Viva Algerie!

It's not often that I wish to change my nationality, but on Wednesday night, after a (legitimate) football win that got their team into the World Cup, I wished I was Algerian.

Art in Arles

I may have come to France for the food (and the wine, and the language, and the work...) but I would stay for the art. The Louvre was fun, yes, and elbowing through the crowd to get a 30 second look at the Mona Lisa was an adventure, but some of my favourite artistic moments have been accidental, and many not even in a museum at all.

The first of these moments was stumbling upon the work of photographer Marc Garanger. I came upon a photo of his from the "Femmes d'Algerie" series in a small museum in the Provençal town of Arles. I visited Arles en route to Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and received free entrance to the Musée Réattu when I bought a ticket to visit the Roman sites in the town. House in a former 15th-century priory, which itself is a work of art, the museum owns two Picasso paintings and 57 of his sketches, which were exciting to see, but it was a single photo, by Garanger, that stayed with me ( it's the image in the bottom right hand corner of the collection).

Garanger, a photographer, served his military duty during the French war in Algeria, when he was asked by the French Army to take ID pictures of the native population. All the Algerian women were asked to de-veil for the photo and he himself claims to be the first "temoin" to their silent, violent, protest. Some of his later work is available at the Musée de Quai Branly, the museum of culture and civilization in Paris, which I am quite interested in visiting, after seeing some photos from their collection, the stock "people of the world" photos from the early 1900s in the Asian/African/Oceanic room at the Louvre.

While in Arles, I also had the opportunity to follow the Van Gogh trail, a series of plagues around the town that point out the various spots here he painted such iconic images as Starry Night Over the Rhone, Les Alycamps, and The Amphitheatre. Vincent Van Gogh died when he still an unknown painter at the age of 37, but now his work is considered to be part of the foundation of modern art, and it was Arles, with its sunshine, bright colours, and Provençal character, that he painted. I read somewhere that he wasn't bothered by the mistral, the strong wind that greeted us on our arrival in Arles (and almost blew us over the city walls and into the Rhône!), but would instead kneel on his canvas to keep it still and paint horizontally through the strong gusts. Not quite as hardy as Van Gogh, we escaped into the Café de la Forum to warm up from the frigid wind outside. Sara enjoyed a hot chocolate, I sipped on a cappucino, and we chatted with the servers about football and travelling among other things. This would be a typical café visit, except that this was the former Café Terrace at Night, painted by Van Gogh in September 1888. We were there only a month and 111 years later, and yet, the fall light in the south of France was the same. Such a short and sad life, he lived, but one of such passion and genius, simply painting the beauty around him. And I was lucky enough to walk in his path for an afternoon.

It's a good day

Happy Anniversary Mackenzie, my love!



Here's to a great year together (and apart, between Poland, Vancouver, Calgary, PEI and France). To curry dinners, chocolate cake, movies and musicals, baseball and hockey games, Wendy's and coffee, walks in Westdale, dinners out, suppers in, and many glasses of wine.
Here's to many more years together.

I miss you, and I love you.

Part 1: Love affair with...Montreal?

A continuing theme from my journal:

September 29^th, 2009

As a child growing up in Canada, I have always felt that the French language had something of a national feeling about it. It is, and continues to be, an important part of our Canadian history, our federal identity and a defining aspect of school systems across the country. I have very patriotic reasons for taking French Immersion: I wanted to be able to speak both official languages in Canada. It's a part of my national identity. It's also a bit of a necessity, living as I do Ontario and Prince Edward Island, two provinces that border the French region of Canada.

So I had to keep reminding myself yesterday as I plunked myself down in THE French country of the world, that Canada has French, but French and its history does not necessarily include Canada. It wasn't an entirely comforting thought, as anything Canadian tends to comfort me, but one necessary for distancing myself as I traveled from Paris to Montpellier, my home for the next seven months. If the reactions of strangers in Canada are any indication of our obsession with France, then we love it. But I have to be careful not to come at it too hard either. I'm ready to love France, but I don't want to overwhelm it (even if it has already overwhelmed me). France is so much bigger than my elementary knowledge of vocabulary and recurring issues with verbs in the past tense. I used to say that I had an excellent working knowledge of French in Canada. In tourism, yes, that wasn't too bad. In France, that has changed. I know that, and I'm happy to admit I know very little at all. France, and French, are new to me. I’m ready.

October 2^nd, 2009

It’s getting a wee bit old. What do the French know about Canada? Montréal, Québec (city) and sirop d’erable (maple sirop). All of the above belong to the province of Quebec, a “separate nation within Canada” according to our leader, Stephen Harper. So I cam here hoping to spread the love of Anne of Green Gables (no one has heard of her, or LMM), to compare industrial towns (that’s more the UK…or Eastern Europe) and to commiserate over regional fishing identities (if it doesn’t have tentacles, don’t bring it up). Did I come on too strong? Is there just too much stuff to share (most likely)? How do I ease back and get across the most important points? Canada is big, Canada is multicultural, Canada is cold, and warm and welcoming, semi-American (see: music, metric system), rich in natural resources, wildlife, land and nature, money (no, really, teachers make 28,000 Euro annually here and the cost of living isn’t that much lower). Interestingly, all of the above are shared between Québec and the rest of Canada. I’ll survive, although my English Canadian pride is slightly wounded. And thanks to the French Immersion program on PEI, I probably know more about the history of Québec than Ontario’s. Plus, I’ve got hints of a Québecois accent and the French love it.

October 21^st, 2009

I walk down the street after class at the college and it takes me a minute to realize that I’m thinking to myself in French. Emails, grocery lists…these have begun to default to French. I love being surrounded by signs that I can read in another language, words that are spoken with the “eng” accent of the region, and conversations that I know, for the most part, will be carried on in my second language. Already I worry about the day when I won’t be enveloped by this gorgeous language on a regular basis. And then I yearn for Montréal, a city I haven’t visited in almost 6 years, but one I’m already planning on seeing when I get back to Canada. There, I hope to find my pain complet, heavier than the traditional baguette, yes, but healthier, in order to make up for the pain au chocolat I will order with my café allongé for an afternoon snack. What I didn’t expect to happen in France was to rediscover French Canada, through the eyes of my students, as well as through the words of the people of France.

Collocation

Sometimes it's like we're a family. We get in each other's hair (and leave it behind in the shower.....ewww), but for the most part we get along in this little flat of ours. We're comfortable enough now to just reach around each other in the kitchen, and if I time it right, I usually get to share at least two meals a week - and can always find some hungry soul ready to eat whatever I make.

We all know we're lucky that Marine loves to bake!

I mastered the art of ginger tea when Daniela was sick to her stomach, and Marine always takes care of our train tickets when we travel. We've survived two voyages as the group of five...and we're been pretty good about rotating the role of who is running late!

There's always a load of laundry on the drying racks, but four other people to call on to fill up a white or dark load. We've got a daily and weekly cleaning schedule and just try to get everyone to buy toilet paper/dish soap/cleaning products when we're low. There are at least three packages of coffee waiting so I can leave that off of the grocery list for the next little while.

And our dinner time/bedtime/evening conversation topics have ranged from the fall of the Berlin Wall and war remembrance, to parenting and birth order, to social psychology and New Kids on the Block.

Today's adventures included translating and negotiating Daniela's rent issues with our landlord (there's a whole story of a bin of winter gear that she left here in the summer that was given away before she came back in the fall....) and helping Sara clean up another of her bathroom messes after I was supposed to be in bed. (How it happens that when I discover her mess, I get to help clean it up, I'll never know...).

If nothing else, this *will* prepare me for motherhood.

Here's to the girls of the av. de Lodève, who always have a story to tell (in one of four official house languages), teaching advice to give, and food to share.

Prost!

If they don't know....how will they remember?

I had some bad luck yesterday with the 3emes. I brought John McCrae’s poem into class, thinking that they might appreciate the idea of Canadians fighting (and dying) on French soil in World War I, and knowing that it was at Vimy Ridge, in France, that Canadians began to be recognized as a country and a nation separate from Britain.

I was wrong.

Perhaps it’s the age, or that they have no respect for their French teacher, or the class is too disorganized or something* but they spent most of the class talking about other things, ignoring any discussion of the text, shouting out answers when they felt like it, and correcting the teacher’s spelling mistakes. I spent most of the class absolutely boiling with anger and frustration at these students and just standing around while the teacher translated the whole thing into French.

What hurts the most is that this is an important poem in Canada, on a very serious subject. Before I read the poem out loud, I asked them to respect this important text that is read in honour of those who died for Canada, in France, during World War I. It’s not a call to peace, by any means, as John McCrae does suggest taking up the battle after other have passed on; but it is a nationalist call in that way. And the final lines of the poem ask us to remember those who have died fighting; if we forget, they will not rest in peace. But neither idea was possible to discuss with this group of 14 and 15 year old French students, all of them not much younger than those soldiers who died on all sides of the Great War.

So while normally I would have trouble with anything the Conservative government wants to do that includes the term “military” right now I have somewhat positive thoughts about the news that the Conservative government is rewriting the Canadian Citizenship test to put more of a focus on its military history. (To try out the old one, click here)

I’m frustrated because I wish I could bring some of these ideas (ex: the shift from Peacekeepers or “les casques bleus” to soldiers in Afghanistan, French Lanugage Laws in Québec, where un “hot dog” is a “chien chaud”, Michaëlle Jean and her former-French-citizen, ex-separatist husband, who now represents the British Crown in Canada) into the collège, where I know the students are smart enough to understand much of this. In fact, it was the 6emes, the 11 year olds, who were the first ones to ask why the English Queen was on our money! From this week, I’m sad that we couldn’t talk about the importance of the poppy to Canadian (and Commonwealth) ideas of Remembrance, and also know about its French connections.

Unfortunately, I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t be bringing anything interesting or important about Canada to this class for awhile, until they can prove to me that they will respect these ideas. Right now they seem more interested in themselves so I’m not going to waste my time.

*Fortunately, I had much better luck with the 4emes, the group a level below, on Monday. We even assigned them homework to answer questions on the text I prepared about the poppy, which the 3eme teacher deemed as “too hard” for higher level. So it's a mix of student and teacher problems with this group.

Paris-Bordeaux-Montpellier-Marseille

Hello! I am back in Montpellier, but not for long. After a week of roaming around Paris with some wonderful Prince Edward Islanders (gossip from home AND French food. What a wonderful holiday!) and a quick stop in Bordeaux for a winery visit, I'm off again to Marseille this evening as soon as I'm finished with class at the IUFM. Marine's father lives there, in the second largest city in France, and since it's not exactly the safest place for a solo female traveller, I'm sure the group of five girls will be fine. And quite possibly hilarious.

Summery Sunday in Sète

It was a sleepy Sunday morning, the last truly warm day of summer (although we didn't know this yet), when Marine announced that we should make a day-trip to Sète. Well, this sounded like fun so I grabbed my Lonely Planet, Gabi and Daniela packed a lunch and we left to catch the 11:30 train.

Not two minutes out the door, Sara remembered our 12-25 cards which entitles us lucky enough to be under 25 (or not yet 26!) to abonnements on train tickets. We ran back to the house to get ours (which required unlocking and relocking three different sets of doors and gates, delaying us further) and only caught up with the other three about two minutes from the station and four minutes before the departure of the train. Happily, we made it on board, Sara and I gasping for air, the rest giddy from racing to the platform, and we settled down for the 30 minute trip to Sète.

Séte is the second largest Mediterranean fishing and commercial port in France, after Marseille. It's a lovely little town, settled in between the sea and Mount St-Clair, and filled with canals and seafood restaurants. The people of Sète are also absolutely charming, since we had not been in the village for five minutes, but two different people had stopped us and offered us directions (no, we were not lost, but a group of five girls-four of them using heavily accented French-moves rather slowly when taking pictures and guessing at how to find the way to the Tourist Office).

Having left in a our rush, our first stop was not actually the tourist office, but a café along the canals so a few of us could have a coffee. There, we encountered a woman from Germany who had lived in Sète for over 30 years. Daniela, the charmer of the group, was thrilled to encounter someone from her homeland, and so began to chat with the woman in German. Our new friend eventually just pulled her chair up to our table so she could join our group and converse with us in all three languages (French, English and German. Gabi is a native Spanish speaker but since I'm the next fluent in it [HA!] it's not one of the three used regularly among us). Just another Sunday morning with the collocateurs.

Another highlight of our day included lunch in the Mayor's Park which coincided with the annual Fête de la Tielle. This is a Sétois specialty, which is quite popular here in Montpellier - I regularly see people purchasing frozen versions of the tart in the supermarket. I, however, could not try it. The idea of chopped up octopus in a tomato sauce, baked in a tart is just a bit too much for me, the seafood lover who encountered my first octopus in a horrible backwater restaurant in Torquay, Australia. My students tell me you can't tell it's octopus but I can still feel the suction cups on the little tentacles in my seafood pasta. Ugh.

Then we spent the afternoon climbing Mount St-Clair. At the base is the Marine Cemetery, the location of symbolist poet Paul Valery's most famous poem, and the location of his own grave. I remember reading about les caveaux in Ellen's ethnography of Breton funeral rituals but I was surprised at how..."cemented" it really was. As someone who is used to the idea of burials into the ground, this was another green space that I missed from North American cities. Still, regardless of how they are buried, the dead in this community are given one of the best views in the area.

We got our exercise climbing up to the top of Mount St-Clair for a beautiful view of the town. On our way up we passed a group playing the regional game of the south, pétanque, which I think I understand as a kind of horseshoes, played with lawn bowling balls. I have yet to play it though, so I'll keep you posted if I do and find out more...I'm a bit behind on local sports, although I have had a taste of pastis, the regional drink made from anis. Alcohol before sports. Yes, we know where my priorities are.

We ended out day with an impromtu visit to the Molière Theatre. It had been closed when we passed by in the morning but the tour group (who took their bus up to the top of Mount St-Clair, thereby avoiding the half hour, uphill climb) was visiting and the theatre was open. We wandered in and enjoyed the view of the old opera house, with various sections named for classical artists including Mozart, Saint-Seäns, and Debussy. Gabi made her debut on the stage, thanking everyone from her parents, to the Academy, and God for making this day possible. We stayed a bit longer than the tour group, happy to have somewhere shady to sit for awhile and eventually had to be kicked out of the theatre by the House Manager. Ahh yes, ending our first day of visiting in France with a little breaking and entering. We're off to a good start!