Malentendus

In our classes at the AUCP this past week, we have been discussing "malentendus" - misunderstandings which more specifically involve some mishap with the differences in language or culture. These darn little malentendus pop up all over the place here, like pesky mosquitos that creep into your sleeping bag during the night and leave you scratching a red bump in the morning. One such incident occured this week, when I was eating dinner with my language partner (the AUCP requires us to meet weekly with a local French student, in order to speak one hour in English and one hour in French.) We ordered pizzas, which are quite light and thin and unlike the pizzas in the States. Mine was big, so I jokingly told my partner I would have to take some home for breakfast the next day. I laughed. He looked at me in confusion and smiled perplexedly. When the waiter came, I asked for a doggy bag to take the rest with me.

"I don't know what you are talking about," the waiter said.

I looked sadly at my pizza and realized I woulnd't be able to take it with me. My professor in our Cultural Patterns class said that this situation occured because the French don't have doggy bags. One does not go out to a restaurant for the food; one goes for the experience. It's the atmosphere, rather than the food, that is the most important part. I, the greedy little American used to hoarding my things like a squirrel, did not know this.

Speaking of food: gelato, warm crepes with Nutella, baguettes with chevre (goat cheese) and tartines with fig jam and ham quiche and smooth caramelly chocolate from Switzerland and fresh peaches and apples from the outdoor market and fresh salads with champignons (mushrooms) and pain du chocolat and croissants...

Yesterday was Sunday, and my host family took Emily, Hannah, and me to St. Victoire - the mountain near Aix that frequents many Cezanne paintings. "It's not too hard of a hike," said my host dad. "Just bring water and a pack and good walking shoes." Thus begins another malentendu...

We took off at the foot of the mountain quite cheerfully, walking alongside a lake with the clearest water I've ever seen, which is apparently where our drinking water comes from. In the distance stood a gray, ominous looking rocky crag, rising up to a sharp point high into the sky, where we could see the outline of a cross. "That's incredible!" I said. "That's where we're headed," my host dad said. Emily and Hannah and I looked at each other and giggled nervously. "Ok, right," I said, smiling and nodding. I didn't really udnerstand what he had said, but I've discovered sometimes the best thing to do is to simply smile and nod and scramble to figure out what is actually happening later.

Two hours later, we discovered that, no, really - we're headed to the pointy craggy top of this mountain, up a trail that mainly requires leaping from rock to rock like frogs leaping across lilypads in a pond. Evidently, I had misunderstood the meaning of a lovely Sunday trip to the mountain. The French, by the way, don't believe in switchbacks.

Reaching the summit was so worth it, however. There was a giant cross, and a paritally abandoned, lonely little church, and my host parents had packed a delicious picnic lunch for us of bauguettes and cheese and pâté and fruit and chocolate. My dad busted out a bottle of wine to "celebrate" our victory of reaching the summit. We brought along Vodka, by the way, the little dog, and she nearly crumbled with exhaustion by the time we took a break for lunch at the top. She hopefully sniffed my cup of wine, but I thought that would have been a horrid idea.

The way back down was also quite an adventure, sliding down the rocks and hopping from one to another with very little control over where we landed. My favorite part was when I looked back to see Emily behind me, scooting down a particularly steep descent on her bottom.

This past Saturday, all the museums in Aix were free, because of the Jour de Patrimoine. We visited the art museam and were able to see some of the works of Cezanne, Picasso, and Granet, of whom I'd never heard before. Now I think he is one of my favorite painters! It is so hard to describe the feeling of seeing these famous paintings, studying the settings, and realizing, "Wait a minute...I live here!"

Friday night I went on a glorious bike ride through the country surrounding my house. Afterwards, my host dad came home from work and declared ebulliently, "It's the weekend! Time to party!" We ate dinner together, and I watched France's version of American Idol with my little sister. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.

This weekend marked the end of our first week of class. We have so much free time here to wander around the city exploring hidden corners, to gaze at the expensive clothing shops longingly, to stroll down the rows of venders on the market days, breathing in the fresh spices. This week, however, was difficult in some ways that the first week wasn't. I felt more tired, a bit more overwhelmed with things, a bit more frustrated with the language and not being able to fully express myself right on the spot, without having to search through a dictionary while my host family waits patiently, or repeating stupidly "Um...uh...um...you know...when you take the thing over to that one place...um...what's it called?..um...shoot." I think the first week was easier in a way because I was still so overjoyed to just be in France. Any interaction I had with someone in French was something to celebrate, no matter how simple. Now, I'm past the simple interactions and really want to just be myself again. I've never before realized how much I rely on words to get to know others and let them get to know me.

Still, I feel like our classes are relating really well to our daily communication necessities. I love all my professors, and I am reminding myself to take one thing at a time. I'm celebrating the little things. For instance, today I figured out how to check my voicemails on my French cellphone. Magnifique!

A La Mer

Something I learned today:

I love hanging up my laundry in the yard to dry. With the Provincial wind blowing, and the sun shining, and that September-y feeling in the air, it's rather perfect.

Finally, here are some photos. My first day here, my host mom and sister took me too Cassis, a little village on the sea. There was a lighthouse, and we had the most delicious gelato.

Aix-en-Provence Finally

So. I'm in France. The keyboard is very different here so please excuse any errors. Also, the computer is also telling me that all these words are spelled wrong.

I arrived here late Saturday night after being picked up by my host dad Eric and little sister Anne Camille, who is fifteen. Short anecdote about the airport adeventures: While using the women's room in Frankfurt, I was washing my hands when an old Italian man burst through the door, screamed <Andiamo!!>>, and abruptly ducked back out again. Startled, I froze in my handwashing for a second. By the way, before this incident, while trying to find the bathroom, which is apparently unmarked, I went into the men's room. A German man stared at me.

My French family, Eric, Anne-Camille, and my maman Mandée, is ridiculously nice. Their house is huge and beautiful and in the country, surrounded by farms and dirt roads lined by trees (there are palm trees here - YAY!!!). They have a dog named Vodka who is my new best friend, because she is the only creature here with whom I don't need to use words. The kitchen, my favorite place in the house because of all the fine cuisine that is made here, has a large chimney and dried herbs hanging from the walls, and plants and wooden furniture. The floors of the house are all cool, Mediterranean style tile. Eric showed me a couple nights ago after dinner (usually around eight or later) the cachette du chocolat - their chocolate stash. He told me to help myself anytime. Last night I added some Seattle's Best chocolates that I had with me, courtesy of Melly. They were all very excited about this, especially Eric.

Sunday night, Eric's nephew, who is my age, came over for dinner. We made crepes. The nephew is from New Caledonia, where they speak French, but is going to school across the street from the AUCP. As he was leaving, he proceeded to give me les bises - a kiss on each cheek. Very unexpected and slightly awkward, but I am getting used to it.

A couple nights ago we watched "Desperate Housewives" together after dinner. Eric said that each Tuesday night, this is the main event. They love it. They eagerly inquired as to whether or not I watch it back home. I don't, but I do like watching it dubbed over in French here. Also, last night sur la télé, there was a special on the news about fat people in New York celebrating fat pride. Peuples Francais: voici les Etats-Unis.

School is wonderful, but so exhausting. We don't start actual classes until next Monday, so this week consists of long days of orientation at the AUCP, meeting our professors, our language partners, the psychology behind trying to assimilate to the French way of life. The other American students - there are twenty-six of us- are all extremely nice. It is refreshing to speak French with them during the day as a break from constantly attempting to speak with the French. I am very proud of Emily, Hannah, and myself. Even though we are buddies from Linfield, and it would be so much easier to slip back into our native tongue, we are speaking French together, outside of class, with the exception of a few phrases here and there when we get frustrated.

Everything here is French. This might sound like an incredibly stupid statement of the obvious, but it is still amazing to me that I am speaking French all the time, from waking to sleeping, to everyone, with absolutely no break. Tiring, but I feel so alive here. Stressed out quite often about very little, simple things, but alive.

Remember a few blogs ago when I said that this trip would be a series of adventures and misadventures? This is true for every single day. My first time trying to take the bus into the city for school, I nearly had a heart atttack. Living in the country, though beautiful, can sometimes be complicated when it comes to transportation. I got on the bus, along with one other passenger, an old adorable French man. We proceeded to barrel explosively down the narrow; winding, tiny streets at rapid speeds, often nearly smashing into a smaller car or a passing French man in loafers riding a bicycle. Oh God, I thought repeatedly, I am going to die. Then, as we got closer to the city, the old man stood up and started waving his arms and yelling something at me. He knew I was American, so he tried to speak English, and this was even harder to understand. All the other passengers stared and knew immediately I was a foreigner. My cheeks turned red. Apparently, my stop was coming up, and I had no idea what to do. The sweet old man practically pushed me off the bus, still yelling at me as the bus rolled away. I realized that I hadn't paid the 1 euro 10. Eric later told me that I was going to go to jail.

So, even the smallest things here are scary adventures. I am celebrating the success of them all, including riding the bus both ways correctly for the first time yesterday. Victoire!!

Time to go. Emily and Hannah and I are meeting on the Cours Mirabeau to do a little shopping. This shall be an adventure, too. I will probably get yelled at or stared at again by another old French man.

A bientot! I will upload photos next time, hopefully.

A Delightfully Sticky Situation

This morning, already feeling very insecure about my grasp of French among the natives, I called my host family's number that I was given by the AUCP. I called early in the morning, since it was about five o'clock in the evening over there. I had a carefully prepared script of how to communicate the essentials (basically - are you meeting me at the right time Saturday so I'm not wandering around Marseille lost and alone? - kind of thing).

It went something like this, only with my garbled French instead of English:

Christine: Allo?
Me: Bonjour, Christine? This is Ansley Clark. I'm an American student through the AUCP, and I believe I'll be living with you this fall.
Christine: Allo?
Me: Bonjour, Christine? This is Ansley Clark, an American student...
Christine: What?
Me: This is Ansley Clark -
Christine: Who?
Me: Ansley Clark. I was given your name by the AUCP. They told me to contact you before my arrival to make sure everything is ok.
Christine: I have no idea what you're talking about....
Me: Uh....
Christine: Who are you with?
Me: The American University Center of Provence.
Christine: I haven't heard about this...I am moving back to America next week.
Me: Oh.

So, I apologized to her, called the AUCP, went through a very confusing conversation with the program director Lilli where she seemed certain this could not be so, waited for Lilli to call Christine then call me back, found out that Christine is in fact moving next week, and that Lilli had hadn't any idea regarding any of this either. "I hand-picked these families myself," she said. "We have a contract with them. I have no idea how this could happen."

The entire time I was thinking, Oh, Lord, please just let there be someone to pick me up when I land in France Saturday night.

So, by divine intervention, I now have a new host family who signed up last minute - like, last night. They are supposedly a "very loving family," which lessens my nerves a bit. The AUCP was extremely nice and helpful about the whole thing, and now I just feel silly for calling a French woman out of the blue who had no idea what I talking about.

I have a feeling this is the prologue to a whole book of similarly confusing and absurd adventures this fall. It will be called Ansley's Marvelous Escapades in France: The experiences of a cheerful, but naiive American girl among the French. The Prologue is titled "A Delightfully Sticky Situation."

The tragedy that is life

So today Ian, Hunter, Mom and I went to the brand spanking new Panda Express in Gig Harbor for dinner. I've never felt more overstimulated and overwhelmed by bright colors and equally colorful heaps of food and people behind the counter shouting things frantically at us like, "fried rice or chow mein???" We all timidly collected our food and slinked out the back door to escape with our dinner outside. I felt buzzed.

Speaking of buzzed, I have felt buzzed all day. I have a to-do list with tasks to check off, and it seems like instead of making neat little checks, I keep adding more things to do. This evening, frustrated, I threw the list aside in a fit of displeasure and pet my dog instead. It felt good to sit for awhile and do nothing but stare at the white wall with her.

Also while out, Ian and I decided that Starbucks and Target together make a complete protein. It's embarrassing that we think this way.

And...I can't remember who said it, but I came across this quote while looking over my notes from the study abroad orientation weekend at Linfield last spring:

[On what clothing to pack for France]: Only children wear bright colors, and if adults do, they are considered immature and do not understand the tragedy that is life.

All this, after I just bought a brand new bright flashy red cardigan. Ohhh, I'm excited. :)