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.

Le Thanksgiving, pas un Jour Férie

I hope you all enjoyed a relaxing Thanksgiving yesterday, and made the most of America’s holiday dedicated specifically to eating and watching TV. In France, it was just another Thursday; no turkeys, pilgrims, or “harvest” celebrations were to be found anywhere in Lyon. In fact, I even had classes yesterday, and both of my professors actually showed up, a true rarity. But while everyone is getting ready for Christmas here in Lyon (a little early if you ask me), Thanksgiving passed by the French without so much as a friendly gobble.

The root of the problem is that the French do not understand the holiday, plain and simple. They do not bother with translating its title into French, and simply say “Happy Thanksgiving” (featuring that distinct French challenge of pronouncing an “H” at the beginning of a word) with a smirk whenever it is brought up. In a variety of forums, from my high school students I tutor to my host family to dinner guests, I tried to explain the reasoning behind it, and all I received in return were blank stares. There is no point of reference for them, this day when Americans simply celebrate what is around them. To the French, they are pretty sure we all silently eat TV dinners every night by ourselves, and they believe that their concept of a family dinner fully makes up for one random day. Thus, at the heart of it they find it simply pointless.

History lessons about the origins of Thanksgiving are another topic of conversation that quickly digresses into confusion and cultural misunderstandings. “Native Americans” is a tough one, considering that the French are very proud of the fact that they are the real French who have been in France for thousands of years, and never had to boot anyone from the land in order to make room. Also, apparently Squanto is not as much of a celebrity here, as his name continually falls on deaf ears whenever I drop it as part of the history. But again, turkeys, pilgrims, harvest, all are either new concepts or new vocab for the conversation, and usually I get bogged down in the Mayflower part of the story, and have to quickly summarize the rest (“point is they had a big meal, that’s basically it”). My 17th century American history lessons are not quite up to par with my 21st century rants, but we’re getting there.

But the main problem is the French think they understand the holiday, and this only leads to further mockery of the United States. To be fair, my description of a typical Thanksgiving with my family involves sleeping in late, watching football (or the Dog Show, if my sister has the remote), and then eating my biggest meal of the entire year. Clearly, the Frenchies all hear that and kind of smile and say “well, it is America after all.” If there is two things that the French love to bash on about America, it is that we are fat and love American football, a sport they will never begin to attempt to understand (they already have the “real” football, what else could they possibly need?). At that point of the conversation, each of my audiences gets that look on their face that just screams, “ah, we are so above that.” Language, still a struggle, but I can read facial expressions thank you very much.

Despite the overwhelming obstacles facing us, the Americans in the group did manage to make the most of the holiday. An apparent Penn-in-Lyon tradition, all the students and the host families (plus a couple real families here for the holiday) went to a fancy Lyonnais restaurant, all dressed up of course, for a highly-anticipated dinner. They tried to make the food as American as possible, and after the ratatouille appetizer we did receive some turkey, potatoes and cranberry sauce (my number one Thanksgiving dish) for our main course, with pumpkin pie arriving for the egg-ivores at the end. Not quite the same stuffed turkey, biscuits, and canned cranberry sauce that I have come to love and miss, but for the French, not bad.

In terms of atmosphere, we took it to a new level, even if it had nothing to do with Thanksgiving. The dilemma facing our program director was that there really is no traditional celebration to go along with all the eating. So, we started with the next best thing: Christmas songs. Featuring hits such as the 12 days of Christmas (in the round, of course), Jingle Bells, and even a couple random (apparently “classic”) French ones, some of us were bold/dumb enough to attempt to lead everyone in rousing song. Lyrics were provided for all, but seemed to help no one. Not sure if the host families were more intimidated by our gumption or embarrassed for our clear lack of talent, but at least we had a good time making fools of ourselves.

So there you have it, my first holiday abroad, one of the harder parts about being out of the States. There’s obviously no replacement for that family meal, with the stories that invariably come out every year and the family members that you can never seem to spend enough time with. But there are only a few weeks until this abroad experience is over, and the focus now is on making the most of our short time left. Even if that means forgetting about the things back home that you miss the most, now is the time to realize what you have here.

In a sense, it’s all about giving thanks.

Encore, l’Exploration de la Ville (et le Tourisme)

So much for what I said about Lyon not being a tourist destination. For once, I was in Lyon throughout the whole weekend, a feat not accomplished since late September, and to take it one step further, I actually hosted a visitor who came to Lyon out of his own free will! Yes, strange but true, but Spencer Glantz, of Madrid fame, repaid me the visit in my home-away-from-home, and as such I once again took advantage of all the finest tourist traps Lyon has to offer. Going into the weekend, I was a bit concerned we would run out of things to do, but we ended up having to run just to keep up with our itinerary.

After he arrived late in the afternoon on Friday, we took in a few of the sights on the way back to the house, where Spencer had the fortune of meeting the host family. Now, Spencer speaks no French (despite what he may believe), and I had warned my host mother about this much earlier in the week (she even speaks a little Spanish, which Spencer is far better at). However, at dinner she kept insisting on speaking to him in French, with a “welcome to France, now speak French” attitude. Thus, even though she had prepared us a wonderful French mean (as usual), and was trying to be very nice and welcoming, I think Spencer’s head was spinning as she continued to ask him questions in French. I tried to come to his aid, but by the end I was only rephrasing words in French for him, not translating, as the language barrier was playing mind games with all of us at the table. It was a train wreck, but in the end an enjoyable experience, and both parties left with positive impressions of each other. The nightcap was a movie on the big screen, Wedding Crashers (again in French, but it translates pretty well), and we hit the bed early to rest up for our big day on Saturday.

We woke up Saturday not to the sun that we had hoped to find shining through the windows, but instead to the gray clouds that seem to perpetually hang over Lyon. But, no worries, we ambitiously started off on our way. Everything from the iconic Basilica of Fourviere, to the crumbling Roman Amphitheater to the seven hundred year old clock inside the Cathedral of St. Jean, we did it. As is every European city, Lyon has many historical artifacts, and if you take a second to think, it is almost unfathomable that something could have been standing there for more than 2000 years. So many changes have come to the surrounding areas and people, but some of those stones in the Roman theater are still hanging out there. Or take the astronomical clock in St. Jean, which still functions today, yet makes references to how the sun revolves around the Earth. Makes you wonder what will still be standing seven hundred years from now, and what historical oddities will be worth mocking at that point in time.

We did it all on Saturday, and by the end of it we were exhausted. We headed over to Lyon’s central park (a recent discovery for me) for a relaxing break from all the picture taking, yet were unfortunately rebuffed by a surprise early closing for the day (no explanation, but it’s the French, so what do you expect). We were able to get a little Penn group together for dinner, and as usual we all tried to combine our French to decipher what exactly was on the standard Lyon menu, yet still were pleasantly surprised when we actually received what we had ordered. No major concerns (or eggs), and considering he comes from a program in which he is one of two Quakers, I think Spencer enjoyed getting back into a group of Penn friends. We tried to show him Lyon’s “wild” or “fast and furious” nightlife (according to my European travel book), but we quickly remembered why that definition is so far off after being turned away from two places because they were simply too full (with few options, everyone seems to congregate in just a couple places after midnight). But, with an early flight back the next morning, we were more than content to head back up the stairs for the night.

I sent Spencer on his way Sunday morning, and I think he left with a positive impression of Lyon. After playing tour guide for a weekend, I am starting to realize that maybe I have been a bit harsh on Lyon over the past couple weeks. Spencer said he was expecting a “small village,” but instead I was able to show him a thriving (and charming) European city. Still no Paris, but I realized this weekend that there is definitely plenty going on in Lyon on a regular basis. And if that is not enough, apparently most of the city is a UNESCO world heritage site, quite a prestigious award for a second city.

The weeks keep rolling by here, and I’m starting to realize that eventually this semester will draw to a close. As this weekend only confirmed, I’m definitely going to miss this city.

Joyeux Onze Novembre!

Not sure if you are personally celebrating, but in case you are, happy November 11^th! Because us Americans are used to this day being marked on the calendar, yet not earning us time off from school or work, we may simply write it off as nothing, and I think I will forgive you if you missed it this year as well. But, as are most things, this is different in France, or at least chez-moi. My university was completely shut down today (if only I had class on Wednesday to miss…), stores were closed throughout Lyon, and the whole country celebrated the Armistice which ended the First World War. To top it off, the sun came back out again. As I said, it was quite a day.

The Rossi’s decided to take the party aspect of the day one step further. Let me first give you some background. As I mentioned earlier, my host father had a pretty serious bike accident some five years ago which has left him paralyzed from the waist down. Needless to say, all the tasks that he had become accustomed to doing in the garden were no longer possible from a wheelchair. Their house here, which up to this point I have only marginally described, is situated on a good sized piece of land for being in the city, and their property is right smack in the woods of the hill; clearly, there is plenty to keep a gardener busy. My host mother described to me how, at the time of the accident, she thought that she would be forced to hire a gardener to take care of all the greenery. Quelle horreur.

Fortunately, it was friends to the rescue. Not sure who initiated it, but a tradition began the following year that, on every November 11^th, their friends would come from all over France to help out in the garden. Despite everyone having the day off from their normal jobs, about twenty people every year are willing to get down to business a little after 10am in the Rossi garden. For me, it was really an understood cost of my lodging here, and I really had little choice but to help out. But, it turned out to definitely be a day well spent.

The formula is simple: everyone comes over to the house in the morning ready to work, and in the afternoon, they are rewarded with a grand French meal. For two hours straight, people are up and down around the property “preparing the garden for winter”, that is to say folding up outdoor furniture, bringing plants indoors, and cutting hedges throughout the yard. Not sure if Smokey the Bear would have approved, but all the leaves and debris collected from the yard were marched to the top of the hill, and promptly burned in a pile. Somehow, a forest fire was not started, but, I’ll admit, I had my doubts. It was quite a sight to see the 21 of us, most above the age of 55, running around cleaning up this yard, everyone trying to find their specialty (mine, you ask? That would be bringing the potted plants inside, as everything else required way more brainpower or French). After 2 hours, we were all covered in dirt, a bit exhausted, and very content with the progress made. Let the eating begin.

The meal was more than worth the work; after starting off with some champagne, of course, we went onto have a very heavy meal of “choucroute,” which is basically a few types of meat and sauerkraut (but is not German! I nearly lost a few fingers when I asked that of my host mother while she was brandishing a knife. Apparently it is distinctly French). Everyone was seated at a massive table I had not seen before, and having a great time, especially as the wine bottles continued to empty. Most people wanted to talk to me about what I thought of France and Lyon, and how much they loved New York. It was one of those meals where we all had a great time, but at the end I was glad that no one had to drive home as we are in France, and walking or the train would suffice.

While a bit confused at first, I eventually realized why this was such a great deal for all parties involved. For the Rossis, they really do not have to do a whole lot; my host mother was simply directing traffic all day, while my host father was snapping pictures of the proceedings, which he found exceedingly funny. Plus, they do not have to hire a gardener, or anything nearly as shameful. The rest of us put in a little bit of physical labor, and were rewarded with an amazing meal. Some people come every year, and this is an easy way to stay in touch with friends, as chatting while pulling weeds is a great way to catch up. This has become a definite tradition around the Rossi household, and I can definitely see why so many people keep coming back every year.

No, it may not have been a wild excursion to a foreign land, but it was definitely an enjoyable day for this American abroad. While I may not have followed every conversation flying around me, and needed to ask a couple times what exactly that thing was that I was supposed to go get, it was still an immersion in French culture that you can only get from a home-stay program like this one. Tiring? Possibly, as I went for a nice siesta after working hard, both in the garden and at the lunch table.

But in terms of fully taking advantage of a French family experience, I think I can now safely check that one off my list.

Encore à Lyon et la Vie Quotidienne

It’s welcome back week here in Lyon, and after the majority of us spent the break seeing the world over, it is definitely nice to return to the quiet normalcy of daily life. That being said, Lyon is trying to make us not feel so welcome, as three out of my four days back have featured cloudy skies and a cold, light rain (and I thought I left London). Still, after traveling to four separate tourist hubs for the past week, being bombarded with even more foreign languages and cultures, and bouncing from airport to airport, France’s second city is just perfect right now.

The charm of Lyon became clearer to me over the past weekend, while the four of us were in Monaco gawking at fur hats and Lamborghinis while not trying to look too out of place. Over the course of our time together, the other three characters I was with all individually made comments about how their cities are constantly flooded with tourists, and how their constant presence bothers everyday city dwellers like themselves. After moving past the clear shenanigans of their claims to be “true citizens” of their respective cities (it has been 2 months people), I realized this does not apply to me at all. No, this is not due to any sort of odd personal fondness for loud tourist groups snapping pictures of random buildings I walk by everyday; instead, their simply is a lack of tourism in Lyon. Besides one major weekend a year (we’re getting there, stay tuned), Lyon is not a popular vacation destination, even within France. None of the other Americans that I know studying in France are spending a weekend in Lyon, neither for pleasure nor for a school sponsored trip, and those that are coming to visit me from elsewhere in Europe are doing so grudgingly. If you are looking to buy an “I (heart) Lyon” t-shirt or any other cheesy Lyon merchandise you will be sorely disappointed, as there are simply no shady street vendors hawking souvenirs.

Still considering myself as a tourist, I guess I had not fully grasped this emptiness until I took my own voyages to “real” destinations. This week I have been taking a critical eye to the city, trying to discern why no one would want to visit here. We have a stunning basilica overlooking the city, one of the largest public squares in Europe, and not one but two rivers (not to mention our own mini-Eiffel Tower!). Lyon’s history dates back to the days as the capital of Gaul in the Roman Empire, later becoming a major player on the Silk Road, and more grimly as a leader in the resistance movement against Vichy France and the Nazis. The food is famous worldwide (yes, even Parisians recognize that Lyonnais cuisine is the best in France), and the sidewalk cafes are innumerable and function perfectly well in even the harshest weather (they pull these glass walls out of nowhere, turn on the heat lamps, and are good to go). True, we only have one skyscraper (a Radisson hotel lovingly referred to as The Crayon), but any look across the skyline will reveal a vibrant European city.

However, what is Lyon’s main function in today’s world, despite all these wonderful aspects? As a transit hub. For most of France, its best attribute is that Lyon has two train stations, and on a TGV it is only two hours to Paris. You can change trains here to get to Geneva, or Nice, or Brussels, but make Lyon a final destination? Now that is just absurd! Any French people I have met over the course of my travels have each had similar reactions when I tell them I am studying in Lyon for the semester: “oh, that’s nice. Have you been to Paris yet?”

But even as I look out the window into the thick layers of clouds hanging over the city, I cannot help but to think of how happy I am to have chosen Lyon, and how glad I am to have two more months here. No, there are not too many sites to see, the rivers may not be that picturesque, and you do actually have to speak French to get by here. But as a place to study, to experience French culture and to live, it may just be perfect. Lyon does not need many tourists to feel alive; with students, artists and chefs making up a majority of the population (or so it seems), the city generates plenty of its own energy. It will never be Paris, but it will never try to be either. Paris is a capital of the world, the heart of internationalism, with a French flair to it. Lyon is the capital of French culture, with an authenticity that permeates into nearly aspects of daily life.

I know I have mentioned this aspect of Lyon before, but all that traveling really hammered this point home for me (again). Contrary to popular belief, I am not applying for a position at the Office of Tourism here (yes, there is one), I just felt the need to stand up for my new home-away-from-home. Despite the high level of satisfaction among the ordinary citizens of Lyon, the city still has a poor reputation internationally, or more precisely no reputation at all. Clearly, I’m working on changing it.

So before you start to think that I am studying abroad in a boring land of emptiness, just remember one phrase, namely the city slogan: Only Lyon.