Basket Ball, Bac Blanc, and Bunnies

I know its been ages (more than a month to be specific) since I've blogged, and honestly I have no excuses. I've had subjects to write about (as you can probably tell from the title of this blog) and while I've had more homework than usual I've still had the time. Really I think it all comes back to the fact that I'm a terrible correspondent, I just can't always work up the courage to express myself in writing, I'm not good at writing letters, or journals, and I guess I'm not good at blogging either, I'm just too quick to drop the pen (or close the laptop I guess), and too long in coming back. Okay, enough analyses for one day, back to blogging.

My first subject is basket ball (feel free to laugh, yes I do mean the game with the large ball that requires acute hand-eye-coordination). The 'Jeux Europeens' or the European Games is a festival of sorts between several highschools from various European countries: France, Germany, The Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg. Each high school takes a turn hosting and it rotates every year. Last year it was hosted right here at Notre Dame Des Anges a Saint Amand Les Euax, but this year its in Dietrich, Luxembourg. Its meant to be a friendly competition between neighboring countries to show sportsman ship and the spirit of a united Europe. There are competitions in all sorts of sports such as karate, soccer, swimming, ping pong, etc. but also 'cultural activities' such as dance, theatre, and music. Because the games are hosted in another country this year there is a limited number of spaces available. Each sport is designated a certain number of spots and then the students are chosen or petition for the spots. They fill up very quickly. My host family thought I ought to participate, since I'm an exchange student and the whole point of the games is to bring students of different nationalities together in a common activity. The problem is I don't really play any sports. Well, that was the obvious problem, the real underlying problem was that I had no idea how the games really worked. Everyone kept talking about them, so I'd get hints here and there, but I had no idea for example that you could go sign up if you weren't enrolled in an after school club with NDA all year long (NDA is my high school. NDA is a tiny bit shorter to say than Notre Dame des Anges a Saint Amand les Eaux, but hey if you want to attempt the full name, then I say go for the gold). It turns out however, that you can sign up for just about anything you think you can pul off, provided there's still space. Unfortunately, by the time I'd gained this enlightening information, all the spots were full. About two weeks after I'd given up all hope of attending the games Monsieur Marcant found me on my way to class and asked i fI would like to go to the games. I said yes of course, though I admit I was a bit confused, not to mention wary, because I was afraid going to the games might include participating in some embarrassing and public spectacle in the name of sportsmanship, but he followed up quickly by telling me he thought I could go for dance. Wonderful I thought, though of course I'd already tried to sign up for dance but it was full, still I figured he's the director of the school he can probably pull some strings. Gilles and Isabelle were thrilled as they were hoping to get all three of us (Sarah, Thomas, and I) to go, as they have a business trip the same weekend. Near the end of the following week I hadn't heard anything more about the games, and Thomas and I had tried several times to contact the teacher in charge of dance, but our schedules were too different and we never got a chance to talk. Then, Friday in study a nice woman with a very large folder and a nice long list found me and asked if I was indeed Emma, l'americaine and if I was interested in the games. "Yes, that's me," I said

"Oh good, how do you feel about singing a solo,"

"I'm sorry!?"

"Singing, a solo, are you interested, there's one spot left."

"Um, no, I'm sorry, that's definitely not the spot for me, thank you, but I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Oh, ok. Well, can you play chess by any chance? There's space on the chess team."

"Oh, no I can't play chess either, oh well..."

Well, I thought thats that. Of course this simple thought took three more meetings, several telephone calls and an entire weekend to take on the weight of a veritable fact, due to a couple misunderstandings and a few straggling last hopes, but by Wednesday afternoon it was certain. Just when I'd resigned myself to a weekend at a friends house with Sarah (because while Sarah really does play sports, she only plays popular sports and as she's only in 8th grade all the spots were given by priority to the older students), My swimming coach, with whom I'd been discussing my drama, came up during break and happily announced they'd found a slot for the games, would I like it?

"Why yes, what sport?"

"Basket ball!"

I'm sure the shock, disgust, fear, disapointment, and utter horror that I experienced at that precise moment must have been slapped on my face like clown paint, because everyone started laughing, including me, and the coach.

"Um, oh...I can't really play basket ball, but thanks anyway."

"Well you don't have to be good, the coach said it really doesn't matter. They just lost a player and they need a substitute. Have you ever played before?"

"I played in P.E. with school, a few times...?!"

"Thats fine, I mean you might as wel, try, and then you get to the games."

"Would I have to play a real game?!"

"Uh, ... well yes if you go to the games,...?"

"Oh, ok, well, I guess I could ... try...?"

"Great, there's a practice tonight but as you don't have your stuff then I guess you won't go, but if you could find the coach and talk to him some time today."

And that was that. I ran around like an idiot the rest of the day, trying to find the coach, and get all the papers. At 5:30 on Friday I was standing in the gym with a signed permission slip, a check for 30 euros, a basket ball, and two teams full (boys and girls) of trained athletes. Let me tell you it was a terrifying experience, but I've already had two practice sessions and there's only one left before the games, and I think I can fake it, provided they stop trying to pass me the ball!!!! We leave friday, April 23 at 8:30 in the morning for Dietrich and then we compete I suppose until Sunday when we will return, in time to be home around 5:30. THere is apparently I very fun, international party Saturday night, and pretty much all of my friends are going to one thing or another, so I'm excited despite the discouraging fact that I faced the wrong direction the entire first scrimmage I played.

sentimental goop, because I don't have the time to be witty tonight

I didn't have time to do the two long blogs I wanted to today due to a quick birthday thing, but I wanted to write something. Today was the first day of spring. I mean I know its not the twenty first and its still technically february, not to mention it is now drizzling outside, as it has been for the past 6 hours, but today was indeed the first day of spring. I know this because this morning up until the late afternoon there was a spring sky. Soft, pure, fresh clouds still untarnished, but also unripe new for the new year hung thick and numerous in a clear watery sky of blue, not the crisp determined blue of winter, but the hazy sleepy blue of spring. What really tipped me off however was the beam of sunlight pouring, bursting through the double glass doors at the end of the hallway out side my study hall this morning. It lasted for so long, and with such careful intensity that I knew, I simply knew that spring had come. It was warm today too, though I'm sure the temperature will waver and regress a bit; all the same, spring has come to my little adopted corner of France. Then later as I was standing on the corner of the street after getting off the bus home I was listening to my ipod and daydreaming when I saw a little hand. I realized that while I thought I has been staring off into space, I had really been staring at the back window of a car preparing to turn, and that in this back seat there was a little girl with a pacifier in her mouth and her face pressed solemnly to the glass. She was waving at me. She had a sound matter of fact face on like she was simply waving to me because I seemed like a nice person who needed a wave, and there fore she was going to perform that service, maybe even a duty. It warmed my heart and I waved back, breaking into a smile. I kept smiling like an idiot all the way down the street to our own car. I mean this little girl waving at me as she rounded the corner, as our eyes met and I smiled back, she made my day, perhaps even my week.

a bientot,

e

p.s. I have found a place that exhibits my obsessive coffee drinking, i.e. I would drink the stuff all day long if I could, but my wallet, my stomach lining, and my need to sleep prevent me, and that place is la nord, where apparently the real northern mining families that go back generations would keep a pot going hot on the fire 24/7, not as strong as the dreaded and mocked italian coffee*, but just strong enough to the workers warm.

*I find it endlessly entertaining this fear of really strong espresso that the french express quite frequently, with 'well no, oh no, not like the italians, of course not that strong, goodness, no...' etc. because of course americans tend not to classify, anything stronger than gas station coffee is strong, period, but the french it seems need to make the distinction between themselves and the italians in many areas I find.

The ladybug saga

I should have written about this when it all started in, say october or so, but I didn't; I guess I was afraid of angering them, but I think I shall record the entire saga here today:

Well, one night, a cold, wet, and dingy October evening, I was showering to reheat my body/soul, and bring life back to my extremities, when I discovered a black lady bug crawling along the window sill of the little square port hole in the wall of the far side of the shower. It was a tiny little lady bug, black with big red spots and a shiny white head, which made a pattern like saddle shoes where it met his body. I was naturally unalarmed, having grown up with ladybugs in the garden. Ladybugs are legendary for their gentillesse, and I innocently made to pick it up and transfer it outside, as I had fond childhood memories of similar encounters. No sooner, however, than I'd touched its smooth back than it flipped out long, wet, fiendish wings, the likes of which I had never seen. They spiraled out of his back like a venomous tongue to lick my hand, and I in my fear, and shock saw the face of demon smiling at me from the back of this transformed, spotted bug. I hurraled it across the bath room and recoiled in disgust, and horror. Once the beast was free of my grasp, I regained some semblance of my senses and was able to master my mounting confusion. I bravely strolled forward and grasped the thing masquerading as ladybug, and opened the window to fling it out. When what to my astonished eyes should appear, but a whole nest of ladybugs crawling and writhing around the outer rim of the window, not less than 30! Well, I dropped that bug faster than superman on crack, slammed the window shut with every once of my strength and ran, stifling my urge to scream bloody murder, out of the bathroom, dripping wet and driven half mad with terror, to take shelter on top of my bed.

When at last I had calmed down a bit, I began to think about the ladybug, and its strange wings. I couldn't help but assure myself over and over again that, that thing wasn't, couldn't be a ladybug. I could think of only two possibilities, 1). French ladybugs are carnivorous, vicious things that attack people's houses like termites, hungry for fresh blood, instead of wood, or 2). That was no ladybug, that was an evil spirit sent to menace my innocent, wandering soul, by some angry god, or Pandora's box ,in the guise of our loving Coccinella septempunctata. Of course, neither of these seemed very likely to me, but I couldn't shake the image my half blind, and trusting eyes had conjured up, nor the sprit's face with the demon's wings. And when you add the discovery of his entire community, it was like a horror movie, I was hearing the Psycho theme song; I felt like Rosemary when she discovers her doctor is in on the whole thing. It was . . . an infestation. I think now I must have also been influenced by Jane Eyre in my quick leap to evil spirits, as I had just reached the part where the crazy wife lights the bed of her anguished husband on fire in the middle of the night, after harassing the unsuspecting Eyre out of spite and jealousy. Also I think the fact that I was so spooked had much to do with the fact that I have a particular thing about bugs coming near me while I'm showering, something about being wet, and encumbered by soap seems to engender vulnerability to attacks.

At any rate I was on the alert, and I did indeed continue to see lady bugs around the bathroom, and even some migrated to my adjacent bedroom. I kept away from them, never touching them, or bothering them. I figured I'd already violently expelled one from the warm sanctuary that my bathroom must present to them, in full view of their entire colony, the evil spirits must be mad, red hot mad, no need to anger them further. This continued for several months; each siting jolting me with fear, and superstition. Finally I decided that my blind ignorance in terms of evil spirits and ladybugs needed to illuminated, so I did what any clever and crafty being of the twenty-first century would, I googled...

to be continued

Really late pictures

The London Eye, the world's largest ferris wheel
a famous red telephone booth, catty-corner from St. Paul's Catherdral (not pictured)
Buckingham Palace
Westminster Abbey
A formidable lion standing guard next at the edge of the walk in front of the Aquarium, also where the Eye is, which you can see in the background, and in front of the Bridge you would take to get to Big ben (thought thats on the other side of the Thames). Also, its across from the famous mental hospital, Bethlem Royal Hospital, from which we get the word bedlam.
Big Ben
The Union Jack
Tower Bridge
Le Louvre
Le Louvre again
Christian Louboutin's flagship boutique
View from La Tour Eiffel
Second view from La Tour

Here are a few pictures from London, and some from our class trip to Paris, I'm sorry they're so late.

Eclaire, no scratch that, Frites Day

I decided that after weeks of self-denial, namely don't eat that chocolate drenched, butter filled cookie here have a nice piece of fruit instead, which is an instruction I find myself giving every January, like clock work, that today would be a day of indulgence. I had planned to go to the bakery and get an eclair of the chocolate or coffee variety, whichever struck my fancy in the given moment, Buddha style, as I haven't eaten said pastry since september. However, instead of a sweet fix, I was sung the sweet siren song of the French frites, and sailor, I was dashed upon those rocks like the fated souls of the wandering mariners, weak of mind and will, how came before me! Oh, it was good, soooo worth it. At any rate, we were already at the friterie, which offers nice little sandwiches too, but I couldn't tear my ravaged senses away from the smell of the frying deliciousness wafting up from the huge vats right behind the counter. We met up with a friend's little sister on a drizzly grey corner, before high-tailing it over to shelter. Helia, the fanciful little miniature of her sister, came bounding up to us and leaped upon her waiting chaperon. The heating is out in the cafeteria at her elementary school, a quick walk away, and so Marine took pity on her and brought her off to lunch with the high schoolers, delegates from the land of freedoms and responsibilities that little girls sleep perchance to glimpse in dreams. Well, Helia wasn't going to let her afternoon go to waste: she made quick friends with one of her sister's comrades, and was whisked up to her lap. From this exalted perch, she ate three quarters of the meal shared between her and her sister, consisting of french fries poured over a large steak sandwich on baguette, and a drink. Yet despite all this, she still found it within her capacity to benevolently finish off the last french fries of another friend. Then she joined us in the library to take a quick look at the children's reference books, before she was borne away through the wetness back to her everyday world, leaving a trace her warmth and infectious excitement in the air; the remnants of day marked in the pages of sisterly deification.

a bientot

e

The Halfway Mark

Today is January 28 exactly five months after my arrival here, and five months from the end of my program. I feel sort of like the survival and discovery part of my year is over and now I can sit back and live the experience. Like I've hacked my way through the jungle of vines to find the perfect one-in-a-hundred orchid sitting at the base of the impossible cliff, and have transported it safely back to camp, and now I can just watch it all day long, and revel in my success. Not that I don't still have much to learn; I do! However, I think now that I can understand and make myself understood in everyday conversation (I can even have real discussions in French without the dictionary in my lap) I can focus on polishing my French. I still have five months and I want to get as much out of this linguistically as well as culturally, so I'm going to start hammering out the little common errors I know I make in almost everything I say. I also feel like I've amply explored the quotidian of french life, and now I have the time, a plush five months, to live it. Now I don't feel so on guard all the time; I'm not still just surviving. The survival part of this whole thing was adrenalin packed and fun, but I'm ready to be a bit more calm and pensive now.

a bientot,

e

Il y a long temps que je n'ai pas ecrit ici! (I haven't written in forever!)

This is my blog about the holidays and London and other things. I'm sorry its taken me so long to write this, or anything as a matter of fact, but I've been very busy relaxing. Anyway, over the holidays I went to London for two and half days, and had a jolly good time celebrating the holidays. Don't worry I also took lots of pictures. I took so many pictures in fact between August and now that my computer is almost full. Not to worry though because I've begun to put them on CD's and to clean out my hard drive, so there will be more to come.

In France Christmas decorating is a big thing, I mean BIG. I get the impression that because they don't have Christmas and Thanksgiving, and New Year's Eve they have to squeeze all their homey, cozy, food celebrations into Christmas. Its for just such squeezing that they begin to set out decorations in every town square in every little village in November. It starts slow. In Saint Amand for example I arrived one frosty November morning to a truck full of little sapling trees spray painted with fake snow, workers feverishly tying them to ever lamp post on every street corner and all over the large parking lot in the middle of the square. Slowly but surely between that day and Christmas Eve lights in a myriad of bright colors, and flashy patterns, strung into festive shapes, sprung up all over. Each town did its part dutifully hanging strings between buildings and on the side of lamp posts so that soon everywhere I went there were joyous Pere Noels (Santa Clauses) and bright shooting stars. Even though all this was quite impressive, the most far out decorations of all, consistent in every little nook and cranny, out-of-the-way village, were those on the massive, ancient, sentinel churches. They put up entire creches in lights across the entry ways, and lines of color along the broad ledges that framed the entry ways; lights reaching up as far as a human could reach with the extension of his machines. The only other section of building even coming close to the insane spirited hand of the religious leaders, was that of elementary schools who doused their facilities in blue and multi-colored, flashing mania. Other pre-celebratory activities included Christmas markets in every town, ranging from the large Lille, to medium sized cities' such as Valenciennes, all the way down to Marchiennes, who gave a glowing example of markets in little villages. These Christmas markets were comprised of many little 'chalets' made out of wood, and assigned to an artisan or local vendor, who would then exhibit their goods, christmassy or not, for all the passers-by. Most included a stand of steaming waffles and crepes draped in melted chocolate or powdered sugar, depending on your preference. Each market was draped in lights like the rest of the town, and often had other lit amusements for the children set up at the end of the row of stands. The idea of all these markets was to present local (or not) gifts for your loved ones, however I hardly saw anyone actually shopping, except of course at the food stands. The most popular food stands were by far the boulangerie, who was selling christmas loafs of brioche and spice bread, and then the fish monger who was selling heaps of fresh oysters, this being the season. Personally I prefer the brioche, being my favorite pastry, I was so pleased to discover the promise of brioche over-load during the holiday season was absolutely one hundred percent true!

While I'm on the topic of food I shall describe the traditional French holiday feast. In France they eat a turkey for christmas dinner. However because this is France, and as I pointed out before this is the holiday, the French eat a stuffed turkey only after they've had an aperatif of little salads, such as crab, and toasts with smoked salmon, and foie gras, and stuffed endive, and only after they've had appetizers of oysters with vinegarette and lemon juice, and escargot, and if not served earlier foie gras, complete with onion jelly, and fresh clementines, and fleur du sel, only then can the French even think about eating Turkey. THen after eating said turkey, stuffed with chestnuts and mushrooms, they eat their version of ice cream cake, only they're usually in a log shape, and mixed with other more exciting things like meringue. Another interesting feast fact is that the French eat all this and more on Christmas Eve. Then, because there are two sides to every family, on Christmas Day they go eat with the other side of the family. In fact the French often eat three or four large christmas meals during the week of christmas. Christmas Eve, however, still remains the biggest and most important of all these side meals, and it is also when most people open presents. Luckily for me and my stomach, my French family is a little bit more realistic about the eating capabilities of the average human being, and so we ate only aperatif and appetizers on Christmas Eve with of course some cake, and then Salad and Cake on Christmas Day, and that was that. I think the most interesting thing I tried during this time of rich and exotic delicacies was a foie gras striped with a sort of pate made from beef tongue, eaten on toast like normal foie gras. It is called, luculus, and is a specialty of Valenciennes, the home town of my host mother and her parents. It was actually quite good. I thought perhaps the tongue would be tough, and it was thicker in texture than the foie gras, which is naturally soft and fine, but it enhanced the texture rather than detracted and altered the flavor only slightly, to make it a bit more savory and complex.

As soon as the festivities were finished we packed up and headed off for London. We drove the car the the boarder at Callais, and then drove it onto the shuttle train, which takes the same tunnel as the Eurostar, under the channel. We debarked at dover and drove into London. We were able to leave the car in the hotel parking lot for the rest of the trip, which was nice as you cannot drive a car around London proper without paying a yearly tax, in other words unless you live there. We saw tons of things in only tow and a half days thanks to a bus system for tourists which makes constant loops around the city all day until 4, and dropped us off a block from the hotel. The Hotel was filled with French and Italian tourists, all of whom, I was amused to see wore ski resort wear to combat the chilly marine-like wind of december London. I however thought Marchiennes was much colder, and was exceedingly happy in my pea coat and thick turtleneck. We saw the London Tower, the London Dungeon, the London Bridge, the Tower Bridge, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Regent's Park, Regent's Street, Piccadilly Circus, Tralfagher Square, Madame Tussaud's, Couvent Garden, The British Museum, the London Eye, and my personal favorite, Baker Street. (My real favorite was the London Eye, which is the largest ferris wheel in the world, and the loop lasts a half hour, but I am still so excited by the fact that I actually got to walk on Baker Street, the real Baker street, that I maintain my opinion that that one brief detour on our trip was my favorite.) My overall opinion of London was that it is a magnificent specimen of a city. No where else have a seen such a successful blending of ancient and modern architecture, everywhere you look the age-old historic buildings are sitting right next to trip-y spiraling blue and black striped towers, or giant ferris wheels. The effect was not confusing, or saddening but rather inspiring and breathtaking; it looked like a city evolving, on the move, alive, even the historic museums looked alive. Also London is very clean. I believe it is the cleanest city I have ever seen. I'm sure there are poorer and shabbier neighborhoods as well, but everything I saw, which included the poorer indian quarter, was broad light-filled boulevards and litter-free (or at least as close to litter free as any city could be), sparkling, pedestrian friendly side walks. There were parks and trees everywhere, not just little staked up saplings in the medians as part of a urban regeneration project, but real towering, solid trunks. Along with all this cleanliness was a lack of city noise. There were no sirens and horns honkinga nd construction and back firing cars outside the hotel room window at 4 in the morning, and no open vents, no man holes, no screeching, no clicking of heels along every sidewalk. Everyone and a while you'd hear the tube zoom by from a grate in the gutter, but n real city noises. (Actually this kind of disappointed me because I love city noises, but I'm sure most of you critics out there are taking off your hats to that one. Even I must admit it was quite a shock to discover that at midnight I could hear nothing at all except the soft whir of the heater in the bedroom, no matter how I strained my ears and when I looked out the window there wasn't a sole in sight, all was calm and peace.) Because of the driving tax I mentioned earlier, set in place to reduce pollution, the only cars you saw driving around were the huge double decker, red busses, the imitation tourist busses (such as our own), and the old fashioned black taxi cabs, along with a small sprinkling of cars, mostly very expensive cars, as their owners obviously have enough money to pay the tax. Overall I thought London looked like a very livable city, in fact, it would be an ideal city to, a. raise children, or b. retire, but it also looked like a city where you'd want a decent income to enjoy it properly. I would be very happy to have a chance to go back.

The last thing I'll add tonight is a brief note on the Galette des Rois, or cake of kings. This little pastry is only served in January (at least traditionally). It is to celebrate a catholic holiday which the americans have done away with long ago, if it ever even made it off the boat, something to do with the three wise men. It is a fluffy many-layered, pastry crust filled with frangipane (sweetened almond paste). The fun part about it though is not the filling (which has now been extended to include apple for all those non-frangipane eaters, to resemble a chausson au pomme, which is a house hold pastry in France), it is in fact la feve, or the fava bean which is baked into the pastry. Whosoever is lucky enough to find the hidden feve in their slice is king for the day, and gets to wear the little paper crown sold with the cake. Nowadays its no longer a fava bean but a little porceline figurine. I'm told that many people actually go out and find bakeries who make their galettes with fine figurines and collect them. Apparently you can find very high end feves and keep up really beautiful, expensive collections. In fact bakers used to bake batches with one gold coin inside that way they could raise the price of the entire batch and people would come and buy multiple galettes at once trying to get the lucky gold coin. Of course this made me think immediately of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but thats another story. So far we have had a chance to eat from five or six galette des rois, being small they serve eight little slices, and almost everyone eats two helpings, and I have not gotten le feve, but I have all of January I figure, so I'll keep my fingers crossed.

A bientot,

e