It is hard to resist buying cheese at the market. Especially when the patron gives you a sample. This was my situation recently. I really didn’t have much money-- just five euros. But after a moment of reflection I decided there wasn’t much of a better way to spend it than on a lovely old hunch of hard cheese. The man cut and weighed a piece for me (yay!), but it was 6.40 (shoot!). I insisted I only had five, but he gave me the hunk anyway! I love the market. I love the cheese and the eggs and the vegetables and fruit and the people who live by growing food.
Scavenger-ing is also one of my favorite things about the market. It is a lovely phenomenon that happens at one o’clock everyday as the merchants are packing up their goods. All the things at are no longer sellable (apples with little bruises, slightly squished tomatoes, melons that are perfectly ripe today, but won’t be tomorrow) are left on the ground in the plaza. There are stacks of fruit crates and tumbled produce littered under the sycamore trees. I have made it a point to make my way down there every couple days to profit from the abundance. It is always fun to figure out how to use what you find. The other day we got a bunch of eggplants and some fabulous pears. The whole adventure has a robin-hood, gypsy, hippie feeling to it that I adore.
Another story from the market: I enjoy using euros are because they are often in coin form, and that is foreign and fun for me. The downside is that they are easily spilled from wallets. I had just bought some beautiful apples from a singing apple farmer and was dropping my change into my wallet when it slipped (because my hands were so full of goodies). The contents of my over-full change pocket spilled all over the ground in a 5-foot radius around me. Laughing at the ridiculous-ness of the situation I began to pick them up. Before I knew it, the people around me started helping me. I hardly had a chance to stand back up when at least four people deposited the coins they’d collected into my hands. I was filled with joy at their kindness and walked with a bounce in my step all the way back to school.
And the niceness does not end with the market. I have had numerous other experiences of unfounded mercy. Like the time I only had 2.50 when the bus was 3.40 and the driver let me ride anyway. Or, when I took the wrong train and went to Marseille instead of Avignon and after explaining my situation to the conductor he wrote some undecipherable note on my ticket and told me to take the next train to Avignon.
There is a rumor that circulates the US and parts of Europe that says French people are not nice. My experience speaks otherwise. And I haven’t even mentioned yet that I have a host family who has generously welcomed me into their home, and that I have language partners who are becoming good friends. So, to counter all stereotypes that would tell something else, I would to make a grand note here, that I am continually amazed at the kindness of French people.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Days of October are Slipping Like Sand
mont st. victoire
I went hiking today.
Before the hike, I was getting a bit of what might be called ‘cabin fever’ if I were a sailor, or ‘cooped up’ if I were a chicken. I found myself complaining a bit more than necessary. They were all legitimate complaints, I will assure you. They are still important concerns, but it was time for them to move on. Fresh air and sunshine has a way of setting things back in place. After the adventure, my friend Amy came over (a friend from school who lives nearby—we often walk home from the bus together and do a lot of laughing about nothing. I’ve met quite a few really wonderful people through the program here). We went swimming and then did our homework in our bathing suits. How often does that happen in October? I may be getting a bit spoiled.
My french is not leaping to great heights, but I do feel the triumph of a correct sentence more frequently these days. Amy and I decided the other day that we’ve reached the adolescent stage in our grasp of the language—still self-concious and awkward, but hopeful. I hear it’s a stage everyone goes through.
I have a funny story to tell. I am not very good at telling stories though. They usually end up long and full of detail without ever really having a punchline. I am going to try though.
A couple weeks ago I joined a frisbee team. We practice Thursday nights and I don’t usually get home until about ten thirty. Sometimes I eat with my host family, but usually they leave some dinner for me in the oven because it is so late. One night my host parents were going out, so they didn’t make dinner. My host brother (Gwion, 15) made dinner for me instead. It was amazing. I was amazed. But not in the way you might think. His mom recently explained to me that when he cooks he often experiments with ingredients. That explains why I was amazed when he pulled his creation out of the oven. For dinner that night Gwion had prepared pizza and an omelette. This was no ordinary omelette though. First there was a layer of some kind of meat (somewhat similar to bacon). Then egg, of course, then pasta. Yes, pasta. I had a pasta omelette for dinner—a curly pasta omelette with cheese on top. It was great. I was hungry. I ate with gusto. Tonight he cooked again. We had sunflower shaped pasta with creamy corn sauce. Also delicious. The end.
It’s been one month and seven days since I arrived. October is slipping by, but not in a bad way—the more it slips, the closer vacation comes. Soon I will be on a train to
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hiking buddies (left to right, me, Amy, Terrence-- we look like we're crouched for an attack or something, but really we had put the camera on the ground and were all trying to fit into the picture)
an intriguing paint splattered alleyway
there will soon be more photos on facebook :)
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