So Callie dared me to be a vegetarian for the two weeks before we go home. Ignoring the obvious obstacle of living with a French family (which is exactly why Callie has her own apartment), it's been three and a half days. Being a vegetarian in France is hard. Yesterday there were no sandwiches without meat left in any of the stores when I went to have lunch...let's just say I'm really looking forward to eating a nice Christmas dinner.
Also, I am now a legal (temporary) resident of France. I have a shiny laminated Residency Permit and everything. With a terrible picture. I wanted to go to the Photomaton in Gare du Nord last time I was in Paris to get my pictures taken as a little homage to "Amelie," but I would have missed my train from Gare Montparnasse. Oh well, the little grocery store down the street is just a little less poetic. I've also started giving my name as "Amelie" when I order pizza. Not that they understand me any better, since last time they wrote down "Marie," but I really hate the name "Emilie" in french. It's just not pretty...
Tomorrow the professors vote on whether we'll have first semester exams at the end of January instead of our semester break or if they'll push them back til April. In general, I'm a fan of procrastination. But April seems a little extreme. I really hope they vote for January, as I'll still have a decent break between my Science-Po exams at the beginning of January and the Bordeaux 3 exam period. But we'll see...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
Enough foie gras to last a lifetime...
This weekend, Middlebury organized a trip to Dordogne, home of the caves of Lascaux, some beautiful chateaux and, of course, foie gras. The region itself is beautiful, weirdly reminiscent of the English countryside. Well, I haven't actually been to England, but that's what it reminded me of anyway. Or possibly Vermont? Everytime I go somewhere it seems to remind me of somewhere else. I have all these vague memories of one place or another, but I want to go somewhere that's entirely new. Maybe there is no such place, maybe I'll always be looking for something vaguely familiar. Either way, Dordogne is lovely. Rolling green hills, very cozy looking cottages. Medieval cities. Ancient art. The caves of Lascaux are awe-inspiring, with such detail and immense dimensions. But then again, we only saw the replicas. Since their discovery in 1940, the actual caves have been occasionally on display to the public; however, after a scare with bacteria only scientists are allowed in the originals. Instead, they created an exact replica practically next to the actual caves. One woman spent four years painstakinly duplicating the massive paintings in a man-made cave. It sounds cheesy, and it is, kind of. It's hard to explain because before and after you're in the cave, you can't help but be aware of the actual caves that you're missing out on. They're noted as much for their age as for their beauty, and the ones that I saw were drawn in the 80s. However, when you are inside, you forget that. It is incredible to see them, to try and understand all the drawings. When (or if) they re-open the original, I would love to be able to see them.
We spent Sunday exploring the medieval town of Sarlat. It's incredibly well preserved, with dozens of houses from the 14th, 15th and 16th centuries. The hotel we stayed in was from the 15th century, and Susan and I were at the top of the tower. It was a nice weekend, seeing a different, quieter side of France. Bordeaux itself is a step down from Paris, but a quite different from the little villages I always imagined. I think Sarlat reminded me most of Rothenburg, Germany. Charming, warm (in spirit anyway, although luckily it didn't rain most of the time).
And now I'm back to reality. After three weeks of strikes, we are returning to class. For three weeks before Christmas break. No one, not even the professors really, understands how we'll be able to cover everything, take our exams, etc. I'm divided because I sympathize with the students. Ironically, they were fighting to keep French universities from becoming more like American universities. And while I'm rather partial to our university system, I don't know that it's the best fit for France. The students are worried about the universality of their degrees if each university can decide its program. In a country where young people have a terrible time finding employment, I can understand why anything that might further hurt their chances would be terrifying. And the students were rebelling against Sarkozy in general, and his conservative agenda. My host family keeps telling me that no one should be complaining because Sarkozy is just doing exactly what he said he would do. But I don't think the students elected Sarkozy, the man who half the french refer to as the "American." And I promise it's not a term of endearment.
The stereotype of American-French relations is certainly exagerrated. I've never had any real problems, if anything I'm a curiosity in Bordeaux because few American tourists realize Bordeaux is a city and not just a wine. But there is a subtle pro-British sentiment anyway, if not overtly anti-American. When they have to choose between Anglo-Saxon powers, the French prefer the British. The kids in my second grade English class have told me that I don't actually speak english because I'm American. Also, they have a map of english-speaking countries in the classroom that doesn't include the United States. Americans don't speak real english. Americans aren't as cultured as the British. Even when people recognize my accent, I've never once been asked if I'm American. It's always British first. Sometimes a very long list of Polish, German, Swedish, etc, before I finally cave and admit to being American.
We spent Sunday exploring the medieval town of Sarlat. It's incredibly well preserved, with dozens of houses from the 14th, 15th and 16th centuries. The hotel we stayed in was from the 15th century, and Susan and I were at the top of the tower. It was a nice weekend, seeing a different, quieter side of France. Bordeaux itself is a step down from Paris, but a quite different from the little villages I always imagined. I think Sarlat reminded me most of Rothenburg, Germany. Charming, warm (in spirit anyway, although luckily it didn't rain most of the time).
And now I'm back to reality. After three weeks of strikes, we are returning to class. For three weeks before Christmas break. No one, not even the professors really, understands how we'll be able to cover everything, take our exams, etc. I'm divided because I sympathize with the students. Ironically, they were fighting to keep French universities from becoming more like American universities. And while I'm rather partial to our university system, I don't know that it's the best fit for France. The students are worried about the universality of their degrees if each university can decide its program. In a country where young people have a terrible time finding employment, I can understand why anything that might further hurt their chances would be terrifying. And the students were rebelling against Sarkozy in general, and his conservative agenda. My host family keeps telling me that no one should be complaining because Sarkozy is just doing exactly what he said he would do. But I don't think the students elected Sarkozy, the man who half the french refer to as the "American." And I promise it's not a term of endearment.
The stereotype of American-French relations is certainly exagerrated. I've never had any real problems, if anything I'm a curiosity in Bordeaux because few American tourists realize Bordeaux is a city and not just a wine. But there is a subtle pro-British sentiment anyway, if not overtly anti-American. When they have to choose between Anglo-Saxon powers, the French prefer the British. The kids in my second grade English class have told me that I don't actually speak english because I'm American. Also, they have a map of english-speaking countries in the classroom that doesn't include the United States. Americans don't speak real english. Americans aren't as cultured as the British. Even when people recognize my accent, I've never once been asked if I'm American. It's always British first. Sometimes a very long list of Polish, German, Swedish, etc, before I finally cave and admit to being American.
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