Un Goût Complètement Différent

After waking up to the stunning, yet personally exciting, news that President Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize, I set off on Friday for yet another weekend adventure. The latest installment in my travels around Europe took me to the Champagne region of Northeast France, notably the city of Reims. Recognizing that study abroad is above all a cultural experience (who ever said anything about academics?), Penn funded (through our tuition dollars, yes, but it still felt free) this trip for the 23 of us and our program director, the first of two such excursions this semester. So, on a gray afternoon in Lyon, we all piled onto the bus for the long ride up to Reims. The six hour journey was briefly interrupted for a stop for a buffet dinner at a French highway rest stop that put its American counterparts to shame. Once in Reims, it was confirmed that we actually were staying in a hostel (I guess Penn could not spring for that hotel), a first for me which actually turned out to be survivable. Despite the fact that the bathroom was basically one large shower, in the sense that the door was replaced by a curtain and the sink and toilet were in said shower, the five of us in our room found it to be perfectly fine for a weekend.

Saturday morning brought a too early wakeup call for our voyage out to the wineries of the Reims countryside. While winding through narrow roads, we looked out over the perfectly ordered rows of grapes that stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. There were a few little towns that our tour guide walked us through, always marked by a historic cathedral at the center holding the body of some famous Frenchman, but each time we would come out on the otherside of a town, there would be more vast landscapes of grapes. Our first stop on the wine tour was a smallish champagne brand, with a simple looking factory standing out among the scenery. We were promised a tasting at the end, and thus were a bit distracted throughout his whole history of the winery and process, as each room was filled with more bottles (or vats) of champagne that only made us want it more. One tidbit I did pick up was with regards to the regulation of the process, as I naturally focused once the owner mentioned politics. Apparently the French government has strict regulations as to how you must produce the champagne (ie the grapes cannot travel more than 25 kilometers from field to factory), as well as how much is produced this year, in order to guarantee the price stability no matter the economic climate. But, what I had never realized before the owner casually mentioned it, was that all the champagne in the world is created in this small region of France. An international symbol of celebration, from New Year’s Eve to weddings to World Series celebrations, all of it is produced in small villages in this region of France. Despite globalization and all of its effects, champagne is one product that truly has not strayed from its down-home country roots, a fact that this economics major found striking.

Round two of our “degustation” tour took us to a much more corporate champagne headquarters of the Veuve Cliquot brand of champagne. This was actually located inside the city limits of Reims, and was highlighted by a seemingly endless cavern of, to date, unmarked bottles of champagne waiting (and aging) until the perfect year for consumption. Similar to the first tour, we did get some tasting in at the end, and despite the huge price tag on these bottle compared to the first winery, it tasted pretty similar. Clearly, we do not have refined taste buds, but still a success all the way.

We were able to explore downtown Reims (pronounced like “rinse” with a heavy French accent) on Saturday night and Sunday, further confirming our collective desire to at the very least frequently vacation in Europe after this semester is over. Definitely not a tourist town, there were a few spots not to be missed in the city, notably the Reims Cathedral, which was for centuries the home of the coronation of the French King. An enormous structure dating from the 12^th Century (I think), it, like many others, made me wonder how on earth in the middle ages anyone was able to construct a building that large yet adorn it with so many rich, intricate details and sculptures. Yet, in my mind this was completely overshadowed by the goings on in the center square of Reims: a Canadian fair! Someone thought it was a good idea to invite the Canadians to Reims for the week, and set up all along the walk were small tents of Canadian merchants selling everything from maple syrup to Caribou beef to lumberjack flannel shirts. No hint of an explanation as to why this was going on or why Reims was the chosen city for this spectacle, but with teepees at each end filled with stuffed bears and raccoons, I liked it.

So, another weekend, another journey, although this one a distinctly classier affair than the previous weekend in Munich. The ride back was once again six hours, which we undertook in the afternoon and thus thought we would head straight back sans interruption. But, of course, we had to visit another rest stop because of a French law requiring bus drivers to take a 45 minute break every so many hours behind the wheel (have I mentioned I love the French?). However, after walking inside and finding not only a food section of the convenience store, but also a legitimate fashion clothing section in the rest stop, I was content. The French never cease to impress.

Les Français se Moquent des Américains !

Apparently in Lyon, when it rains, it pours. Sure I had seen that it was raining outside my window when I woke up this morning, but I just assumed it was a light morning shower, and threw on a hoodie as I walked out the door. I quickly realized why a 40 minute walk to campus is not ideal; by the time I arrived at IEP I was actively dripping water, and even my backpack was soaked all the way through. Best part is that after a 2 hour class (second class was canceled today! Love the French), I got to do the whole walk over again, this time in reverse. Even my host mother laughed at me when I walked in the door, I was such a mess. Thankfully it’s the weekend.

Knowing how much of a cold wet mess I was today brings me to the subject of this post, namely that French people love making fun of Americans. This has become increasingly obvious to me over the past month, but it all culminated this week, as I began teaching some French students English. As part of the Penn program here, we are offered the opportunity to either work with high school or elementary school English classes and, not wanting to be constantly embarrassed by 5 year olds speaking better French than me, I chose the high school option, more specifically the French equivalent of seniors. So, Monday afternoon I boldly headed there with a friend, yet knew very little as to what to expect (we had a brief orientation, but other than working out what time we were meeting, we had been given very little guidance). Eventually we met the resident English teacher, who whisked us both into a room full of about 20 French kids, and promptly divides the room into two groups. While I was still confused as to what exactly was going on, he hastily grabbed the newly-formed half of the class, and my friend, and ushered them out the door. Turning to leave, he simply told me “just teach them about America.” Great. Just so we’re clear, the situation was me (friendless), 10 or so French kids, and a chalkboard, and somehow I was supposed to teach them about America. We dove right in.

I asked, what is one word that comes to your mind when you think about America? To be fair, they did not intend for me to hear this, but no murmurs were getting past my big ears and the first three words I wrote down on the board were “fat”, “hamburgers”, and “McDonald’s”. So far so good. While I eventually did get some productive responses out of them (one girl even said that Americans are welcoming, quite a stunner), the rest of that particular exercise was marked by the inclusions of cowboys and Al Capone. We moved on: what questions do you have about America? A hand shot up in the back: “How do you make hamburgers?” Hilarious. After the questions eventually turned to “do you feel guilty about the economic crisis?,” I tilted the discussion towards President Obama, and we merrily finished the class on a high note.

But, this awkward thrusting into a teaching role was actually pretty indicative of how the French view Americans. As you undoubtedly read in my post last week, in terms of pop culture the United States is overwhelmingly dominant, further proven by the number one French rap video (notice the Pittsburgh Pirates hat). In addition, the French, like most Europeans and yours truly, are huge fans of Obama, way more so than their own President Sarkozy (who by the way stands 5-5 and has a major problem with it). But when it comes to American people themselves, the French hold a distinct sense of disdain for us. Frequently when I am in conversation with a Frenchie and they discover that I in fact am not French (pretty quickly after I open my mouth) and instead am American, immediately their respect for me drops. On many occasion I have received confused looks from people that later confess that they are stunned that I’m “not fat.” I have heard horror stories from other Americans abroad (both in Paris actually) from host families that have asked whether the cowboys and Indians are still fighting it out (albeit it was a host daughter who posed that gem), and another was quizzed as to whether or not he owned a gun. And do not even think about mentioning the four letter word of “Bush.” To most, that was an 8 year sin that America may never recover from. I won’t touch that one here.

But what I will say is that it is striking to me how so many people here can love our President and our cultural symbols (not to mention that somebody must be going to the three or four McDonald’s in Lyon to keep them in business), yet make so much fun of our people. In the minds of many, America is a very narrow country from Texas up through Kansas comprised solely of right-wing radicals blocking healthcare reform, led of course by Sarah Palin. The fact that some American could come to Lyon, make a valiant effort to speak their language, and actually attempt to understand their culture absolutely floors some people here. And he’s for the public option? Amazing.

So although I had very little knowledge of wine before this trip, would have struggled if pressed to name a cheese more refined than cheddar, and did not know the proper etiquette of mopping up left over sauce with a slice of bread, I like to think I’m at least making an effort. The fact that countless people in a city that likes to think of itself as “cosmopolitan” and “cultured” cannot say the same about my country is at times troubling. But, I guess that’s what ambassadors are for.

Un Weekend des Aventures en Allemagne

First off, I want to apologize for the last post, namely the poor grammar and likely typographic errors, as I was rushing to finish it up before making an early dash to bed. In order to get dinner Thursday night, my host family tricked me into going to a writer’s conference featuring books on Lyon and the Rhone valley region with, get this, the same group of people with whom I went on the Chateau tour! Fortunately, it was not nearly as long of an ordeal, once again my roommate and I were together in encouraging each other to stay strong, and there was fantastic French food at the end of the presentations. But, I had to rush home from that before the rest of my host family because I had to prepare for a 6 a.m. flight Friday morning to…Munich.

Munich, Germany, is the host every year of the world’s biggest carnival (as well as, unofficially, the largest group of inebriated American college kids outside of the States), known as Oktoberfest. Now, despite the name, you may be surprised to learn that this three week party begins the third Friday in September (this year the 18^th) and ends the first Sunday in October, namely today. There were more than a dozen of us Lyonnais that made the trip, and we joined up with countless other Penn kids, college students from across the country/world, and even found a friend of mine from high school wandering about (Tom Simeone for my Potomac savvy readers, as you can probably imagine his 6-7 frame was easy to spot). For a self-described “festival of beer”, this crowd was to be expected, and I think I have seen my fair share of falling down, screaming, vomiting Americans for the duration of my trip. The alcohol was confined to six sanctioned “beer tents”, featuring one for each of the Munich breweries; sadly, these tents were full by 10am on Saturday (perhaps even worse, I was there to verify this fact). Stepping inside made me immediately wonder what world I had just entered, as these raucous, apparently temporary, structures were full of waitresses carrying 10 liters of beer at a time (1 glass = 1 liter) to tables filled to the brim with screaming, smoking, dancing people of all ages. Adding to the atmosphere was usually a house band whose basic job was to lead the mass of people in drinking songs. Pictures cannot do justice to the debauchery.

However, there was a complete other side to Oktoberfest that I was distinctly unprepared for; this was a family affair. Again, against the backdrop of your pretty standard beerfest (as I clearly am a connoisseur of these things), there were children being carried over parents shoulders, led around by the hand, or even pushed in strollers. Ah, German family life. I’m not exactly sure how to describe the emotion one feels when standing outside of a beer tent, unable to get past security because it is too full, when a mother comes out with two children attached to her hip. Later I realized that the organizers of this fest actually played up to this crowd; by having kiddie roller-coasters and other amusement park like attractions, who could leave the poor little ones at home? The dichotomy of the scene continued to strike me the entire weekend.

In addition to the wee ones, Oktoberfest is truly an international event. Throughout the course of the two days we spent at the festival, I met people from Australia, New Zealand, the Czech Republic, Spain, Puerto Rico, France, Italy, Austria, Germany (of course), England, and at least ten different states. Yet, despite all the different languages of the world present at the festival, English carried the day throughout the city. Waitresses in the beer tents kindly used it to ask for our money, vendors tried it to sell their products to us, and even in downtown Munich most restaurants had menus in English so we were absolutely sure what kind of Bavarian sausage we were ordering this time. Quick digression – not sure how Germans are not grotesquely obese, as all they do is eat bratwurst and French fries (or some other variant of meat and potatoes with sauerkraut on top), and down it with liter upon liter of beer.

But back to language, as it was pretty disastrous in terms of communication in German, as after the first day I could not say please, thank you, or excuse me in this host language. Thankfully everyone spoke English, as otherwise we had no chance of getting around. This fact brought about a profound realization in all of us: we are pretty good at French. Of course we all recognize how far we are from fluency in French, and there is still much progress to be made, but our struggles in German showed us how far along we are in French, even only a quarter of the way through the program. Upon hearing French again boarding this plane to Lyon, we were thrilled to, once again, understand a nearby conversation. Let the eavesdropping begin.

To be fair to the weekend, and to justify it beyond solely alcohol related matters, we spent the little time we had today before our flight actually walking around the rest of Munich and, albeit it minimally, appreciating the history of the city. We saw our fair share of historic churches, city squares, and McDonald’s, as well as the Munich version of the Champs Elysees, which was much less exciting than the original. Most of the squares and buildings in Munich were fairly large and imposing, but were also very empty, in the sense that open areas would just have one small statue, or the mini “Arc de Triomphe” would just have one little phrase etched into it, and the rest was blank. Still, it was fun to walk around and take in the sights of a town that is, at least for these 15 days, consumed by un-cultured Americans.

Now its back to Lyon for the week, having had my fair share of Lederhosen, sausage, and German accents. I was less than excited to walk up to board the plane back to Lyon and find that it was a propeller plane. During the hour and a half long flight, I had a hard time solving the dilemma of wanting to look out the window to take in the sights of Switzerland and the Alps, and not wanting to constantly be reminded about the fact that I was in a prop-plane.

Yet, as we started our descent into Lyon I realized that I was very happy to be, in a sense, almost home.

Comment les États-Unis Dominent la France

Is it October already? Oh how the time flies when you’re in Europe. I think I am getting to the point where it will be odd when I get back to the States, that is to say that I am basically completely accustomed to the French way of life, for better or worse. But, at the same time, I am starting to realize that the United States truly dominates many parts of French culture. Allow me to explain.

Obviously the most overwhelming dominance is in the realm of pop culture. Beginning the first night I arrived and continuing about twice a week, my host family has offered us the chance to watch a movie on their ridiculous home theater system. Unfailingly, most of the choices have been American movies, including last night where Letters from Iwo Jima was a close winner over Punch Drunk Love (similarly, Punch Drunk Love won a pretty big award at the Cannes Film Festival? An Adam Sandler movie winning an award? Really?). The choices have spanned from the 1970s to 2008, but the enormous movie library in our house is well over 50% American movies dubbed in French. Music is another area of American preponderance, although this is not even in French, something I cannot understand. For example, they love the Black Eyed Peas here, similar to America, but how do they have any clue what they are listening to? I guess the solution to that is just dance the night away, and everything will be fine. Finally, we do not have a TV in my house, yes a bit of a problem, but I did finally get my eyes on one the other day, and guess what was on? Friends, dubbed in French. Although, to be fair, the next show on was DragonBall Z, so I think more than anything Frenchies are just lost when it comes to TV.

Clothing is another facet of French culture that is marked by a heavy presence of Americana, yet I cannot understand why. I think I first noticed it this weekend with Brian when we walked by a French store that was selling (for about 20 Euros) a shirt that boldly displayed “South Dakota district team” (or something like that). Now, we came to the conclusion that if you were actually from South Dakota, I’m not sure that you would proudly wear a shirt like that around the streets of Lyon, as you might try to be a little more subtle about your hometown. Other French favorites are flat brimmed baseball hats of random American teams, most notably the Yankees, Dodgers, and Pittsburgh Pirates; these people are unmistakably “cool.” One combo of particular interest to me was a Boston Red Sox hat coupled with an I heart NY shirt (also very popular), which may seem to be of divided baseball loyalties back in the States, but in France, it was clear that this person supports Team America. Final clothing issue of note was that a popular item here is a Franklin & Marshall sweatshirt, which, the first time I saw it, I immediately thought of the small school in Western PA. However, after seeing hundreds of these just in Lyon, and finding the smoking gun of a store sporting it in their window, I realized that this apparently has very little to do with the university, and instead is a popular clothing brand. Still, you have to wonder…

The list goes on. Hotels often sport American flags on their awnings to prove that they are American/tourist/dollar friendly. When you want to be really cool with graffiti, you write it in English. Restaurants will advertise “American” dishes, and sometimes attempt to cleverly name them after states, even if they fail, as in the case of one attempting to label a certain crepe the “Wyoning.” While the UN conference was happening last week, one TV station was advertising that they would show Obama’s speech live, while another French newspaper was mocking Sarkozy for not accepting the fact that France is simply a “middle” nation in terms of importance. Similarly, when my host mother discovered my love for Obama, she immediately raised her respect for me to a new level.

I guess these have all been building on me for a little while, and I had to get them out there, so I apologize for the rant. This all started in class today when someone uncovered the fact that I was American, and was very excited to tell me that she had been to America last year. When I asked her where, she said Texas, Houston to be exact. I responded sarcastically with “Oh, I’m sorry” (loosely translated), and told her that I was not a huge fan of Texas. She seemed crushed. I guess I need to work on my French humor.

I promise to soon enough highlight the differences in French culture that are superior to their American counterparts, as there are plenty. But I’m headed out on a mini-trip this weekend (details to follow), and I went to borrow a movie from the aforementioned video library, and what did fantastic French film did I come up with? Supermal, or translated back to English, Superbad. Oh the French.

(Side note – finally figured out how to set up email subscriptions, so if you want these wonderful works emailed to you each time they are posted, fill in your email address in the box on the right side)

Profitez du Soleil, Pour le Dernier Weekend !

It’s officially the end of summer here in Lyon, but, no worries for the Lyonnais, that is just another reason to celebrate. And no, I am not talking about the recent university-sponsored international student party, although it was pretty cool for me to realize (under the cover of a smoke machine, an epilepsy-inducing strobe light, and a very odd collection of American music) that we were the “exotic” international students on this campus. No, this Lyonnais party involved roller skates, stilts, and berets. Nothing too exceptional about my classes this week, so I will not bore you with coursework details, and instead get right to the fun.

After seeing him (among others) last weekend in Paris, my fellow pre-trip traveler Brian Hwang decided to make it two weekends in a row in France, and on Friday arrived in Lyon, where my host mother was kind enough to allow him to stay at “our” house. Of course, Friday was a gray, cold day in Lyon. Additionally, the metro and bus system has been on strike here since Thursday, but it has not been nearly as exciting as I had hoped. Instead of angry people marching in the streets waving signs and such (and allowing me to join in the fray), this strike has been invisible except for the fact people are now packed at bus stations waiting for the one or two buses that are still operating during the “disturbance.” Quite boring. Anyway, the point is that we could not use the metro to hop between all the sights of Lyon, and instead had to kick it old-school, and took to walking. It was Friday afternoon, the streets were empty, the sidewalk cafes were all closing, and I'm pretty sure Brian was wondering why he had ever left Barcelona for this dreary city.

But then Saturday came along. The sun came out, the temperature rose, and Lyon came to life. We started it off with a lunch with the family, and the meal lived up to the strong reputation that I had promised of my host mother’s cooking. The two of us then set out into Lyon, and obviously started it off by climbing a massive set of stairs up to the very peak of Lyon. From there we walked around the 15^th century Basilica, the roman amphitheatre, and took in the view of the entire city. Feeling relaxed, We eventually made our way back down the hill and meandered over to the center of the city. The party was underway.

Place Bellecour, the center of town, was a beehive of people, and we quickly found that there were a whole host of both wonderful and very French activities underway. First up was the state-sponsored roller skate competition, featuring both “slalom” skaters that were big on style, and later a competitive roller-derby type race around the block (it turns out this was not only a two day event, but also the French national championship!). This of course was accompanied by the obligatory loud/old/bad American music which I’m starting to realize is still very popular in Europe (only 5 years behind the States). Fortunately, the plaza was large enough to hold two celebrations on one day, because at the other end we had the Handicap International group supporting disabled persons and mine victims. The highlight over here was the live French band, mixing rock and big band styles, featuring a singer drenched in sweat, a trombonist, and a poorly dancing clarinet/saxophonist. The French people loved it (see photo). Even though I couldn’t exactly understand what he was trying to say up on stage, I definitely could tell that this guy was pretty successful at working the crowd. We left the square feeling content at having seen (and played an integral part in) a true French festival.

Now, this is Lyon, so of course the craziness did not stop there! We headed down the main walking thoroughfare in Lyon, and came across another band, this time featuring a sousaphone (or two), odd looking costumes, and another large crowd. While not as ridiculous as the band up on stage in Place Bellecour, these folks were still popular with the people, and were a perfect complement to a sunny afternoon. Upon leaving them, however, we ran into the most elaborate production of the day: a parade sponsored by the same Handicap International group that was in the square. At the front were the stilts walkers, trying to reconcile the two issues of dancing to the beat and staying on said stilts. Next in the conga line were the choreographed dancers doing some sort of shimmy that had a couple people in the crowd subconsciously mimicking. Last, but certainly not least was the drum line, all of whom were wearing matching berets! Suffice it to say that after this production, I was ready to buy my own, but somehow I resisted, for now. That did mark the final crazy French thing of the day though, and the two of us headed back up the stairs feeling very cultured for the day.

Tomorrow marks one month since I arrived in Lyon for this grand experiment we call study abroad, and I have slowly come to the realization that I could not have picked a better city for the semester. After being in Paris last weekend and spending this one in Lyon, I continue to be struck by this realization. It is true, Lyon is not a tourist destination, and besides a church and a crumbling theater, we really do not have a lot of historical artifacts. But because of that, this is truly a French city, and instead of being overwhelmed by tourists and not practicing anything but English in Paris, I am getting a French experience. It’s fair to say that Paris is the New York of France, and that Lyon is Philadelphia. For some people that has a bad connotation; but I’m loving Philly right now.