Yesterday I went to the Cave of Lombrives, in Ussat-les-Bain (Ornolac), Ariege (the region). It is about 110 km from Carcassonne, south and west of my adopted "home". When I got to the cave, I was only about 25 miles from Andorra. The geology of the Pyrenees is very interesting. The Pyrenees are relatively "new" mountains (hence their jagged peaks); and all along the area of the mountains, there are these HUGE granite and limestone cliffs which got "thrown up" at the same time. They seem very incongruous with the countryside around them. It's not a gradual transition to mountainous territory, as in the Pacific NW. You're just rolling along in gently rolling hills and suddenly, it's as if some huge giant had just put these big boulders in your way. And I mean BIG--often 5-10 miles long. One can easily see how the Pyrenees were a major barrier to people trying to cross from what's now France into what's now Spain, or vice versa--why the Romans, who were pretty adventuresome, didn't try to cross them, for example.
The Cave itself labels itself as the "largest in Europe" though how they measure that is apparently controversial. It has at least 8 caverns which one can see, with guided tours lasting from 1-7 hours. I took the 1.5 hour tour, which lets you into 3 of the caverns. Unfortunately, one cannot take photos, even with flash "off". And, my camera battery seems to have gone dead, so I couldn't take photos of the massive granite faces of the cliffs, either. But it was very interesting to be there. I was very interested in the fact that they are NOT preserving the vapor-lock on the caverns, which means that the caverns will be "dead" in another few years--no living algae, fungus, etc. America learned that lesson with Carlsbad Caverns in California--they opened them up to the public in the late 1940s, creating new wider openings, and the algae were dead within 10 years. I was very impressed with the precautions taken by the folks who run/preserve Karchner Caverns in Arizona (east of Tucson). They are careful to limit the number of daily visitors, put you into 2 vapor-lock chambers before you actually enter the caverns, all in the name of preserving the caverns as a "living" entity. Good to know we've learned a few things over time!
The grisly part of the history of Grotte Lombrives is that, in 1325, the Inquisition walled up 521 Cathars in the walls of the caverns, still alive. They show you the wall of rock, but they have never excavated the bodies. Another fine example of what the human animal does to itself. The weather yesterday, incidently, was grey and foggy around the caverns, and that developed into full-blown thunderstorms in Carcassonne last night. Somehow, knowing the history of the place, that fog and chill wind was just right. The grey clouds and wind are still with us this morning. Still, we're having real summer here, as opposed to the Seattle area, where (I understand) it's still mostly rain. (Click on the location map, below, to see where the Cave is--where it says "Ariege, France".)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Tracking the DaVinci Code
Boy, that title really makes it sound exciting!! OK, at least made you look . . .
Today I went to Rennes-le-Chateau, a little village on top of a hillside overlooking the foothills of the Pyrenees to the south. The name actually means "Reindeer of the Castle" so I need to ask somebody about that--are there really reindeer in southern France?! Bet not!
The signs which tell you that you're entering a town are rimmed in red like this.
You can just see the peaks of some of the Pyrenees over those hills yonder!
The Tower of Mary Magdalene, built by a priest who had avowed poverty. ("La Tour Magdala")
The baptismal font in the church is held up on the shoulders of the Devil!!
Notre Dame in Paris isn't the only place with gargoyles!
Every churchyard should have a skull and crossbones, don't ya think?
Rennes-le-Chateau, of course, is where the priest Berengar Sauniere supposedly "found" a treasure of something under the altar of his church sanctuary and went from being a pauper to being VERY well off. He revitalized the church in the small town, and left some very bizarre decorating schemes behind, as well. His maid and friend (?!) of 30 years, to whom he left his fortune, had promised to tell the source of his wealth on her deathbed--then she went and had a stroke, and couldn't tell anybody anything. The DaVinci Code, of course, built up the idea that what he found were the documents "proving" that Mary Magdalene, who was pregnant by Jesus, came to that area and gave birth to the Holy Lineage, the Merovingian royal line. (Pretty far-fetched, as my grandmother would say!) But the church and the village have spun it into a tourist trade of note. So I took photos in the church, in the village, and of Sauniere's "Magdala Tour". But the nicest thing was stopping on the way up--one ascends the hill to the village on the north side of the hill, and the actual village with the church is on the south side of the hill; I stopped on the north side at the summit, and just gazed for a full 15 minutes in the sunshine (84 degrees with a nice breeze) at the silent world below me. From up there, you couldn't hear cars, trains, planes, or mp3 players--it was blissful. The Pyrenees even made an appearance! And it's all less than an hour from Carcassonne. I am loving the southern hills of SW France. For the record, Tom Hanks was NOT there.
Today I went to Rennes-le-Chateau, a little village on top of a hillside overlooking the foothills of the Pyrenees to the south. The name actually means "Reindeer of the Castle" so I need to ask somebody about that--are there really reindeer in southern France?! Bet not!
Rennes-le-Chateau, of course, is where the priest Berengar Sauniere supposedly "found" a treasure of something under the altar of his church sanctuary and went from being a pauper to being VERY well off. He revitalized the church in the small town, and left some very bizarre decorating schemes behind, as well. His maid and friend (?!) of 30 years, to whom he left his fortune, had promised to tell the source of his wealth on her deathbed--then she went and had a stroke, and couldn't tell anybody anything. The DaVinci Code, of course, built up the idea that what he found were the documents "proving" that Mary Magdalene, who was pregnant by Jesus, came to that area and gave birth to the Holy Lineage, the Merovingian royal line. (Pretty far-fetched, as my grandmother would say!) But the church and the village have spun it into a tourist trade of note. So I took photos in the church, in the village, and of Sauniere's "Magdala Tour". But the nicest thing was stopping on the way up--one ascends the hill to the village on the north side of the hill, and the actual village with the church is on the south side of the hill; I stopped on the north side at the summit, and just gazed for a full 15 minutes in the sunshine (84 degrees with a nice breeze) at the silent world below me. From up there, you couldn't hear cars, trains, planes, or mp3 players--it was blissful. The Pyrenees even made an appearance! And it's all less than an hour from Carcassonne. I am loving the southern hills of SW France. For the record, Tom Hanks was NOT there.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Getting a Haircut in France
So, time marches on. And so does the growth of my hair; so I stretched it out (from April 26, my last hair cut) as long as humanly possible--until I was regarding the world through my bangs, which made me feel uncomfrotably like a teenager again. So I asked my landlords who they use for haircuts, and got the name of a nice man in the ville of Carcassonne who does hair--he always does a good job, they said. So I walked to the hairdresser place, and hoped I didn't need an appointment a month ago. When I walked in, the (male) assistant was there, who assured me that yes, they could give me a haircut. Mr. Franck Richard had only stepped out for lunch and would be back--soon.
In fact, he was back within about 10 minutes. I got the obligatory shampoo (I tried to tell him that Marti always cuts the sides DRY and then does the shampoo!) and then sat in the chair. And then, he took off my glasses. And asked me, "what do you want done?" and I explained it had been 8 weeks since my last haircut and I didn't wish to change styles, just get it cut. [I was proud of myself for remembering that the word for hair in French is 'le cheveu' (plural is "cheveux" which sounds just like the singular), while the word for horse is "cheval". For some reason, I have always gotten those mixed up because they sound similar, and I had nightmares about telling him I wanted my horse cut, with him charging out onto the street with a butcher's cleaver in hand . . . but no, he understood that I wanted a haircut (taille de cheveux).] He certainly took liberties with the styling . . . I'm going to have to call or email Marti and BEG her to cut my hair either Saturday late afternoon after I return or on Sunday afternoon, before I return to work on Monday. Around the ears is ALL WRONG--I even considered--briefly--putting my hair on the prayer list at my church, but decided that some people would think that was petty, so I didn't. But it definitely needs work. For someone whose entire nod to beauty is getting my hair cut every 4-5 weeks, the haircut is IMPORTANT--it needs to stay out of my eyes, surely, while I gaze at babies, but it also needs to look good. What can I conclude from this mortifying experience? Never trust someone to cut your hair who has TWO FIRST NAMES. I didn't go into the salon business, now, DID I?
In fact, he was back within about 10 minutes. I got the obligatory shampoo (I tried to tell him that Marti always cuts the sides DRY and then does the shampoo!) and then sat in the chair. And then, he took off my glasses. And asked me, "what do you want done?" and I explained it had been 8 weeks since my last haircut and I didn't wish to change styles, just get it cut. [I was proud of myself for remembering that the word for hair in French is 'le cheveu' (plural is "cheveux" which sounds just like the singular), while the word for horse is "cheval". For some reason, I have always gotten those mixed up because they sound similar, and I had nightmares about telling him I wanted my horse cut, with him charging out onto the street with a butcher's cleaver in hand . . . but no, he understood that I wanted a haircut (taille de cheveux).] He certainly took liberties with the styling . . . I'm going to have to call or email Marti and BEG her to cut my hair either Saturday late afternoon after I return or on Sunday afternoon, before I return to work on Monday. Around the ears is ALL WRONG--I even considered--briefly--putting my hair on the prayer list at my church, but decided that some people would think that was petty, so I didn't. But it definitely needs work. For someone whose entire nod to beauty is getting my hair cut every 4-5 weeks, the haircut is IMPORTANT--it needs to stay out of my eyes, surely, while I gaze at babies, but it also needs to look good. What can I conclude from this mortifying experience? Never trust someone to cut your hair who has TWO FIRST NAMES. I didn't go into the salon business, now, DID I?
A Visit to Nimes
The lovely thing about being in the south of France is that everything ALSO in the south of France is pretty close--so, yesterday, I jumped on the train and rode to the city of Nimes in about 2 hours and 20 minutes. Taking the European trains is a great way to see the countryside and also (as it turns out) meet some nice people. Besides, you don't have to drive, you don't have to use up gas, and you can actually READ on the train!
Nimes is the ancient city which was claimed by Rome at least prior to 28 BC--it was the "Colonius Nemensis", and for soldiers who served Julius Caesar for 15 years, a tract of land in that colony was their reward. Even then it was known as a great area for vineyards! It was a vital city with 50,000 people at the time of Caesar Augustus; later, it was known for its cloth and dyes in varying shades of blue, due to a certain species of WOAD plant which grows there, and the serge (cloth) de Nimes became famous even in medieval times--we know it as "de Nimes" or "denim" now. A Frenchman named Levy-Strauss (not to be confused with the anthropologist of the same name) came to America in the 1920s with his cloth and began making work-pants for farmers and ranchers--they were called "Levis", and we know them today as (blue) jeans.
Nimes has the oldest, and most complete, Roman Colisseum in all of Europe (or the world, for that matter)--it's still in shape after 2,000 years, such that they use it as a venue for concerts today! It's elliptical in shape, whereas the one in Rome was round. They also have a complete Temple to the Goddess Vesta, which was dedicated to the sons of Caesar Agrippa at the time it was built (we saw the site, on Palatine Hill in Rome, where the two temples of Vesta used to be--the eternal flame there was tended by the Vestal Virgins, you know). Anyway--pretty cool that these structures still exist, and that they are just in the center of town--the modern city has built up around them. France does have history, that's for sure. (They use the arena, or colissum, for bullfights--which were actually an ancient Roman sporting event--I know we all think of bullfights as Spanish only, but they also occur across the south of France--the entire area of southern France and northern Spain was once the country of Occitane. The culture of southern France is more similar to northern Spain than it is to the northern part of France.)
On the way back from Nimes, I sat on the train with a gentleman who is 72, named Joc (Jacques) Arnal, a Frenchman who grew up near Nimes and is here on a reunion trip, or, as he says, "a trip down the lane of memories". He had been at a reunion and was on his way to his sister-in-law's house (his "belle soeur") in Perpignan, a town on the seacoast near the Spanish border. We chatted in French and then English and then back to French again all the way to Narbonne, where I left that train to catch the local train back to Carcassonne. It turns out he lives now in Vancouver, Washington, where his wife, a linguist, teaches in Portland, OR. He is retired now, but has travelled the world for his work (he met his American wife in Tunisia). We talked philosophy, politics, children and (his) grandchildren, and how one can leave a legacy for family members. He was reading Stendahl's "Le Rouge et le Noir" ("The Red and the Black"), one of the 100 Great Books Curriculum for colleges. Now I'm going to have to read that . . . it was altogether an enlightening day!
Oh, did I mention that it was 78 degrees with a light breeze? As Joc said, "in Washington State, rain is a way of life, but not in France!"
Nimes is the ancient city which was claimed by Rome at least prior to 28 BC--it was the "Colonius Nemensis", and for soldiers who served Julius Caesar for 15 years, a tract of land in that colony was their reward. Even then it was known as a great area for vineyards! It was a vital city with 50,000 people at the time of Caesar Augustus; later, it was known for its cloth and dyes in varying shades of blue, due to a certain species of WOAD plant which grows there, and the serge (cloth) de Nimes became famous even in medieval times--we know it as "de Nimes" or "denim" now. A Frenchman named Levy-Strauss (not to be confused with the anthropologist of the same name) came to America in the 1920s with his cloth and began making work-pants for farmers and ranchers--they were called "Levis", and we know them today as (blue) jeans.
Nimes has the oldest, and most complete, Roman Colisseum in all of Europe (or the world, for that matter)--it's still in shape after 2,000 years, such that they use it as a venue for concerts today! It's elliptical in shape, whereas the one in Rome was round. They also have a complete Temple to the Goddess Vesta, which was dedicated to the sons of Caesar Agrippa at the time it was built (we saw the site, on Palatine Hill in Rome, where the two temples of Vesta used to be--the eternal flame there was tended by the Vestal Virgins, you know). Anyway--pretty cool that these structures still exist, and that they are just in the center of town--the modern city has built up around them. France does have history, that's for sure. (They use the arena, or colissum, for bullfights--which were actually an ancient Roman sporting event--I know we all think of bullfights as Spanish only, but they also occur across the south of France--the entire area of southern France and northern Spain was once the country of Occitane. The culture of southern France is more similar to northern Spain than it is to the northern part of France.)
Oh, did I mention that it was 78 degrees with a light breeze? As Joc said, "in Washington State, rain is a way of life, but not in France!"
Monday, June 20, 2011
Saint Guilhem le Desert
Yesterday I went to St. Guilhem le Desert, an Abbey which figures prominently in the book I just wrote. It's one of the protected Historic Sites of France, much like la Cite in Carcassonne. There were hundreds of people there--but that's getting ahead of myself. I got directions from "Maps" on my iPad, which I dutifully wrote down. But the directions said to go on A-6, which is a major road--and a toll road. I decided it would be fun to take the "back roads" instead, so I tossed the directions in the passengers' seat and drove! By following signs, first to Narbonne, then to Beziers, then to Montpellier, I actually DID find it, and a straight shot route, which my directions did not give.
It's an 11th Century Abbey, though it was originally founded in 806 AD by Guilhem, first cousin to Charlemagne--Charlemagne apparently gave to Guilhem a relic of the one true cross, which is housed in a little reliquary box, and so the place became a "must see" on the pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela (the route called "Via Tolosana"). As a result of the relic, the place flourished and so it plays a role in the plot of my book. Today, it's been restored/rebuilt in the places it was falling down (the French Revolution seems to have put a lot of historic places "out of business"). It was wonderful to be there, and to see the Cloisters area which my protagonists are VERY familiar with. (The Cloister Pillars from the 1400s were "relocated" to the Museum of Fine Art in NYC, a fact which the French are still not happy about--this as a result of Napoleon's defeat in the early 1800s--lots of French artifacts were auctioned off, or just plain stolen, at that time).
The day was gorgeous, one of the crystal blue days with not a cloud in the sky, 76 degrees (F) and sunny, with just a hint of breeze. So perfect for driving, and sight-seeing. The government must make millions on a yearly basis just from the parking fees to St. Guilhem! And it's always exciting to be going down a hillside with high stone walls on both sides, with a large car coming at you, and your rearview mirrors scraping the sides of the walls--well, within an inch or so, anyway.
I have included some photos of St. Guilhem le Desert, just so you can see a bit of what I saw.
And, oh yes--the REAL triumph of the day. I was running low on gasoline in my car, and needed to get some. I stopped at two different pumps, and they wouldn't take my bankcard (which is a MasterCard debit card); on Sundays there are no cashiers at any gas stations. So, I knew I would run out of gas if I didn't get some by the third pump I stopped at; I was able to speak with the nice man in line behind me, explained that I was American and that the machine wouldn't take my bankcard, and would he use HIS card if I paid him cash? He did, I did, and I got home safely. I think the real mark of knowing a language is, can you use it to solve a PROBLEM? Yay for communication!
Cloisters of the Abbey
Inside the main sanctuary
The original Abbey on top of a mountain!
More cloisters--the art of building those arches is practically a lost art now.
It's an 11th Century Abbey, though it was originally founded in 806 AD by Guilhem, first cousin to Charlemagne--Charlemagne apparently gave to Guilhem a relic of the one true cross, which is housed in a little reliquary box, and so the place became a "must see" on the pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela (the route called "Via Tolosana"). As a result of the relic, the place flourished and so it plays a role in the plot of my book. Today, it's been restored/rebuilt in the places it was falling down (the French Revolution seems to have put a lot of historic places "out of business"). It was wonderful to be there, and to see the Cloisters area which my protagonists are VERY familiar with. (The Cloister Pillars from the 1400s were "relocated" to the Museum of Fine Art in NYC, a fact which the French are still not happy about--this as a result of Napoleon's defeat in the early 1800s--lots of French artifacts were auctioned off, or just plain stolen, at that time).
The day was gorgeous, one of the crystal blue days with not a cloud in the sky, 76 degrees (F) and sunny, with just a hint of breeze. So perfect for driving, and sight-seeing. The government must make millions on a yearly basis just from the parking fees to St. Guilhem! And it's always exciting to be going down a hillside with high stone walls on both sides, with a large car coming at you, and your rearview mirrors scraping the sides of the walls--well, within an inch or so, anyway.
I have included some photos of St. Guilhem le Desert, just so you can see a bit of what I saw.
And, oh yes--the REAL triumph of the day. I was running low on gasoline in my car, and needed to get some. I stopped at two different pumps, and they wouldn't take my bankcard (which is a MasterCard debit card); on Sundays there are no cashiers at any gas stations. So, I knew I would run out of gas if I didn't get some by the third pump I stopped at; I was able to speak with the nice man in line behind me, explained that I was American and that the machine wouldn't take my bankcard, and would he use HIS card if I paid him cash? He did, I did, and I got home safely. I think the real mark of knowing a language is, can you use it to solve a PROBLEM? Yay for communication!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Canal du Midi
Friday, June 10, 2011
Lovely Little Villages
Today, between writing Chapters 7 and 8, I needed to just get out of the house, so to speak, So I asked Mrs. Woodman if there were anything to see within a short driving distance, and she suggested Lastours (Las Tors in Occitan). There are 3 smallish castles up on the side of the mountain there, and one can make a short hike up to the castles themselves. So I went.
First off, I was proud of myself that I made the correct choices through each of the round-abouts, which is how the major roads intersect both in cities and in the country. One takes the road to Mazumet, near the train station, and then look for signs to Lastours. So I found the way to Lastours, and found myself going through small village after village. Lastours is north of Carcassonne, in the "Black Mountains" (which we in the Pacific NW would judge as hills), and as you wend your way north and up, you run into little village after little village. Many of them date from the 12 and 1300s, and you can clearly see the textures of stone walls beneath plaster on the sides of many buildings. Of course, flower boxes are everywhere and right now all the flowers are in bloom. I passed one field which was just breathtaking--as far as the eye could see, red and orange poppies, interspersed with lavender--so stripes of red, orange and purple off into the distance. Reminded me of the tulip fields of Skagit County in April, only we've had such wet Aprils the last few years that it's been no fun to see them. Well, today I saw big-time color in the fields and I did not get rained upon!
The villages, for the most part, have red-tile roofs, and the color of the buildings is yellow. So you see red, yellow, purple, pink, yellow, green and orange as you pass the little villages. It's really a riot of color; and the jasmine and roses smell wonderful, too. I did stop in the small village of Conques-sur-Orbieres to check out one winery (it was advertised from the main road) and bought a bottle of red wine for 2,50 euros, labelled "La Cite de Carcassonne". We'll see how good it is--perhaps Ben and I will have to go back there to check out their wines, when he's here to visit (next month). I haven't had a bad red wine yet, and I never pay more than about 4 euros for a bottle--I can see why the French can afford wine for dinner every night! I think I prefer the countryside to the cities of France. Fortunately, there's a lot of countryside.
Incidently, the folks who are here from England in the other apartment (downstairs from me) are here for two weeks, and they just went to Andorra--and they went on and on about how treacherous the driving is to get there. So I'm not alone in thinking that Andorra, tucked way up into the Pyrenees, really prefers NOT to be visited--that is, you have to have a lot of guts or maybe be pretty stupid to drive those roads! (They said the alcohol prices are great there--we never stopped to look--not that I drink whiskey, vodka or gin anyway). I'm content with my memories of the mountains and the snowfields, and the mysteries of a tiny principality way up in the mountains.
First off, I was proud of myself that I made the correct choices through each of the round-abouts, which is how the major roads intersect both in cities and in the country. One takes the road to Mazumet, near the train station, and then look for signs to Lastours. So I found the way to Lastours, and found myself going through small village after village. Lastours is north of Carcassonne, in the "Black Mountains" (which we in the Pacific NW would judge as hills), and as you wend your way north and up, you run into little village after little village. Many of them date from the 12 and 1300s, and you can clearly see the textures of stone walls beneath plaster on the sides of many buildings. Of course, flower boxes are everywhere and right now all the flowers are in bloom. I passed one field which was just breathtaking--as far as the eye could see, red and orange poppies, interspersed with lavender--so stripes of red, orange and purple off into the distance. Reminded me of the tulip fields of Skagit County in April, only we've had such wet Aprils the last few years that it's been no fun to see them. Well, today I saw big-time color in the fields and I did not get rained upon!
The villages, for the most part, have red-tile roofs, and the color of the buildings is yellow. So you see red, yellow, purple, pink, yellow, green and orange as you pass the little villages. It's really a riot of color; and the jasmine and roses smell wonderful, too. I did stop in the small village of Conques-sur-Orbieres to check out one winery (it was advertised from the main road) and bought a bottle of red wine for 2,50 euros, labelled "La Cite de Carcassonne". We'll see how good it is--perhaps Ben and I will have to go back there to check out their wines, when he's here to visit (next month). I haven't had a bad red wine yet, and I never pay more than about 4 euros for a bottle--I can see why the French can afford wine for dinner every night! I think I prefer the countryside to the cities of France. Fortunately, there's a lot of countryside.
Incidently, the folks who are here from England in the other apartment (downstairs from me) are here for two weeks, and they just went to Andorra--and they went on and on about how treacherous the driving is to get there. So I'm not alone in thinking that Andorra, tucked way up into the Pyrenees, really prefers NOT to be visited--that is, you have to have a lot of guts or maybe be pretty stupid to drive those roads! (They said the alcohol prices are great there--we never stopped to look--not that I drink whiskey, vodka or gin anyway). I'm content with my memories of the mountains and the snowfields, and the mysteries of a tiny principality way up in the mountains.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Chocolate for Breakfast
Most Americans have some kind of appreciation for "French cooking", mostly due to Julia Child and her TV show. My generation watched her show--and then watched Dan Ackroyd parody her on SNL in its early years. My kids' generation either read or watched "Julie and Julia", and so everybody knows a bit about Julia Child. Most folks think if you throw enough butter and a cream sauce at a recipe, you will get "French" cooking. And it's true--the typical "farm breakfast" for working farm families (and that's the majority of folks in France--it's still primarily an agricultural country) here involves eggs, cheese, butter, cream, ham or another meat (think sausage or a few things we don't typically eat in America), and bread--after all, where did "french toast" come from? But for the non-physical laboring public, breakfast in France is usually either coffee or tea, maybe a glass of fruit juice, and a pastry--this can be a croissant, a brioche, a chouquette, or (in my opinion) their very best invention, the PAIN AU CHOCOLAT. Yup, the French actually put two thin bars of dark chocolate into a pastry and bake it into the very bread itself. This is an idea which borders on divine inspiration. The two thin bars running lengthwise through the dough means that you get chocolate in every bite of the thing, AND it's their great dark chocolate, to boot. Several medical studies have been published in the past few years indicating that, as Woody Allen predicted in "Sleeper" years ago, dark chocolate does have medical benefits for our health. It supposedly lowers blood pressure. It creates higher levels of HDL and lowers the production of LDL (the bad kind of cholesterol). In moderation, it appears to be a good thing. And here I am, in the south of France, where they make them fresh every day--it's too good to be true!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Mediterranean at Collioure
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Speaking French in a Foreign Country
As some of you know, I have had French studies in my life since the age of 10 years, when our 5th grade teacher (a WW II war bride from France) stepped into our 4th grade classroom one day and began to teach us French! Now, in a small rural community in Indiana, this was quite novel--but, bless her heart, she kept it up all that 4th grade year, and then in 5th she was MY teacher, so we had 1/2 the day in French and 1/2 the day in English, and then in 6th grade she made arrangements to return to our classroom (good old Mr. Kerr) and keep us going with it. In 7th grade we moved to Oregon, where French was an elective in Jr. High, so I kept up with it, all the way through High School. I "quizzed out" of French when I took the AP exam of the SAT exams, so I was entitled to count that as one of my two required languages at Bryn Mawr (the other was ancient Greek for me, which is still mostly Greek to me!), but I wanted to keep it going so I took a 202 French Lit class my Freshman year. We read Voltaire, and Les Miserables, and poetry, and several other things which I've now forgotten (oh yes, "Huis Clos" No Exit by Jean Paul Sartre). All of which is to say that at one point in my life, I ws pretty comfortable with French. Over the years I've had the opportunity to use it with the Vietnamese refugees who were served by Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, and occasionally with families who are from France or French Canada, or the western African countries. But I haven't really had LOTS of practice until I got here.
One of the things one realizes right off the bat is that, in real life, people don't speak in sentences all that much, unless they are having a conversation about ideas, political or otherwise. Mostly, people speak in short phrases (parents: "don't!" "I said don't do that!" "Hear me?" etc.) Teens speak with "like" or "cool" interspersed throughout--the French equivalent for both of those is "d'accord" which can also mean OK. Interesting to listen to teenagers speaking to each other, from a distance.
Secondly, as David Sedaris points out in his wonderful book of essays "Me Talk Pretty One Day", French is like most of the other Romance languages in that there are male and female designations for all nouns. Who knew that a table would be female? Or that a radish is male? (The Greeks are ahead here--both ancient and modern Greek have a third, neuter, gender for things one is not sure about, or for things which have no obvious characteristics of either gender). Remembering the word for umbrella is bad enough (parapluie), but then to recall whether it's male or female can be daunting before you've had coffee.
Third, we rarely speak in the past pluperfect verb tense, or any one of 5 or 6 other arcane English-isms; many Americans don't get that right, even in English ("I wish I WERE in France" is correct--many of us say "I wish I WAS in France"). So forget all the endings of the French verbs which designate temporal or active status--and Heaven help us with the French IRREGULAR verbs (the ones they got from German or English or Dutch). Fortunately, most French are very forgiving about verb tenses, and I can say "I enjoy music last night", meaning I went to an outdoor concert evening before last, and they still understand my meaning. (At least we have a way to express the past--my understanding of the Asian languages is that they don't actually have past-tense verbs, which is why my patient parents from China, say, will struggle with telling me the history of their child's illness.)
What's really throwing me here in the SW of France is the TEMPO of the speaking. We are only about 50 miles from Spain, remember. And the Spanish speak VERY fast--so do the French down here. And they tend to swallow the final consonants on some words and SING the final consonants on others, so that it's fairly unintelligible at some points. I felt a little better when our native-French guide (she was taking Jan, Ryan and I to a castle in the area), who grew up in Lyon, said SHE couldn't understand some of the Languedoc folks, either. I am getting to be able to hear the accent and sort out the native Languedocians from the transplants. I had such a lovely SLOW conversation with my taxi driver this morning on the way to the airport to pick up my rental car--he grew up in Paris, where they speak more slowly and enunciate more clearly, and cut off the word at the end rather than singing an extra syllable onto the end of the word; we chatted about the weather, and the people of Carcassonne, and different accents around the different parts of France--made me feel as though I really MIGHT be able to speak this, after all!
And, of course, it's true that the French are like anybody else--if you give it a TRY in their language, they are most willing to be helpful if they can. They are really a lot friendlier than some folks make them out to be! Bien sur!
One of the things one realizes right off the bat is that, in real life, people don't speak in sentences all that much, unless they are having a conversation about ideas, political or otherwise. Mostly, people speak in short phrases (parents: "don't!" "I said don't do that!" "Hear me?" etc.) Teens speak with "like" or "cool" interspersed throughout--the French equivalent for both of those is "d'accord" which can also mean OK. Interesting to listen to teenagers speaking to each other, from a distance.
Secondly, as David Sedaris points out in his wonderful book of essays "Me Talk Pretty One Day", French is like most of the other Romance languages in that there are male and female designations for all nouns. Who knew that a table would be female? Or that a radish is male? (The Greeks are ahead here--both ancient and modern Greek have a third, neuter, gender for things one is not sure about, or for things which have no obvious characteristics of either gender). Remembering the word for umbrella is bad enough (parapluie), but then to recall whether it's male or female can be daunting before you've had coffee.
Third, we rarely speak in the past pluperfect verb tense, or any one of 5 or 6 other arcane English-isms; many Americans don't get that right, even in English ("I wish I WERE in France" is correct--many of us say "I wish I WAS in France"). So forget all the endings of the French verbs which designate temporal or active status--and Heaven help us with the French IRREGULAR verbs (the ones they got from German or English or Dutch). Fortunately, most French are very forgiving about verb tenses, and I can say "I enjoy music last night", meaning I went to an outdoor concert evening before last, and they still understand my meaning. (At least we have a way to express the past--my understanding of the Asian languages is that they don't actually have past-tense verbs, which is why my patient parents from China, say, will struggle with telling me the history of their child's illness.)
What's really throwing me here in the SW of France is the TEMPO of the speaking. We are only about 50 miles from Spain, remember. And the Spanish speak VERY fast--so do the French down here. And they tend to swallow the final consonants on some words and SING the final consonants on others, so that it's fairly unintelligible at some points. I felt a little better when our native-French guide (she was taking Jan, Ryan and I to a castle in the area), who grew up in Lyon, said SHE couldn't understand some of the Languedoc folks, either. I am getting to be able to hear the accent and sort out the native Languedocians from the transplants. I had such a lovely SLOW conversation with my taxi driver this morning on the way to the airport to pick up my rental car--he grew up in Paris, where they speak more slowly and enunciate more clearly, and cut off the word at the end rather than singing an extra syllable onto the end of the word; we chatted about the weather, and the people of Carcassonne, and different accents around the different parts of France--made me feel as though I really MIGHT be able to speak this, after all!
And, of course, it's true that the French are like anybody else--if you give it a TRY in their language, they are most willing to be helpful if they can. They are really a lot friendlier than some folks make them out to be! Bien sur!
Getting on the Train in Europe
I have been away, in France, Spain and Italy, and had minimal WiFi connections, so have not blogged in 2 weeks--sorry about that! Jan and her older son, Ryan, and I did Paris, (including Versailles and Chartres), back here to Carcassonne, Barcelona, Madrid, Venice, Florence, a day in Rome, and two nights in Montorosso al Mare, on the Cinqueterre (actually the Italian Riviera, as it were). Just returned at 10:30 pm last night, after walking the 30 minutes from the train station (no taxis out and about at 10 pm in a small town). My blister-on-a-blister situation is pretty much resolved now, and my clothes are getting the bath they desperately need. It was all a glorious 3-week adventure.
Getting on the train in Europe is unlike getting on the train in the States, in several ways. First, when you get on a fast, long-distance train, you are assigned A SEAT in A COACH, and you are supposed to occupy that seat and no other. Which makes for interesting confrontations when someone is in your assigned seat (often a local who ought to be in a different coach altogether--the Eurail Passes they sell to Americans are for "first class" coaches, while most Europeans (except sophisticated business people) travel in second class. So occasionally one has to chase an interloper out--otherwise, if you sit in any other seat, at the next stop the person who is supposed to be in that seat arrives, and everybody has to shift around.
Second, the trains are posted by their ultimate destination (as are all the metro systems in all the big cities)--so you just have to KNOW that the train taking you to Narbonne, France is actually the train to Montpelier. Mostly, you orient yourself to the system by the NUMBER of the train you are assigned, and the time it's supposed to leave (down to the minute)--and European trains are so prompt that they sometimes leave 1-2 minutes BEFORE the posted time!
Thirdly, if you have luggage, or you get behind someone who does, it can take several minutes to even board the train (yesterday in Barcelona, I got behind a group of 5 people, all in their late 60s-70s, who weren't sure that coach 2 was REALLY coach 2, and they stood there for 4 minutes debating whether to get on or not--completely blocking anyone else's entry onto the train--they each had 2 suitcases!). The train will actually leave while someone is attempting to board, if it's the right time to leave, so you'd best make a dash for a door somewhere and figure out where you belong after the train has pulled away from the station!
All of this is predicated on the idea that one can actually KNOW which track your train is on--which can change halfway down the track in the station. That happened to us in Rome--we were going back to Florence, in the train on track 7--only half way down the track, they changed the numbers so that track seven was not where we thought it was--so, we got on a train which was going to Napoli (Naples) instead! It was a lovely ride to Naples (1 hour 10 minutes), but unfortunately it was the last "fast train" for the night, so we returned to Rome that night on a milk-run train which stopped at every small station. Finally got into Rome at 11:30 pm with no option to go to Florence til the next morning, no suitcase, no toothbrush. Found a hotel, found a place open for dinner at midnight, and the next day we returned to Florence in time to have a great story to tell our grandchildren! So yes, I've been to Naples--but only to the train station.
Getting on the train in Europe is unlike getting on the train in the States, in several ways. First, when you get on a fast, long-distance train, you are assigned A SEAT in A COACH, and you are supposed to occupy that seat and no other. Which makes for interesting confrontations when someone is in your assigned seat (often a local who ought to be in a different coach altogether--the Eurail Passes they sell to Americans are for "first class" coaches, while most Europeans (except sophisticated business people) travel in second class. So occasionally one has to chase an interloper out--otherwise, if you sit in any other seat, at the next stop the person who is supposed to be in that seat arrives, and everybody has to shift around.
Second, the trains are posted by their ultimate destination (as are all the metro systems in all the big cities)--so you just have to KNOW that the train taking you to Narbonne, France is actually the train to Montpelier. Mostly, you orient yourself to the system by the NUMBER of the train you are assigned, and the time it's supposed to leave (down to the minute)--and European trains are so prompt that they sometimes leave 1-2 minutes BEFORE the posted time!
Thirdly, if you have luggage, or you get behind someone who does, it can take several minutes to even board the train (yesterday in Barcelona, I got behind a group of 5 people, all in their late 60s-70s, who weren't sure that coach 2 was REALLY coach 2, and they stood there for 4 minutes debating whether to get on or not--completely blocking anyone else's entry onto the train--they each had 2 suitcases!). The train will actually leave while someone is attempting to board, if it's the right time to leave, so you'd best make a dash for a door somewhere and figure out where you belong after the train has pulled away from the station!
All of this is predicated on the idea that one can actually KNOW which track your train is on--which can change halfway down the track in the station. That happened to us in Rome--we were going back to Florence, in the train on track 7--only half way down the track, they changed the numbers so that track seven was not where we thought it was--so, we got on a train which was going to Napoli (Naples) instead! It was a lovely ride to Naples (1 hour 10 minutes), but unfortunately it was the last "fast train" for the night, so we returned to Rome that night on a milk-run train which stopped at every small station. Finally got into Rome at 11:30 pm with no option to go to Florence til the next morning, no suitcase, no toothbrush. Found a hotel, found a place open for dinner at midnight, and the next day we returned to Florence in time to have a great story to tell our grandchildren! So yes, I've been to Naples--but only to the train station.
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