Oh, my, god. Seriously. I need to find myself a French child somewhere.
Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Monday, November 17, 2008
Quel imagination!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Other countries continue to confuse me
While Americans might feature children playing in streets to stop speeding, or photos of cut-up unborn babies to curb abortions (I know, because a whole lot of those signs got put up outside my window on a hot, muggy July day last year. Thanks for the nightmares, church across the street!), the French use refined fashion icons like Karl Lagerfeld to get the point across about... well, I'm not sure about what actually. Safety vests?
Still, just like that Russian video, I have many questions, like:
- Isn't Karl Lagerfeld German?
- Are those OJ Simpson gloves?
- Are all French people supposed to wear safety vests everywhere they go now?
- Is this viral marketing for French first lady Carla Bruni's newest album?
- Or, why not just use Provencal fashion designer Christian Lacroix's out-there designs to stop traffic? Believe me, it'll work. See below.
((Translation: It's yellow, it's ugly, it doesn't go with anything, but it can save your life.))
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A bust fit for the gods
Cool news from my French “hometown:” Subaquatic archaeologist divers exploring the Rhone River in Arles found the oldest known bust of Julius Caesar, dating back to 46 BC. The AP article states that Arles was founded by Caesar (kind of, if you don’t count the Greeks and the Celts who came pounding through first—although the Romans did build the most important structures there, so shoutout for that), and the La Provence article suggests that this marble statue was “without a doubt thrown into the river after the assassination of the Roman emperor.” Um, awesome.
And now, just because, some pictures from Arles.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
A Christmas Struggle
When I was barely leaving toddler-dom, I asked my mom every night for over a year to read me 'Twas the Night Before Christmas before bed. I loved that book.
The copy I had seemed old to me, which made it special. Its cover was hard and big--I couldn't cover it with both my hands spread on its surface. Like most kids, the idea of this man who lived forever and just made presents all year consumed me. It made sense that he existed. Who wouldn't love just giving gifts for a living and having an army of elves and cavalary of reindeer at your disposal?
But how was Santa the one who got the gig? Had nobody been giving gifts before then? Did Santa start Christmas? No, the baby Jesus did. I had that book, too. Even at this young of an age, the basic commercial and spiritual clash of Christmas was baffling me.
'That's tacky,' my mom said when the apartment across the street from our house put up a 'Happy X-Mas' light-up sign. I asked why and she explained that the 'X' took all the nice things out of Christmas--that it made Christmas all about buying stuff and not about being with family and friends. 'Why bother putting up the sign if it doesn't even spell the whole word out? It's missing the real message.'
So I would return to my studies, poring over the famous Christmas Eve text, looking for clues. After my mom shut the door, I'd pick the book back up from its spot on my bookshelf and, unable to read the majority of the words, I would stare at the pictures. There had to be something I was missing, and once I found it, the whole Santa-Jesus-Christmas thing would become clear to me. Instead, the pictures--out of the context of the story itself--became more confusing.
Most confusing was the last picture in the book. Santa had finished his big night--the gifts delivered, the cookies eaten, the milk drank. But here on the last page, without any words to explain, was Santa--lying out in the sun, stretched onto a beach chair with sunscreen slathered thick and white on his nose. He was holding a drink with a little umbrella in it like the ones that I could get at TGIFriday's with my soda if I asked the waiter nicely. He was on vacation.
The copy I had seemed old to me, which made it special. Its cover was hard and big--I couldn't cover it with both my hands spread on its surface. Like most kids, the idea of this man who lived forever and just made presents all year consumed me. It made sense that he existed. Who wouldn't love just giving gifts for a living and having an army of elves and cavalary of reindeer at your disposal?
But how was Santa the one who got the gig? Had nobody been giving gifts before then? Did Santa start Christmas? No, the baby Jesus did. I had that book, too. Even at this young of an age, the basic commercial and spiritual clash of Christmas was baffling me.
'That's tacky,' my mom said when the apartment across the street from our house put up a 'Happy X-Mas' light-up sign. I asked why and she explained that the 'X' took all the nice things out of Christmas--that it made Christmas all about buying stuff and not about being with family and friends. 'Why bother putting up the sign if it doesn't even spell the whole word out? It's missing the real message.'
So I would return to my studies, poring over the famous Christmas Eve text, looking for clues. After my mom shut the door, I'd pick the book back up from its spot on my bookshelf and, unable to read the majority of the words, I would stare at the pictures. There had to be something I was missing, and once I found it, the whole Santa-Jesus-Christmas thing would become clear to me. Instead, the pictures--out of the context of the story itself--became more confusing.
Most confusing was the last picture in the book. Santa had finished his big night--the gifts delivered, the cookies eaten, the milk drank. But here on the last page, without any words to explain, was Santa--lying out in the sun, stretched onto a beach chair with sunscreen slathered thick and white on his nose. He was holding a drink with a little umbrella in it like the ones that I could get at TGIFriday's with my soda if I asked the waiter nicely. He was on vacation.
A slew of questions arose: Did he stop at home or did he leave the reindeer on their own to get back to the Pole? Where's his suit and does he always wear yellow swim trunks when not in his suit? Where's Mrs. Claus? Does she get a vacation, or do she and the elves slave over the next year's toys beginning on December 26th without any help from Santa? When does his vacation end, does it last a week or until December 23rd of the next year?
After a year, I got tired of trying to figure it out. I had learned to read almost all of the words in the book, I had stared at the pictures for hours on end, and nothing was becoming more clear. Santa, I guessed, would remain a mystery.
Perhaps driving this Christmas quest was my personal relationship with Jesus. I don't, however, mean 'personal relationship' in the way that a Catholic grandmother might mean it.
I really mean 'relationship,' to the point where at age four, I had a crush on the Biblical figure and wanted him to be my boyfriend. (Note: Jesus not always this air-blown.) Of all my imaginary playmates ("Charlaines" my five-dollar pink bear bought at KB Toys, Barbie, Grover from Sesame Street, and Elmo too--until I found out he was a 'he' and not a 'she' and I felt terribly cheated), Jesus was my favorite. He was the most real and the nicest.My friendship with Jesus came crashing down around me my last year in preschool. On a sticky August afternoon, Jesus and I were playing outside under my favorite tree in my backyard. My dad had made the swing--a totally, utterly rough tree swing with rope that would give even the toughest sailors callouses and a flat, hard, butt-numbing board for a seat. I loved it. So on this afternoon, I--willing to be a good friend and share--was pushing Jesus on the swing since it was His turn. Then, something happened. It might have been because I hadn't been spending much time lately looking at the illustrations in my Mom's childhood Bible, or maybe because I had waited so long before I did share the swing with Him, or maybe I was just pushing too hard... But suddenly, unexpected, Jesus flew back much farther than expected and I was hit in the face.
I fell onto my back, knocking my head on the ground. Worst of all was my chin--scraped by either His foot or the butt-numbing swing itself. I ran inside, crying and confused. While I sat in her lap, my mom put Neosporin, gauze and medical tape on my chin and I explained to her what had happened. Through my tears, I made a vow. I was done playing with Jesus.
It wasn't that I didn't believe in Jesus, I concluded, I just wasn't friends with Him anymore. I went back to studying my 'Twas the Night text. Sadly, Santa still wasn't providing explanations or answers as he smiled over his tropical drink. Even more devastating was when, clued in by context about a month after my break-up with Jesus, I found out that Santa was not real.
The details of this horrible revelation I do not remember. According to my mom, I asked for the truth in the car while on an errand drive with her. I asked timidly and in a way that my Mom took to mean that I had figured it all out, and even if she couldn't pull over on Ohio Route 42 to talk about it, she should be honest with me then and there. After she said that I was right, Santa didn't exist, she tried to explain that the spirit of Santa Claus was a real thing while I cried over my second loss. I've done a pretty great job totally repressing this memory. I do remember, however, that afterward I put the 'Twas book on the shelf indefinitely, deciding I was too old for Santa, and feeling more confused than ever about what Christmas really meant.
Things have changed in the last eighteen years. I no longer resent Santa for not being real and I'm not grudging on Jesus for that scrape he gave me on the swing. I don't keep a copy of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas nor of The Holy Bible bedside. I don't believe in Santa, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was an okay guy, but not the son of God or anything.
Some children in France are taught that Santa
was actually St. Nicholas, patron saint of children, sailors and pawnbrokers (go figure). On a cold night, three lost children are taken into a warm cottage by a butcher who feeds them heavily and then puts them in bed. Once they fall asleep, he then chops them into bits and pieces, tossing their sliced and now salted remains into a barrel for later. Seven years pass and St. Nicholas happens along the cottage after hearing the sliced and salted remains of the children cry for help, pieces the kids back together and informs the butcher he can repent for his sins and, well, God will set him free. In other versions of the story, he grabs the butcher by the heels and shoves him in the barrel for all eternity (forever and ever, amen), putting a new spin on French children's images of Hell.
I'm not sure at which point Nicholas went from being Saint to being Santa and moved from France to the North Pole, but I'm okay with this story. Granted, it's bloody and dated (from the 1500s actually), but in it, Santa and God coexist and fight together in an epic battle of good versus evil. So I may not be sure how commercially and/or spiritually I want to spend my Christmas this year--the ratio of my time spent mall shopping and knelt praying now escapes me--but either way, they both beat the third alternative--spending seven years salty and in pieces at the bottom of a barrel. And I suppose that's a good reason to celebrate.
I'm not sure at which point Nicholas went from being Saint to being Santa and moved from France to the North Pole, but I'm okay with this story. Granted, it's bloody and dated (from the 1500s actually), but in it, Santa and God coexist and fight together in an epic battle of good versus evil. So I may not be sure how commercially and/or spiritually I want to spend my Christmas this year--the ratio of my time spent mall shopping and knelt praying now escapes me--but either way, they both beat the third alternative--spending seven years salty and in pieces at the bottom of a barrel. And I suppose that's a good reason to celebrate.
Happy Holidays!
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Habit
The streets are cobbled, stony and narrow. Cars will most likely come within inches every day of your ankles.
You get used to dealing with people, your tolerance goes up and you handle lots of situations because you have to--until another girl in your program moves into your house with your family and drives you nuts to the point where you are hiding on your family's computer, checking livejournal, so you don't have to see her.
But for the most part, you're still tolerant.
You find yourself up, willingly, before 8, making coffee and going to the market to buy cheese, wine, homemade honey, melons and baguettes. You carry all this home in a large bag, because that's the way it's done here.
You do it that way too, because you found out the hard way when you stocked up on Nutella, cookies and Orangina: The Monoprix supermarket doesn't give you bags for your groceries.
When told you're going to a "Beach Party" with your French family and their friends, that actually means you're going to a private party on the Mediterranean where you'll drink wine and champagne with your French parents (aged 32 and 26) and their beautiful friends, before you all have a dance party and jump in the water fully clothed.
Getting up the next morning and sharing a hangover with your family might be awkward.
The bars are open until 2, and unlike half the girls in the group, you're not seeking a French man at them.
You get used to walking through tourist traps and roll your eyes when the next big group of American students, German couples or Asian retirees, stops in front of you to take pictures of whatever buildling is in front of them.
Even the arena has blended in as "just" part of the scenery.
In fact, didn't you know, you're an American student here...not an American tourist.
When you run out books, you raid your hosts' bookcases and start the DaVinci Code in French.
When only one week remains, you meet some of the nicest people in your group who you've never hung out with before.
And when only one week remains, you realize you don't have time anymore, to do all the things you've said you'd do.But the south of France has got her grip on you: Why rush? Life's too short to hurry. Put your feet up, have a petit cafe, have a verre de vin, order yourself what you like, and spend the evening tucked into the warm comfort of the lavender-infused air with your friends in deep convesation across golden-colored tablecloths. As they say, que sera sera.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Some Disconnected Thoughts
1. I haven't mentioned it, but I've had a cough since the second week here. I think I'm allergic to France.
2. I can't believe there was ever a point in time where I ran down Sherman Avenue with a boombox iPod with my friends at 6 am post-Dillo Day for Starbucks in the most perfect impression of a music video for "Amsterdam" that I've ever participated in.
3. I want to reconstruct the sentence structure of number 2, but I'm too tired to do that.
4. I saw a play in French today. It was slightly difficult to understand, but fun to schmooze with the actors afterward nonetheless.
5. I'm still reeling from HP6. I cried in front of a train full of French people today.
6. I could really go for some Graeter's Ice Cream. What will I ever do without the famous Cincinnati ice cream?
7. Immediate plans for August: work. go to Kentucky with Katie, preferably to mammoth cave. use up rest of GameZone points with Grant in Cincy. drive to Evanston for a weekend. work. more.
8. Do I just leave this antispyware scan running on my 27-year-old host dad's computer when I go up to bed?
9. I got my host family addicted to Arrested Development. The seed has been sown in France.
10. I'm lucky that my family is friends with my France-friends' families. We've so far had three dinner parties in the last week, mainly involving spaghetti, bread, lots of cheese and lots of wine... oh and lots of yogurt for dessert. One involved watching a French CSI-like drama that is all the rage here. I know I'M hooked.
11. Spring quarter, at times, involved me slamming my head against a wall.
12. I hate walls.
13. I love France. It cleared my head, or at least helped to.
14. Things I will about France?... Cheap wine... Beautiful skies and views... Roman ruins just being part of everyday life... Some of the girls here... Patisseries... Constant supplies of "oohhlahlahs!" and "mais nooooooooooon" and richly blown flabby lips and looks of exasperation... oh, and speaking French.
15. I probably will nod off during my photography lecture tomorrow...I mean, the development of the portrait is as interesting as the next thing, but still...
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Closing
Things are starting to wind up...or down... here in Arles.
By winding up, I mean that I bought Harry Potter and refuse to do work until I finish it. And that I have a despicable amount of work that my profs decided to spring on me. I am unhappy with my classes, and perhaps that is because I spent 9 hours in them today, as compared to my usual 3 twice a week.
I went to Venice to meet up with Jess.(Insert hearts and romantic music here.)
Venice = Disney World, Italiano style, beautiful, lots of food, lots of glass, no cars, lots of scary men, lots of beautiful fireworks, eating cheese and wine and fruit and chocolate in your hotelroom by fancified tables, buying Harry Potter, gossip and girltalk, being alone one day there, meeting John's twin.
I'm very excited to come home. The most excited I've felt in a long, long time happened the other day in Venice when the image of me sitting, waiting for take-off in Marseille came to mind... going home. What a nice feeling.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
More from France
General update of what has happened to me recently:
-experienced the infamous night bus for the first time ever
-decision made that i never will experience the night bus again-saw Barcelona for three days
-saw Barcelona by night (note: different than seeing it by day)
-experienced night bus again, this time less sketchy-arrived home at 6:30 am...home being Arles
-slept for an hour-went to class
-made plans to go to Venice
-attended a party for my host mom's birthday
-host mom's mom insisted I drink more wine...and more wine...and more wine...and...
-bought train tickets to Venice
-went out for dinner with a genuine French gentleman
-finalized Venice plans
-packed
I can't believe I'm leaving here again to go somewhere else in Europe. Even Chakan (genuine French gentleman) thinks I'm crazy but doing the right thing... I mean, how often am I across the ocean in Europe? Not that often.
Perhaps one of the things I've learned in Europe and really fascinates me is the way people meet one another here. Everything is so open, with cafes on the streets and people cramming into them together...it's inevitable that you'll meet tons of people. I've met all sorts of individuals on my trip, who perhaps I'll never meet again. Chakan is only one of two whose names I've gotten, and the only one I've made a point of seeing again. The only other name I got was Emmanuel, a Parisian who I met at Notre Dame at night. There have been Australians in Barcelona. There have been Frenchmen who speak no English on trains. There have been French college girls at museums. There have been Aix-en-Provence French students on buses. There have been Marylanders on buses. How many faces will I always remember and connect with places, without knowing their names?...
By the way, I'm crazy about French people. I love them. Specifically Claire, my host mom, and her mom. I love girl-talk in French.
I have to get ready for bed. Or go out with my new French friends. Um...one or the other. (This is the way Europe works: Barcelona, Strasbourg or Venice this weekend guys? Meh, we'll see...)
Wednesday, July 6, 2005
Salut, Europe!
Am I studying here?
I think so.
Yesterday was very educational, I think. I mean: I went to two different photography exhibits, a photography music/photo projection thing, a museum about the Avignon theatre festival and an art exhibit. But I also had an amazingly fun dinner with my friends, cracking up completely sober and talking in French, going to a bar and meeting an Arlesian whose birthday is today and then having him introduce me to the ins and outs of breaking into Roman ruins in Arles. The old Roman theatre by night, with only stars and NOOO tourists???
AWESOME.
I have a cold though. And a cough. And I hard core miss my friends and family. I called my parents at 3:30 am last night, which was the first phone call I've made since I don't know when.
Jess and I are frantically trying to make plans to get Arles, France and Graz, Austria to become one, somewhere in the middle of the two. It might happen in Venice...or Strasbourg...or Geneva... who knows?
Meanwhile, this weekend, it was just decided I'm either going to Montpellier (really close by, cute city); Barcelona, Spain; Lausanne, Switzerland; or Strasbourg, France.
You know, the usual up-in-the-air weekend plans, uhh, right?
I'm about to have my first auberge experience this weekend too. That shall be interesting...Oh, and apparently I sound like a young French girl who can't quite speak correctly yet and is just learning her own language. Good, even if I can't communicate, at least that's, uh, cute?
Saturday, July 2, 2005
Things of Note, Bullet-Point Form:
-i'm sunburned
-because i spent the weekend in marseille
-on the beach
-and eating gourmet duck and gateau chocolat, prepared by hotsy totsy cooks
-who like to get american girls drunk with rhum avec lime, which we'll take more of... like maybe 13 shot glassfuls over one dinner
-and wandering the streets of marseille
-sitting at bars and watching fist fights and motobike accidents along the boulevard de rive niveau, the main drag in marseille
-to end up at underground discotheques
-...really, a discotheque..
.-...really, underground: in roman arched ruins, with multiple djs in multiple rooms with multiple bars, in the dark, damp and smoky halls of the old fortifications underneath the city
-oh, and the beach again...
-all day...
-and the chateau d'if (hello, eduard dantes)
-and also old german embankments along the coast of the barren, beautiful island, which was only found by me and two other friends
-with more beach, in a cove, and no other tourists
-and good looking men in marseille...a lot of them... who were good dancers, actually
so i spent my weekend on the beach, in the streets, underground, drinking, eating, dancing and exploring. i am only writing this out because i can't quite believe it myself.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
I promise, I'm still alive and okay!
I am still alive.
I am not avoiding you by choice, but when your internet access is about 2 hours a week and you have no phone, communication is tough.
France is hot. REALLY hot.
I left Arles and went to Paris in a weekend.
Here are a few of the highlights:
²being woken up at 5:55 am by my friend for our 6;05 am train
²running to the train SOMEHOW in time
²almost getting kicked off train
²not checking into hotel and instead immediately going to lourve
²all toursity things: lourve, notre dame, sacre coeur, musee d'orsay, eiffel tower, les invalides, moulin rouge,
;;;finish this later...tough keyboards, too... But I want you all to know I am alive and that I miss you all a lot.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Now broadcasting from the south of France...
Just to explain a little better where I am: Arles is a small city in the southwest of France, where cultures of France, Italy, Spain and others combine. Arles is in Provence (called Provence because, literally, it was a province of Rome), which is gorgeous countryside where the land is dry at the foothills of the Alps and where flamingos, bulls and small horses wander freely or under the watch of the Camargue (the name of the Provence countryside) cowboys. The skies are extremely blue and it is hot hot hot here. Wild lavender flanks the sides of the tiny roads that connect one small provencal town to another.
There are no suburbs here. Each town is contained by the original batiments, fortresses and walls that protected it. To get to another town usually takes about a half hour or more. Arles is separated in two by the Rhone River. On the side where I am staying, it is older with the original city walls and Roman ruins (an arena, a theatre and a forum). On the other side there is newer housing and one particularly good patisserie that sells pastries (read: culinary works of art). Outside my hotel room I can see both the Rhone and the old Roman bridge that was at some point destroyed. All that remains of it are the large lions on either side of the Rhone, greeting travelers of the Roman roads to Arles since the lion is Arles's symbol.
For those of you who traveled to France with me before, the closest city to Arles is Nimes, where I will be going soon enough for a music festival. The quickest city to get to by train is Avignon, which only takes 20 mins to get to. We visited Avignon yesterday and toured the Papal Palace and then suffered in the heat, drinking lots of water and wilting under the tarped street cafes. Those of you who were in Avignon with me before would be glad to know that the Hotel Bristol is still there and in fine condition, as is Le Forum where we had dinner and the carousel.
Arles is beautiful. I'm sure the people who live here are used to hearing that and don't think much of it when people say that, but it's truly gorgeous. The streets all lead to the old section of town, where there is le Place du Forum and le Place du Republique. Even today, the Place du Republique is the center of governmental things in Arles. There is a large fountain and obelisk there as well. Le Place du Forum is the tourist and social center, and has quickly become where we all eat. In the middle of the forum, something like a dozen cafes have their tables, all covered by huge yellow, orange and green tarps. I discovered an ice cream place there, which is bound to be the end of me
.............
In other news, I only have class Tuesday and Thursday from 9-12. Everything is ridiculously hot here, so after class and eating at a restaurant, I either escape to my air conditioned room or bear the heat to wander the streets some. I was thinking today how funny it is that there's just these incredible Roman ruins hanging out here; no Arlesians think much of them, but they're amazing. The school I take classes in is a collège, or middle school, that is a converted 16th century church. The kids are still in school. When we walk by, they all whisper in French about us. There is a constant hushed whisper that follows us around the school.
Neither of my professors know English, so that can make for interesting times. More at lunch than in the classroom. We eat in restaurants around the city with the entire group, including the professors... So if you think conversations at High Table at Willard or with professors in general can be awkward at times, try adding a massive language barrier. It is pretty fun though, and really informative, eating with the professors. Today I learned about French newspapers and which ones are socialist, communist, etc. from a professor.
There are three large differences here in Arles as compared with either Evanston or Lebanon.
1. Everyone gets up really early. Maybe I am only missing this back home because I have a slight tendency to sleep in, but... EVERYONE here is up by 8, seemingly, out at the patisseries or running errands. It is literally too hot to do those things later in the day. Lots of stores close from 2-4 pm, in fact.
2. Men are forward. I already knew that, but I forgot how forward they are...Not just Will You Have a Drink?, but Will You Have a Drink and if Not I Will Follow You Around in Case You Change Your Mind. I have not been out once, literally not once, where someone hasn't approached me. Fortunately, I haven't had the problems some girls have (like men waiting outside doors for them for many hours).
3; There are dogs everywhere.
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