Les Enfants Terribles

For the first time in quite a long while, mid-September to be exact, I enjoyed an entire weekend in Lyon with no traveling, tourists or tour guides. Following our raucous Thanksgiving affair, and the beginning of serious end-of-semester work, a shock to all of us at this point, I was definitely looking forward to a quiet few days in Lyon. While it was definitely not strenuous, the weekend turned out to be an action-packed (host) family weekend. From the Friday arrival of a host son (and his wife) currently living in Switzerland through the final Sunday afternoon celebration featuring a dozen family members, I was once again completely immersed in French family life. What stood out for me this weekend were the children, not so much in how they were different than Americans, but how the ridiculousness resembled something I am familiar with back in the States.

In all, the weekend encompassed 4 huge meals (including 3 different pies), I think 9 bottles of wine (but who’s counting), and six different types of cheese. But, more importantly, we had family members ranging in age from 2 to 32, with many in between. The excuse for this celebration was the 6^th birthday of my host mother’s grandson (my host nephew?), a ball of fun on the verge of losing his front teeth, and proud of it. This character is around the house at least two times a week, with his older sister keeping him in line, and it is through him that I realize how much progress I still have to make in French. Clearly, little kids are not big on the sugar coating, and if you try to tell them something that they just do not understand, they are not going to help you out by making an effort or anything. No, they make it painfully obvious that you cannot speak the language, and quickly become disinterested as you try to find the correct conjugation for a particular verb. Making it worse, their particular brand of mumbling is not exactly the French I was taught in the American education system, so the struggling goes both ways for me. Humiliated by six year olds; welcome to study abroad.

But I generally try to overcome the French barrier with him in using the universal language for any guy, that of sports. The only basketball I have played has been when I was dribbling around little Bicente in circles a couple months back (his defense needs some work), and obviously he is a huge fan of kicking a soccer ball and watching me try to do something resembling an athletic move with my feet. But again, this is all about cultural exchange, and naturally I tried this weekend to teach him the basics of baseball. His one confused look at my mitt revealed that we were going nowhere fast in that department, so I switched over to just the baseball, with little luck. Catching was a foreign concept for him, and so the first time I lightly tossed it in his direction, he just let it hit the floor and started to kick it around. After informing him that this was not an American version of a soccer ball, we attempted to work on the receiving end of the toss. Again, my French catching vocabulary could use some work, so it was more of a hand gesture activity than a conversation, but we went with it anyway. Finally, he caught on enough to make a two handed grab, reason enough for him to get back to kicking the baseball around in celebration. Maybe not a future shortstop.

The Sunday celebration brought even more grandkids over to the house, and thus more debauchery on a little kid scale. Only in France will you find the stark contrast between adults sipping on un apéritif while the children are racing through the conversation evading capture in a mean game of tag. While they may pass on the champagne, during the meal the kids do try to emulate the elder statesmen at the table by taking healthy helpings of both bread and fancy cheese. But after the last of the cake had been munched down, they go back to the frenzy, and two things struck me as undeniably universal in the small melee that erupted. First is that no matter their nationality, kids just love beating up on me, and this time around I don’t even know what to say to try to get them to stop hanging on my arm or demanding a piggy back ride. Definitely took a beating. But on a different level, everyone calmed down a little bit in astonishment when my host mother pulled out from a back closet a dusty yet impressive electric train set. All of a sudden, I looked around the table and saw my host father, two of the sons home for the weekend, myself, Henry, and the two grandkids all working together to make this electric train set work. To recap, that’s 3 different countries represented, with ages ranging from six to about sixty, all fascinated by the same toy. Talk about spanning cultures and generations.

In the end, Bicente’s haul of gifts turned out to include a paper airplane calendar, a Lego action figure, and a remote control car, three things that I have definitely received (or at least asked for) over the course of my 20 years. I guess that even if we cannot understand each other, and come from completely different backgrounds, we share more than one would think. Chalk it up to globalization.

After such a family weekend, today brought a touch of loss, as my roommate Henry headed back home to Miami. While I was definitely sad to see him go, his departure made mine seem that much closer, and now I am really having to face up to the fact that it is December. So much to do, so little time; there are worse problems to have.

Provence, Papes, et Ponts, Tout dans un Weekend

You want to know what my favorite types of trips are? The free ones. Or at least the ones that Penn pays for. Yes, I realize that these may have been factored into the cost of this semester abroad, but it still feels good to travel, sleep and eat all on Penn’s dime for a weekend. This weekend was the second of two such excursions, a two day affair in the Provence region in the south of France. Similar to the trip in Reims, we were immersed into French culture for this short period of time in regions just off the beaten track in order to show us the hidden gems of France. By now you know that I am not a big fan of tourist traps, thus a weekend like this was right up my alley.

An excessively early start on Saturday saw us leave Lyon for a three hour drive down l’autoroute to a small town called Uzès (no clue where it is on a map, but somewhere South). Fortunately, upon our arrival we did happen upon a farmers market where some of the vendors mistakenly offered up free samples, something us half-awake, hungry college students took full advantage of. After clearing the vendors out, and supplementing that with a picnic overlooking the valley below, it was back on the bus, and back to sleep for most of us. I think we all felt bad for our tour guide, because as a local history teacher, he clearly knew a whole host of things about the area we were in, and eagerly was talking over the bus loudspeaker in between each stop along the way. Problem was that he just knew too much, and after a series of loosely correlated tangents, one by one we all busted out the jacket/pillow, and eased our way back to sleep. No worries though, he kept talking.

The Pont du Gard turned out to be the highlight of the weekend, for a few reasons. First, it is a 2000 year old aqueduct (bridge for the water, not only over the water), no small feat within itself. With three separate tiers of arches, the whole of the bridge is still intact and dates all the way back to Roman times, one of the best preserved in the world. Second up is a more personal reason, but after emerging from the woods and coming to the Pont, I had a déjà-vu moment: I knew I had been there before. For the first time this semester, I remembered a specific part of my one week journey through France in eighth grade, the only other time I have been in Europe. I had completely forgotten about this stop along the way, so although I was visibly stunned and confused, I definitely enjoyed being transported back to 2003 and the good old Potomac School days. Third and final highlight of the bridge was not related to the structure itself, but instead the surrounding environment. While it was not a baseball field, I found basically the closest thing to it, namely a flat waterbed with a rocky shoreline: yes, I was skipping stones. While I eventually failed at teaching others this fine art, I did put my own brother’s instructions to good use, and could not help but enjoy one of my favorite pastimes. Later that night and throughout the next day my arm felt like I had just thrown about 7 innings, but after six months off, it felt just right at home.

As for the rest of the weekend, it was mainly focused around food, as is any good trip through the French countryside. When I had seen Avignon on the program sheet, I thought for sure we would hit up the two main attractions that the town has to offer: the Palais des Papes, and the Pont d’Avignon. For those of you who have been around since the beginning, you may remember that Avignon was a stop on my pre-trip travels, and the one day we spent in the town was a perfect length of time. That time around, we arrived in the morning, toured the Palais (the center of the Catholic church at one point in the 14^th and 15^th Century), and after lunch went onto the Pont (12^th Century bridge featured in the French children’s song, Sur le Pont d’Avignon) before heading out that evening. In, out, perfect. This time, with the Penn group, we did not do either fixture. We drove by Avignon at night on Saturday, and obviously spotted both all lit up, and then briefly hustled around the town on Sunday morning, but no going in or on either of them, simply photo ops from a distance. Surprising, but then again we are trying to become French for the semester, and thus did not want to seem touristy or anything terrible like that.

Instead, we explored the French countryside. We stopped briefly at a small medieval town protected by a menacing hill-side castle, and admired a similarly old (yet much smaller) Roman bridge. We sampled some of Provence’s famous olives, and even briefly strolled through a roadside olive oil museum (yes, an olive oil museum, about as cool as you would expect). Unfortunately, the rain and gray skies cut short our morning exploration, so we did what any good Frenchie would do: we ate! One four hour meal later, we were all deliriously full of amazing food, and let our food coma takeover on the way back to Lyon.

In between fits of sleep, I could not help but notice the lights of Chateaus spotting the hillsides. I’m sure whoever built those medieval towns did not imagine they would ever becomes roadside afterthoughts, but I am definitely appreciative of their effort. 12^th Century castles are not something that Americans do well, so I guess I will have to appreciate them while I can, even while rolling along into the night.

Allez (clap-clap) l'OL!

As you all know, I am a big fan of sports, and even if I have failed to mention it so far, I definitely brought my love of sports across the Atlantic with me. Needless to say, it has definitely taken some adjusting, and finally it has boiled over into this rant. I apologize in advance, but on both a personal front and from a professional standpoint, sports in France are not exactly what I expected. While some of these developments have been amazing, let’s just say that this is one of the aspects I miss most about the States. Allow me to explain.

I’ll start with the personal aspect, which is more negative, so we can build to the positive professional side. Unless you play soccer or rugby here, you are going to be out of luck in terms of finding organized sports. For example, I thought that France would have a thriving basketball culture; home to many NBA players, it is only logical that the sport would catch on here. The NBA did a European tour that included Paris, and each NBA game involving a minor French player no American has ever heard of gets a mention on the sports channel here (including the embarrassingly weak statistics for said French player). But, there are no pickup basketball games here in Lyon. Apparently there are plenty of courts according to an online search, but I kept going to these courts only to find them to be children’s playgrounds, or painted lines with a soccer goal on each end. And let’s not even talk about baseball; as I mentioned earlier, a tutor of mine has mentioned that there are baseball clubs in Lyon, and that he partakes in America’s favorite pastime, but to date I have not been able to prove the existence of these clubs nor have I thrown a baseball with him. Perhaps it’s too embarrassing to be seen with a baseball glove in France?

Also, I miss Pottruck. They say that Penn is really just a $50,000 a year gym membership, and right now I need to renew it. There are gyms here, do not get me wrong, but these are all a couple notches below the Radian gym (and definitely not open 24 hours). For comparison, I think the gym here (which is a supplementary cost, of course) could easily fit in one corner of one floor of Pottruck. Running on the streets is something I tried to take refuge in, yet that is definitely looked down upon by the Frenchies. The Rhone has a nice riverside path that looks perfect for running (think of the Schuylkill, only clean), yet on sunny days you will only find people sneering at runners as they smoke cigarettes. Or share a bottle of wine. We are still in France after all.

But enough about me, let’s talk about real sports in Lyon. In the States, we have a nice variety of sports, between football, baseball, basketball, and to a lesser extent hockey (no, I do not consider NASCAR a sport). Here, soccer is the only game in town, period. There is an ESPN equivalent here (L’Equipe), but of the 24 hours of the day, it seems like 20 are devoted just to this “beautiful game.” To be fair, I have tried to get into the spirit, which is pretty easy in Lyon as we do have one of the best teams in France. Coming from DC and Philadelphia, it was a pleasant surprise to learn that our team, Olympique Lyonnais, at one point had won 7 league championships in a row (a streak that was, of course, broken last Spring). Thus, in the spirit of support, a group of us went to an OL game earlier this month. We walked into a true cultural experience.

The game was against Liverpool, one of the best teams in England, and was part of the group stage of the European Champions League; in short, a big deal. The stadium was packed (about 40,000 people) with fans singing songs, waving flags, and jumping up and down; and that was before kickoff. We missed out on any sort of training for the songs, and still lack flags (although some of us do have some stylish OL scarves), so we contented ourselves with simply screaming and jumping every time Lyon did something appearing remotely good. Naturally, we fit right in. Despite a late Liverpool goal, Lyon somehow snuck one in at the last minute, and the stadium went nuts; we instantly became best friends with our fellow fans, hugging and cheering right through the final whistle. Of course, that was only a tie, but still everyone seemed enthusiastic about the result. 90 minutes of “action”, no winner. That’s soccer for you.

That game reinforced my feeling that Americans cannot understand the Europeans love for soccer, and only soccer. The few people that do rock French sports gear (as opposed to those Chicago White Sox hats running around Lyon, still bothers me) around town limit themselves to various forms of soccer paraphernalia. Shops put up signs showing their support of the team, flags proudly fly from houses, and cars even have special OL license plates. This is truly Lyon’s team.

Soccer in Europe transcends traditional boundaries. While you may have missed it back in the States, France just qualified for next year’s World Cup on Wednesday night by defeating Ireland. However, the goal that put them through was the result of a blatant handball. Not wanting to appear weak, and with the full support of the people, the Irish Prime Minister (Brian Cowen) is planning on directly talking to President Sarkozy at a high level European meeting this week about this travesty. Let’s see, economic crisis, new EU system, oh let’s talk about the possibility of replaying a soccer match. It’s not as if the French are not taking the bait, as the Prime Minister here claims that the Irish should stay out of refereeing decisions, and every opposition politician has been polled on the subject. And the front page headline of today’s paper reads “The Handball as a State-level affair.”

So while the French do their soccer well, some of us are missing out on the balanced diet of sports we appreciate back in the states. Sadly, I’m horribly uncoordinated with my feet, so soccer is really not an option. What’s left, rugby? I think I’ll just wait until I’m back in the States.

On a Fini la Moitie, Mais Comment?

(Editor's Note(s): I meant to post this on Thursday night after writing it on the train, but it has been hard to find internet in this city for my computer, and I thus am copying this directly over onto another computer. I apologize for the likely typos and lack of a picture this time, I hopefully will fix this by next time)

Ever since we were admitted to the Lyon program back in March, all 23 of us here have dreamed of les Vacances de Toussaint, or, roughly translated, the All-Saints week of vacation. A true highlight of the trip, this was clearly marked on every single program calendar we received, and always formed an important way to frame the semester. Situated just at the end of October, it seemed a perfect way to divide up the semester into two neat sections. Yet, despite hours of planning, it was always sort of a far off dream, a date way in the future that, once achieved, would definitively mark the passage of time. Well, it's here, and I'm writing to you from a TGV currently departing Lyon. I'll admit, I had a distinct feeling of nostalgia while walking through the city on the way to the train station, finally ocming to grips with the fact that I will be gone from my home-away-from-home for ten whole days. Even my host mother was mildly disappointed that I will be gone for the week, dropping a line of regret into her usual complaints about me needing to clean up my room and stop having so much laundry. It's a give and take relationship, but it's working out.

But, before we get ahead of ourselves here, let me first catch you up on a couple of the highlights of the week. First off, as part of the Penn connection with IEP, the university provides for us tutors in any subject that we would like for the semester in an effort to level the playing field between us and the natives. The students they pair us up with are usually grad students who have already taken these courses, and thus my first session with a French guy was this past week. Anyway, it was pretty boring until the end when we were heading out, and I asked him if he had ever been to the States, one of the standard questions in my French people repertoire. He sadly said no, but claimed that he really wants to because he loves baseball and wants to see an MLB game live. Now, my French was not quite up to my level of excitement, but I was stunned; a French person liking baseball? I cannot even find a pickup basketball game in this city (despite repeated efforts), and this guy plays baseball?? Long story short, he is bringing his glove after vacation, I'm finally going to put mine to use, and we are going to toss a baseball while discussing International and European Institutions. Color me happy.

Just as I thought that was my only bit of excitement from the week worth sharing, I showed up to my only class today (number two was canceled, again) lugging a backpack that might weigh as much as me across the city so that I could go to class and then head directly to the train station. The class started with only about half of the room full, surprising because it was actually a relatively nice morning, and I figured that if people were sleeping in through this one then they would never be there. Oh no, the professor announced at the beginning that some of our colleagues would be missing for the day, as they were taking part in a protest on this morning. Remind me why I was not invited?

But, the vacation has officially begun, and almost all 23 of us are peace-ing out of Lyon for the duration. Although no one is going back to the States, the list of cities on our collective itinerary reads like a must-see list of any travel guide; highlights include Budapest, Casablanca, Cairo, Florence, Istanbul, London, Madrid, Prague, Rome, and Vienna. The prevailing sense this week was that we were sad to leave Lyon and each other, yet absolutely thrilled to be traveling the world, each of us seeing places we have only dreamed of. Our French may suffer in the interim, but there is always time to catch up on that.

As for me, well, I'll keep you posted. There are four stops on my journey, and I will try to keep this updated at the end of each stop along the way (namely while in transit). Stay tuned.

We're rolling through the French countryside, and for the first time I am wondering how much I will miss this once I leave at the end of December. I still feel as if I just arrived, and now I'm halfway done? Thankfully, I have some vacation time to think it over.