Ready, Set, Allez!!!

More Interesting Happenings Reported
STRETCHING CLASS, UNIVERSITY GYM--The teacher asked her students to spot a rock on the rock climbing wall before them. This was to help their balance as they performed a particular exercise. Eleanor picked a rock and noticed it looked like a mouth. Wow, and those two rocks above it looked like eyes. There was a nose. The mouth started to sing to the music and the eyes started to blink. Before she knew it, the wall before her was a chorus of musical faces. Eleanor lost her balance.

The Weather
It snowed on the highway last week. It snowed a few days ago in town at 5 o'clock in the morning. The snow never stays long. Thus, Eleanor knows it's out there but has not seen it with her own eyes. She did see a puddle of ice on Sunday.

Sports
More rock climbing! (But not with Monsieur Mont St. Victoire. Eleanor decided to expand her circle of mountainous friends).

Culture
CHRISTMAS IN PROVENCE--The city of Aix, a miniature city of lights. There are lights in the trees and a canapy of "lumières" over the main street. There is a Christmas market and a massive evergreen in the center of town.

And Other News
Looking forward to writing that 12 page paper...

Fontaine de Vaucluse

Roussillon

Africa said, "Come home..."

I've been wondering lately how I got started with French. Yes, it's a part of New Orleans culture. Yes, it's beautiful. However, I've been taking it for so long that I forgot my reason for sticking with it in the first place.

The Bus
I was taking my usual bus ride into town. I sat in a seat by the window, leaving the spot open next to me. An African man got onto the bus. He plopped his 3 year old son down next to me. "Ah," he said to his son, "tu as de la chance. Regarde la mademoiselle. Elle est élégante. Oui, elle est élégante." His son looked up at me. I smiled at him and nodded. The boy looked back at his father. "Elle est élégante," the African man repeated. He continued to talk to his son for the rest of the way. Then, as I hopped off the bus, I gave them a farewell "Au revoir."

The Walk Home
There was a new girl in church on Sunday from the Ivory Coast. I got to walk with her part of the way home. We talked a little about Africa, a bit about her studies in France, some about my stay here. We parted with an animated "kiss, kiss." She grabbed me by the arm, looked me in eye, and said in her wonderful African accent, "I hope we see each other again soon."



Back to 8th grade, 13 years old. A Nigerian brings his wife to New Orleans. He takes courses in public health at the local university. They have a baby. You cannot separate me from that baby.

They move back to West Africa.

Summer 2000, The Crawfords go to Africa. We visit the family in their home and a missionary from our church. I have a year of high school French under my belt but am at a loss for words.

Now to 12th grade, 17 years old. The African family comes to our house for a "short" visit. They plan on staying a month, end up staying three. There are three babies, now (one born while living with us). I dance around the living room with the 4 and 2 year old. I read to them. I let them hold me for ransom in their castle. I am a horse.

It's time to go back to Africa.

Reverse Culture Shock

I just got back from a Thanksgiving dinner! Yes, it's a little early, but that's beside the point. It was with people from the anglophone church here in Aix. We ate at a house in the French suburbs. French suburbs look like American suburbs. The husband and wife were from Texas. Another woman was from Nashville. In fact, I noticed all the English speakers talked with a slight twang. We ate turkey, cranberry sauce, garlic mashed potatoes--you know, your typical Thanksgiving meal. The food was so delicious and it felt good to have Thanksgiving even when away from home, but I went into a state of shock. Where am I? America?

However, there were some students there from Italy, Russia, Mexico, China, and Spain--just to reassure me that I hadn't been sent back to the US before my time. Many of them were assistants with a French highschool. I guess a lot of language majors go to their country of choice after college to become assistant teachers. I'll probably end up being a teacher, after all. Heh, I don't know about that, but it could happen. It's an option. It's nice to know people can do something with a language major.


One more thing...
Please, please, please, if you get the chance to see Joyeux Noël, go see it! I don't know if it's showing in the States...probably in smaller theatres. It's one of the best films I've seen in awhile. Plus, there are characters in it that speak French, English, and German. A feast for the ears and heart!

Thoughts

There comes a point in everyone's life after conjugating so many verbs into the passé simple, subjonctif, futur antérieur, and imparfait of the subjonctif when one starts to wonder, "Why am I doing this? I'll probably forget it all in a year's time anyway. I'll lose it when there's no one to talk French with." And that's when, just in time, one comes across a word like jetâtes. Jetâtes. One sits there for awhile, feeling the warmth of the word and the warmth of the sun. The neighbor cat stops by to chat. Leaves and phrases spin in circles. It is at that moment when one realizes she must carry on, if not for the sake of practicality, for the sake of beauty.

And then you've got Latin. They have the neutral. All you have to do is bring your noun to the vet. --Laure

Donc, so like after Laure (aka Laura) and I alléed to church this morning we revenired to the apartment to take some déjeuner. We manged some salade, pâtes, and cheese and then decided to partir for the old book marché in Aix. Jacques (aka Jake) decider to rester chez nous because I pense he needed to finir some devoirs.

I have feeling you won't be able to understand anything I say upon my return.

Conversation between Laure and Eléonore at the book market:
Eléonore points to an old book with a man dressed in Robin Hood attire on the cover.
E: Oooh, he's cute.
L: How old do you think he is now? 50?
E: I like his outfit.
L: You do like men in tights.
E: It's true.
L: That's okay. I like guys with the frilly shirts. Those ruffles are just so...ah. Have you ever seen Interview with the Vampire? Let me tell you...

Among other things, I am learning a lot about what I like and don't like. I know now that I like brie cheese. I don't like dogs, but I like cats. Thin crust pizza is far better than thick. White chocolate wins. Things I've never had much of an opinion on are choosing to show themselves. And, yes, I have a thing for men in tights.

Toussaint

They don't care much about Halloween. I saw one girl with a little face paint. What?! No Halloween? How could they? Ah, but don't stop there...

I awoke the next morning and rolled over to face my window. Big pink clouds. Big blue sky. Sigh. What do I do on All Saint's Day? There's the park or I could go to the market. Yes, but what do the French do on such a day as this? They go to the cemetery to put flowers on the graves of their ancestors. But I'm not related to anyone who died here (that I know of).

I have fallen in love with a certain man. His name is Paul Cezanne. He died in 1906.

I left the apartment that morning with a book, a journal, and a map in hand. I found the cemetery on the eastern side of town. Okay, Paul Cezanne. There should be some sort of sign, right--a big yellow arrow that shouts, "Paul Cezanne! Buried here!" There was no arrow. I wandered from tomb to tomb for half an hour.

Eleanor, I guess this means you'll have to ask. There's a man standing right over there. Here goes.

"Est-ce que vous savez où Cezanne est enterré?"
"Mais, oui! Bien sûr! C'est La Toussaint."

Yes! I love it when I can get a phrase out like that. He kindly showed me a map of the cemetery and how to find the grave of my long lost lover. I approached Cezanne, anticipation raging. I almost passed him up.

And there he was. I should say, "Voilà!" Right there among the other tombstones, the pine trees, the chrysanthemums, and the iron rod crosses. Someone had placed a pinecone on his grave. Others had arranged little pots of pansies. And me? What could I offer but the imaginary, polka-dotted violet I held in my hand?

Merci, Monsieur Cezanne. Tu m'inspires.