the hills.

We then explored another old little village church, and finished our walk with a spectacular view of the sunset over the valley below, illuminated by a bright autumn moon.

Back at the family's home that evening, their sweet little cat snuggled up on my legs before dinner. He doesn't have a name, so I started calling him Tiger. The children sound really cute pronouncing this name with their French accents.

After a delicious dinner with warming soup, rillettes and sausage, green salad and a variety of cheeses, and baked apples from the family's own trees, F's husband gave me a jar of F's homemade apple jam, and then drove me back to the Foyer. Truly a wonderful day, and a testament to the warmth and generosity that I've experienced ever since I arrived here. I think I love the French more than ever before, if that was even possible.

Running solo

When you run, old people look at you as if they remember what that felt like... long ago. Skinny girls look at you like they're so glad they don't have to do that.

It's been about a month since I started training for the marathon, and I'm addicted to this running thing. Don't get me wrong: it hurts. It's never entirely painful, or entirely torturous, but it alternates at a moment's speed between pleasant, excruciating, invigorating, and hellish. With each pound of the pavement, my emotions seem to change while I'm running. Today I ran from the Foyer to the park, through the park, around the lake twice, looped around the chateau, out the other side, and zig-zagged my way through town back to the Foyer, sprinting the last quarter-mile.*

*Give or take. (and a pat on the back)............ The Semi-Marathon de Paris is that much closer. :o)

Normandy in Autumn : A Road Trip

I wish I could begin to describe to you how stunningly beautiful Normandy is.

Imagine, if you will:

It's autumn. The leaves are bright red and rusted orange and sunny yellow and still a bit green.

Rolling hills everywhere. Dramatic, ever-changing light beams through fog and rain and clouds.

Mist over the hills and over the trees. Fresh raindrops mix with the thick smell of leaves burning in the distance.

Yes, that's it. Normandy is: a field full of yellow flowers fading into a foggy horizon of grey-purple clouds streaked with pink, illuminating the sketched outlines of craggy trees clinging to the last bright leaves of autumn.

Now that you've imagined it,

Toussaint activities

This week, I:

-Ate a cheeseburger
-Strolled a bit in the Bois de Boulogne with A
-Met up with M at Starbucks (I know, I know... but I got to see M!)
-Went to two museums (Centre Pompidou and Musée des Arts Décoratifs) and, most importantly, saw the Hussein Chalayan exhibit (credit for the Chalayan exhibit photos below goes to A)
-Witnessed the new (old) Libyan flag hanging at the embassy in Paris
-Saw a play at the Comédie Française (La Pluie d'été)
-Spent the weekend with A, whose Arabic language skills impressed more than a few North African vendors at the street market at Porte de Clignancourt
-Got my hands hennaed (also by A)
-Joined the Cowchsurfing group in Normandy for some embuscade and some talk in English (thanks to J, who invited me)
-Came up with a damn good comeback in French to counter a teenager's joke about my skirt, which, admittedly, did look a bit monastic.
-Hung out by the Seine on a starry night, talking about life, love, and revolution
-Did some serious research at the IMEC yet again, as the wind howled like ambulances outside, against the walls of the Abbey.