fotos de Barthelona

Barthelona

Classes finished on May 15th. Last Thursday I finally picked up my stuff from the printmaking studio, made some last prints, and said a tearful goodbye to everyone there. Now I only have packing and picture-taking to think about during my last week in Paris.
Summer has arrived. Outside the sky is blue and the sun is shining brighter than ever. The coats and sweaters I've accumulated during my stay are now completely useless, and while walking around I look longingly at the sundresses displayed in shop windows.
I woke up late this morning. I've been exhausted ever since I got back from Barcelona late Wednesday night. It wasn't so much the trip that tired me out, but the flight. So many hours were spent getting to and waiting at the airport, all for a flight that lasted only and hour and a half. Barcelona, on the other hand, was fabulous.
I went with my friends Kathy, Peggah and Colman, who all go to Sarah Lawrence college. Kathy and Peggah are in the Paris program, and Colman is here for a visit. Kathy, the red head, is a lot like me in many ways. Those three turned out to be a great group to travel with; we all have similar interests, are relaxed, and so the 4 days we spent together were amazingly stress-free. We got a room for 4 in an excellent hostel a little ways from the center of town, far from the clubs and noisy streets of las Ramblas. We saw a lot of the sights: la Segrada Familia, the Picasso museum, the Cathedral, Gaudi's park, and many of the buildings he designed. Compared to Paris, Barcelona seemed extremely laid back, happy, and cheap. I've been told that Barcelona is an expensive city, but it's nothing compared to Paris. It was so nice to find good food for under 10 euros!
Speaking spanish again was difficult after 4 years of French. My vocabulary has been reduced to almost nothing, and I'm limited to speaking mostly in the present. However, unlike here in Paris, people really seemed to appreciate the fact that I was trying, and were so friendly and helpful. I also never once felt uncomfortable walking the streets, even though I was told by several people that Barcelona was dangerous. I suppose it's the same as any big city; you just have to be reasonably careful.
I should go soon; I have to go tutor in half and hour. Down below my window I hear the sound of suitcase wheels on concrete sidewalk. It's an almost constant sound here in Paris; people are always coming and going, leaving and arriving. When I first got to Paris the sound surprised me because I resembled that of my mother's wheelbarrow on the gravel driveway, but now I hardly notice anymore. In 8 days that'll be me dragging my own heavy luggage around the city and up and down metro steps. I will leave no trace behind. Paris will go on being a beautiful city full of strangers, artists and lovers and people like me who don't quite know why they're there.
Love to you all!!

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.

Wwoof, wwoof!

Jessica trying in vain to get into the castle

Train station in Virieu Le Grand

The 14th century castle that both Jessica and I were in love with

We hoped we might find eligible bachelors here... but were sadly disappointed.

The goats on the hill pasture

Jean-Yves himself

Lucie, an agriculture student who came to join us at the farm a few days later for a school project.

The lookout spot on top of the hill (near the castle)

beautiful view of Belmont and surrounding area

The dome for the greenhouse

The beginnings of the dome

Christine, Jean-Yves' girlfriend, making a special sunday treat

cocoa powder, oatmeal, tea and malt syrup: what else would one eat for breakfast?

Jessica holding a baby goat

My, has it been a long time!
I just got back from a week spent on a farm in Belmont, a tiny village in the department of Ain, situated in the south-eastern part of France near Lyon. I went through a program called "wwoof," short for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. If you turn "wwoof" into a verb you get and action, wwoofing, and that is what I did all last week. I heard about the organization from a friend after having expressed my interest in visiting some farms in France. The idea of the program is to allow travelers stay on organic farms all over the world, where they work for a few hours every day in return for food and housing, and where both farmer and visiter learn something from the cultural exchange. Sounds great, right? I signed up, paid the 15 euro access fee online, and instantly had in front of me all the addresses of French farms participating in the program. All I had to do was choose a farm and contact them to see if I could come.
The past two weeks were Sarah Lawrence's February break. It's also the main ski break for most schools in France. It seemed like the perfect time to try out this thing called wwoofing. I talked about my plans quite a bit with other people in my program, and even got some of them interested in going. In the end, though, my friend Jessica and I were the only ones who ended up going. The first farm I contacted (I emailed several) was the only one that got back to me saying they were accepting wwoofers. It seemed like the perfect place, though, so my friend and I bought our tickets and left early Friday before last.
We got of the train in Virieu Le Grand, a small two-track station in the middle of the country, and were soon greeted by a girl in a very large sweater and hippie pants. This was Lucie, the farmer's eldest daughter. It was she who had replied to all my emails earlier in the week. We hopped into the car where her dad, Jean-Yves Martinal, was waiting and drove up to their goat farm nestled in the tiny midieval village of Belmont. Lucie was I think 18, and it was her idea to participate in Wwoofing. She was inspired after spending a summer wwoofing in Bulgaria, and they had only been signed up since January.
Jean-Yves seemed a little like the gruff and silent type, and our conversation in the car was awkward. It wasn't until later that I found out that he could become quite philosophical and talkative when sitting at the kitchen table. His two other children, Estelle (16) and Albin (15) also helped out with the farm. Jean-Yves cared for around 20 or so goats. since it's spring, many of them had just had kids and the spunky baby goats greeted us from their enclosure as we walked into the barn. Along with goat cheese, the farmer also produced and sold apple juice, beer and chicken eggs. The apple juice was delicious, and we drank it at every meal.
We did quite a variety of little jobs while we were there. Having no precise working hours, we really just did whatever Jean-Yves needed or thought we were capable of doing that day. We gathered and cleaned eggs for the market, fed the goats before milking in the evening, helped out with lunch and dinner, glued labels onto bottles, and took the goats out to graze on sunny days. Some of the more interesting things we did were sort grain and grind it into flour, and create a dome-like structure out of young hazel shoots for a green house the farmer was constructing. I even made pasta on Sunday with their home-ground flour and a pasta machine.

Americans in Paris

New Years went by in a sparkle of lights and perhaps a little too much champagne. I stood with some at the base of the Eiffel Tower until midnight, when the lights on the tower began to flash and fireworks went up all around.
Reading week has just ended in my program, and after turning in the big paper I’ve been working on all week I feel free as a little bird to once again go out and explore this wonderful city… For a little while; second semester starts Today. Most French universities prefer to make their students work and worry during the Christmas break and then put them through exams as soon as they get back. Then the second semester starts before the first one really seems to end.
To celebrate, Friday night I went to a jazz club with a couple of friends from Sarah Lawrence called the Caveau de la Huchette. It was great. A swing band from Milan played, and the dance flour was crowded with dancing couples. Some of them were excellent dancers and fun to watch. There weren’t many people our age, but we went out there anyway and had loads of fun. I have no idea how they all got home, since the metro stops running at 1am, and the party was still going strong when we left.
Come to think of it, almost my whole weekend was devoted to doing American things in Paris. Friday was Jazz/swing, Saturday I went out to see Rocky Horror at this tiny cinema with a French friend, and then on Sunday I went to another small movie theater with my friend Peggah, this time to see the Marx Brother’s film, “A night at the Opera.” It was great! After the film on Sunday we went to an exhibition of American photography from the 50s 60s and 70s, which was also very good.
The Rocky Horror film was probably the most interesting experience of the weekend. I had no idea the French were so into it. They went all out doing call-outs, dancing, actors on stage in front of the screen, rice-throwing during the marriages, water-tossing during the rain, etc. The group who puts it on does it every Friday and Saturday, all year round. The weirdest thing was that it was mostly all done in English. There were subtitles for the film, of course, but the actors spoke a lot of their lines in English, and the audience shouted “slut” and “asshole” whenever the main characters in the film introduced themselves. It was very funny, even though I’m not a huge fan of Rocky myself.
Right now Paris is grey and dreary. It warmed up though; last week’s snow (a rarity in Paris) finally melted and today the rain has been pouring down, cleaning the air and the sidewalks. Last weekend my program took us to the south of France, where the palm trees and sunny afternoons reminded me of Oakland. We still had to wear jackets, but compared to frigid Paris it felt like summer. In my last post I put up a few pictures.
Oh, and I almost forgot! The other night I chopped a few inches off of my hair, and now it's amazingly curly. I still might go get it trimmed by a professional later, but for now it'll do. See the photo below.
Bisous!

New Year's and a trip to the South of France

Nîce and its hilltop cemetary

This mannekin does not like her hat

I want to live here. View of one of Nîce's ports

Walking along the docks

Nîce

The Orangerie de Renoir, right outside his house in Cagnes-sur-mer, where he lived from 1907 until his death in 1919

View of a hilltop town from Renoir's house.

Sitting on the rocky beach of the Mediterranean in Nîce

Nîce's main market

Snowy Paris: view of the International House from my window.

The glowing Eiffle Tower, right before the clock struck midnight.

The Eiffle Tower, in all of its sparkling glory.

Man balancing a ball on top of his head while climbing a lamp pole at the base of the Sacre Coeur.