Giving thanks in France--an ongoing celebration

Being as the celebration of Thanksgiving does not exist outside of Canada and the United States, it would only make sense that the holiday's name would not translate. On the contrary, being as it is, above all, a holiday based around food, the celebration itself transcends this language barrier. This year, we english assistants stationed in Toulon and across the South of France pulled out the stops to spread the joy and weight-gain that epitomizes our national traditions of Giving Thanks.

Clockwise from left: Dirty rice, garlic mashed potatoes, turkey farcie, cranberry relish,
sweet potato pie (complete with pecans and marshmallows)
Sur la table: un bout de pain de maïs (fitting on the table and not on the plate: a piece of homemade cornbread)

The infinite mutterings of the word "dégueulasse" ("disgusting") at the shear mentioning of a pie made from a fall squash, or a potato dish topped with sugary-goodness, was all put to rest with the tasting of these Thanksgiving staples.   I am personally proud to report that nine native citizens of the Wine and Cheese Capital of the World (and the numbers are mounting) have now been converted to Southern Style mashed sweet potatoes (ie. that delicious concoction of the orange potato and its unlikely mate, the marshmallow).  Of course, no Thanksgiving would be the same without the pumpkin pie. My dinosaur of a 1960s Moulinex mini-oven has now seen its share of potimarrons roasted to perfection and transformed into a type of mysterious tarte aux citrouilles which has, until now, never scented its antique metalic walls. I am certain that if it could talk, it would confront me with the most french of queries: "Mais, qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?!" ("What on earth is that?!").

The ultimate potluck-style Thanksgiving;
a gathering of language assistants and
"Turkey Day" flavors  

A Brit finished off the pumpkin pie

Patricia with her magnificent
"dinde" (turkey); the only one
I have ever seen in France
at this time of the year.

 Thanksgiving Southern Style: including
"dirty rice" and sweet potato pie;
also featuring real cranberry relish...
as real as you can get with jazzed-up
imported canned cranberries. 

In any case, America can now add Thanksgiving to its list of exports... though maybe not as high up on the list as popular culture and religion. In Toulon and across the South of France, certain french citizens will, from this moment on, have more than McDonald's to think of in relation to American cuisine, and I know a particular Englishman who now has an affinity for certain Thanksgiving favorites.

And so I raise my glass to a growing international community, a mélange of cultures and cuisines, and to the two best orange-tinted Thanksgiving classics conquering taste-buds across the globe: sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie.

  

This year, I am thankful for the opportunity to share my love of country with those who have so deeply influenced the meaning of that very phrase in my life and worldview. Thank you to Patricia and Roland Pavia-Orengo for their unwavering support, patience, and concern for my physical health (ehem Roland).  Thank you to my colleagues at Lycee Rouviere for never hesitating to include me in the family of faculty and staff, and for making it your goal that I do not "m'ennuie" (get bored) in this beautiful region. Thank you to my students who consistently show interest and excitement for such topics as the "America on the 4rd Thursday of November" and who keep open minds and open mouths for a piece of "sucré salé patates douces" (sweet potato pie).  Thank you to this year's group of Language Assistants in Toulon for forming a true home away from home, because, let's face it, sometimes you just really need to play an intense game of Apples to Apples or watch english movies that are not dubbed in French.

Notre famille française à table à Sospel (4 hours at the table this time?)

And finally, thank you to my family for continuing to support my adventurous spirit and desire to discover all that the world has to offer. Next year, save me a plate, "Ill be home for Christmas..." and most definitely Thanksgiving.

L'automne provençale

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.

Stanley Horowitz

   

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

William Cullen Bryant

On the real Nordic Track

Strolling the grounds at the Norsk Folkemuseum: 

traditional Norwegian houses moved from original foundations 

to allow visitors a glimpse of Norse life in the 1200s and beyond.

Norway, the land of world-class skiers, Leaf Erikson, and strong-willed scandinavian women. Within moments of landing in Oslo, Norway, I felt immediately at home.  It was a unique feeling of familiarity and comfort unlike anything I have felt in Europe as of yet... even in France.  Such a sensation is especially peculiar considering that I have no genealogical links to Norway, nor Scandinavia in general, and have not, until now, had the privilege of visiting this mystical land of fjords and Viking ships.  During my sort stay in Olso and the days which followed, I spent a good many moments reflecting on this impressive Norwegian warmth. Perhaps it is cold climate that has a special way of bringing people together, a sort of survival strategy or system of protection against the impending loneliness that often accompanies freezing weather. Whatever the cause, there was no shortage of smiles and warm welcomes and the inhabitants of Oslo (especially my delightful friend Anne and her charming family) know how to make a person feel right at home.

A breath-taking visit to one man's masterpiece: Vigelandsparken

At every turn, there was something strangely familiar about Oslo, something perhaps programmed into my senses. The weather helped; for one thing, the climate is much the same as in the midwestern United States in October. Contrary to the predicted snowy weather forecast at the time of my visit, a hazy rain cloud blanketed Oslo's coastline, granting it the same autumnal feel as that which Chicago experiences this time each year. The air hangs heavy with the essence of wet freshly fallen leaves and the burning of the first logs in the fireplace.  People flood the streets eager to soak up the fleeting sunlight and brisk autumnal air before the temperature takes its annual dive into the "below zeros."  The sepia tones in the trees serve as a sort of transitional backdrop to the more striking, glamorous colors of the Christmas season, prematurely lining the streets and storefront windows. So far, I suppose I have not described anything out of the ordinary from what one might find in France or the United States in the fall, so what makes Oslo so cozy...

One might say that it is the overall classiness of the city--it is the essence of elegance without arrogance. Oslo competes with Tokyo as the city with the highest standard of living in the world... therefore making it one of the most expensive places to call home. People are paid significantly higher wages, but they essentially pay it all back in taxes, more costly loaves of bread, and a classier lifestyle.  I found myself face-to-face with high-class local art everywhere (even the grocery store!) and was passed by locals in designer rain boots every few feet. The inhabitants of Oslo have certainly adapted to their environment--by making high fashion functional and by creating interior spaces to be those most desired.

The apple muffin of a lifetime: 

the quantity of butter used in the making 

of these sumptuous baked delights 
would make Julia Child proud.  

The coffee culture in Oslo presents a perfect example of this functionality.  The coffee houses of Norway's capital are what every Starbucks dreams of being (and it for this that there is not a single Starbucks in Oslo, and why, while I was squealing with delight over this realization, my norwegian friend was wondering what Starbucks even was!).  They are filled to the brim with passers-by, shoppers, and businessmen on their way home from work, much like any other coffee house, but there is something strikingly genuine about the atmosphere.

The handcrafted goodies gracing the glass pastry case windows have a natural, perhaps classic beauty to them joining effortlessly with an element of heartiness.  Among such delights is one truly unique cheese: brunost (literally translated: brown cheese). It is unarguably a delectable mélange of two of the best flavors on earth: cheddar and caramel. A strangely sophisticated love affair between these two tastes, it glides across the palate like heavy satin and a lingers like a warm embrace.  This unconventional combination of a cheese was surprisingly a hit with the french who found it to be unlike anything even they have ever tasted.

The epicurean delight that is everyday Norwegian cuisine: 

the "tsmørbrød", or open-faced sandwich 

fresh shrimp and crudités (left) and 

"brunost" or brown cheese (right)


All in all, I found Oslo to be a center for a series of such amalgamations. The perfectly balanced juxtaposition of its Neo-Classical, Funtionalist, and Contemporary architectural structures is easily observed by way of a ride on the downtown tramway. Even the ride itself makes the passenger feel like a part of the mix, weaving in and out of motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians who all share the city's railed streets.

here's to turning "eclectic" into "classy" on a citywide scale!

Local public transit proves, once again, 

to be the best way to see what a city has to offer. 

Ecouter les cerfs! In the animal kingdom, size does matter.

 There are moments in life when we, humans, are reminded of just how connected we are to the natural world.  Such moments often come to us as heart-warming epiphanies, momentos of our bond with the flora and fauna. Let's be honest, who hasn't shed a tear or sighed admiringly in the midst of a well-presented program on the Discovery Channel? We ultimately belong to a greater network of love and loss in which instinct and curiosity replace the need for language. 

A curious doe plays peek-a-boo with our equally curious group of people

It is amidst these "warm fuzzies" that I came to an astonishing, and all too comedic, realization: with the exception of language and the use of opposable thumbs, there is little to distinguish man from stag when the female entity is present.  I recently had the pleasure of accompanying Patricia, Roland, and their friend Philipe on a hike high in the Alpes Maritimes to experience something of which I was oblivious until now.  There is a time of year in the fall when stags challenge each other for the title of "King of the Mountain." For any homo sapien familiar with this game of physical force, the object is the same for these pheromone-charged deer.  This display of machismo subsequently draws the attention of the neighboring females (or "hind"), because, let's face it, what woman wouldn't want to watch while men fought over her?  Really she just hopes the winner is handsome, charming, responsible, takes out the trash... wait, I suppose deer have more basic needs. In that case, it is safe to say in this case that the largest stag wins. Size does matter.

As I stood frozen in awe (and a bit chilled as well), I could not helped but be impressed by the magnitude of manpower being declared across the mountains.  The music of bravado reverberating off of stony cliffs and filtering through wooded passes was breath-taking. It was the type of stereo surround sound that even the most high-def speakers couldn't capture. Even though I wasn't the one being called after, I felt strangely drawn to the sound of bellowing and such displays of self-glorification. While such calls lacked literal linguistic translation, it did not take much imagination to decipher the interaction. Within an instant, I was transported back to the grade-school playground (or the high school football game; or the college bar scene; or the professional work environment...the story is timeless) to a scene of two young boys dealing each other blows to the self-esteem while intrigued adolescent girls look on gossiping about a predicted outcome.

"I could totally take you!" "Oh yea? Well, come and get it!" Who has the bigger muscles? The quicker tongue? Throws first punch? The last one? Ultimately, who gets the girl?

Sound familiar? It gets better. Once he has proven himself in battle the stags then commits himself to a devoted mating ritual with his newly "won" ladies. The comment was made that the ladies are less likely to be faithful and usually move on to have several different mates. Evidently, even in the natural domain, the gals suffer the same phenomenon as we daughters of Eve;  the man talks a big game, is lucky enough to win a fight, but then doesn't come through in the real time of need. A lady needs satisfaction, and if she finds that her man's "brame" is bigger than his bite, a doe's got to do what a doe's got to do.

Pessimism is contagious

Like most mothers, or parents in general, my mother has a list of sayings that she keeps at the forefront of her conscious mind at all times, dormant but itching to be consulted at any moment when there is need for a bit of enlightenment. This infamous list embodies the timeless classics "This too shall pass" and "Live life to the fullest," but I find that the ones that pack the fullest punch are those which have a bit of bite to them. Such quotes remind you of your own faults, catch you in your own traps, and ultimately keep you grounded.  Parents are there to lift you up, but they would be doing you an injustice if they didn't knock you off your high horse every so often to discipline you in the ways of humility.  Reading this, I'm certain that my mother and mothers the world around are beaming with self-contented satisfaction, but I'm sure I speak for more than a few Twenty-Somethings when I say that all those tedious sayings have by now burned a list in our own minds and, whether consciously consulted or not, make themselves heard.

The truism which has grown from a whisper to an emphatic nagging is none other than: "Pessimism is contagious" (perhaps followed by "No one likes a pessimist").  I found myself falling into the pessimistic and critical spirit of, I dare say, the French. To their defense, such a statement embodies the true spirit of a rampant stereotype; not all french are cynical, but judging from my experience, I can attest to the fact that very often, the French (and subsequently myself) do not acknowledge just how good they have it. It is always easier to criticize and emphasize faults than to appreciate prosperity.  Perhaps we feel that we sound more intellectual or sophisticated.  Whatever the reasoning, pessimism nevertheless becomes an unshakeable cold, making its home in the deepest roots of emotion and logic, and spreading to others as a contagious plague of negative energy.

Recently, I found myself falling into the trap, the pit of negativity. It began with a bout of homesickness and mild loneliness which always comes with moving to a new place, but I allowed it to fester for a month or so, permitting it to flow through my thoughts and words like a french scooter in heavy traffic.  I found faults with my apartment, despite the fact that it is exceptionally "securisé," and complete with laundry in the building for an insanely cheap rate, exercise machines, and a stunning view of the mountains that serve as one of Toulon's best-selling features.  I am in walking distance of the daily Provençal market, the mall and most-frequented grocery, and an SNCF (train) "boutique" which saves me from having to walk to the train station every time I need to plan and trip or change my tickets.  The lively port is steps away and transportation home late in the evening is not a problem because I can walk to most everything.  Sure, it is a bit ridiculous that, in a town of sailors and students, the bus stops running at 9pm and the "night bus" literally stops when morning picks up (12am), but there I go again....

Nothing is perfect, and if it was, it would not be interesting.

The new residence

For all those interested in keeping the postcard companies in business, I have a new address (at least for the time being...).   Merci en avance! Note that for each postcard received at said address, one will be sent to you! For security purposes, I will email it to you if I have not already done so. Happy travels!

Allons-y, encore une fois: the return to France

Regardless of the fact that I practically neglected to write all summer, I feel that my most recent time in the States has impacted me as my past 8 months in France. I dealt with the most intense and confusing homesickness that I have ever experienced, and it taught me a great deal about myself--specifically my expectations of myself and of those I love. I owe everyone at home a round of applause for handling my emotional confusion with such grace and perseverance, and for teaching me the art of patience and unconditional love.

I feel like I am living in a perpetual state of bizarre consciousness between my two worlds.  It is as though time stops while I am away from either one; people's lives move forward--people get married, go back to school, get new jobs--but my life stays frozen in time, waiting for me to return and pick up where I left off. Eventually, --sooner rather than later, I feel-- this cycle will end and I will be left both reeling and ready for something new and different.  In the meantime, I look forward to changing my life, once more, with new opportunities, adventures, and discoveries.

This school year, I will be working once again with french students between the 2e and BTS levels, this time at Lycée Rouvière in Toulon, France.  Upon receiving word that I had been accepted for renewal, I immediately knew that there would be compromise this time around. I would be closer to the Mediterranean Sea and closer to transportation, but farther from the peace and quiet that I had come to know and love in Lorgues. Life would be more expensive, being as I would now be closer to means of travel, a social scene, and "civilization" as one frenchman put it. My previous experience with Toulon was during last year's training, during which I remember thanking my lucky stars that I was stationed in such a paradise as Lorgues.  It was with this mental image that I embarked on my newest adventure. The adjustment was not what I was expecting. Logically speaking, I knew my new life would take some getting used to, but I was surprised by my immediate homesickness for autumn in Chicago, my local grocery store's specialties, and the comforts of my daily routine. I had been pining for France for months; what had happened? I partially blame the chaotic chain of events involving my papers and visa.  In actuality, I was preparing for the worst, had come to accept it as the definite future, and when destiny decided to kick in, I wasn't ready.

Having now had a few days to take in french culture once more, and a good 24 hours to adjust to Toulon, I can feel my blood pressure dropping and my stomach settling. I am currently living in a studio apartment in a dormitory-style building for local students. This living situation itself is an interesting addition to this experience.  I was less worried about the size of the room and the 4 flights of stairs, and more about the noise factor, but to my surprise, the building is more or less silent. I do not know how many of the units are actually occupied at this moment, but I seldom hear any semblance of inhabitation. I was hoping that this Résidence des Etudiants would mean instant friends and a good social network. I completely forgot how intense the french education system can be, thus how studious the students are at the university level. It is, of course, only day 2 in Toulon, so only time will tell all that can come of this new chapter.