Ahh, the French

Romantic sculpture in the Jardin de Luxembourg

Wine cups "to go," safely sealed for you lunchbox. Red, white, or rosé.

I thought it was about time that I gave a taste of French culture.

The French are so funny. They love to argue loudly about current issues over a café at a Brasserie, or over the dinner table. They discuss things with such fervor that to a foreigner it often sounds like a full out argument. I think they disagree with each other on purpose, just to draw out the conversation.
The people are for the most part very thin here. Especially in Paris, where looks and fashion are everything. Even the elderly ladies take their looks seriously; it has happened more than once that I've caught a very fashionably dressed older lady checking herself out in a store window. Scarves are very big here; even before it had gotten very cold, people whipped out their winter wear and sported their stylish neck protection, rain or shine. Many people firmly believe that if you go out without a scarf you are sure to fall ill.
The French are proud of their own culture. As one would expect, cheese, wine, and good bread all hold a very high importance. The US is often criticised for its' negative impact on French culture and the younger generations, however it's a love-hate relationship. The French LOVE American movies, food, music, etc. I've never passed by a McDonalds or a Starbucks in Paris that wasn't full of people. They are crazy about exact change(I've gotten glared at countless times for paying with a 20 euro bill), proper manners, good looks, and they enjoy silence on the metro. They pretend not to look at each other, but in reality they silently and secretly judge everyone around them. The French can also make a miniature café last for hours, as they sit and talk the day away.

At the beginning of the year we were given a long talk on "les bonnes manières," or good manners in France, during which we were instructed to do things like be on time and don't ask indescrete questions. From experience, however, I've found the French to be no more time obsessed than Americans, and although discretion is important to them, people have said things to me here that I never would have heard at home. Weight, for example, is not a taboo subject of conversation. It's not unusual for people to remark on the status of one's weight(whether you has lost or gained weight recently), and every time I eat lunch at the art studios I get lots of comments on what I'm eating for lunch. It seems as though all Parisian women are on a constant diet.

That having been said, I think I'll leave now to go get my pain au chocolat and enjoy every bite.

Wwoof, wwoof! (continued)

Belmont was cold. I haven't been so cold in a long time, especially at night. When we arrived there were small patches of not yet melted snow on the ground, although with the sun out the temperature was actually quite pleasant. Once the sun set, however, the air got colder and colder, and crawling into bed at night felt like crawling under sheets of ice. It reminded me much of my childhood. The house was heated by a wood stove in the kitchen, and although the kitchen was nice and warm, the rest of the house remained pretty chilly most of the time. It was so cold that I didn't want to take off my clothes, so I just went to bed every night in the shirt and sweater I had worn that day.
The Martinals lived a pretty simple life. Many conveniencies that most people would consider necessary, they had no problem going without. The bathroom had no door on it. A wall hid the shower and toilet from sight, and turning on the light warned the rest of the house that the bathroom was occupied, but this didn't stop Jessica and I from the constant terror that someone would walk in on one of us. It was also awkward to know that there was nothing much muffling the noise of your tinkle ( or whatever else you happened to be doing), as the bathroom was not far from the kitchen and the entryway. Then there was the toilet, which was missing its' seat. I've gotten used to squatting here at the Cité Universitaire because of the dubious cleanliness of the bathrooms, but something about the closeness of the wall to the toilet at the Martinals made relieving one's needs even more difficult.
Aside from the bathroom, the house was more or less normal except for the kitchen, which didn't have hot water or a fridge. As the days passed, I got more used to the family's way of life. We would wake up in the morning, eat a breakfast of tea, oatmeal and dried fruit, and then set about doing the tasks the farmer found for us. Meals were simple and healthy, and mostly consised of things that the Martinals either produced themselves, bartered for, or bought at the bio store in town. We ate goat cheese every day for lunch and dinner, no matter what else we were eating.
The area around Belmont was absolutely stunning. From the hill in front of the house you had an amazing view of the whole valley and mountains behind. Jessica and I took several long walks up into the mountains, down into a larger village called Artemare, and up on the hill where a 14th-century castle looked down on the farms below. The night before we left, Jean-Yves invited an old historian to dinner to tell us about the history the castle and the rest of the area. He stayed for at least three hours telling story after story about old ways of life, community festivals and traditions, counts, barons, and revolutions that changed the people and the countryside.
We had a great time. I'd love to go back.