La Bise à la Fac

In my old French life, I had the ever so mysterious bise (the traditional French greeting, a.k.a. cheek kissing) down pat.

With my boyfriends family? Yes! When meeting up with friends? Yes! When leaving friends? Yes!


Source: this great video about how to faire la bise, which I already translated.
I have discovered that school is a whole other ball game.

There are 7 of us in my masters program, and we see each other pretty much everyday. Even among our small, close-knit group, things can get a bit complicated.

Do we faire la bise every morning upon first seeing one another? No. But enough of the time to make it complicated? Yes.

For example, if we get to class early enough, we usually faire la bise, but if someone comes into class ten minutes late and is addressed after the class, a bise suddenly becomes optional. Sometimes for no apparent reason that I can tell the bise becomes optional.

Some of my classmates seem to be more pro-bise than others. While this doesn’t cause a problem per se as I now know who will and who wont demand a bise, I find it interesting that some of them are more adamant about it than others.


Source: the video.
Where it starts to get really complicated, however, is the casual crossing of paths. Sometimes, it is acceptable to simply wave. Other times, one is expected to stop and make time for a quick bise and a "ça va?”(how's it going?) before continuing on to one's destination.

To make matters worse, in my experience before la fac (university), a bise was always done upon first interaction, and never again afterwards. Here, even if I've already seen someone and said a casual "salut" (hello), a bise is still on the table for future greetings.

But again, the bise may or may not happen. It depends. On what? I couldn't tell you.

I'm winging it pretty much all the time.

Getting Around France: Trains vs. Cars

For spring break I decided to head up north to my old haunting grounds, Lille. I wanted to see my friends and eat delicious French fries.


Who wouldn't want to visit this?
The problem with going anywhere from Troyes is two-fold. The first problem is that Troyes is not on the TGV (trains de grandes vitesses, or high speed trains). The second problem is that, by train, one must always go to Paris first, and then to the subsequent destination.

In between Troyes and Paris there are roughly 180 km/111 miles. In between Paris and Lille there are 220 km/136 miles.

However, the train ride from Troyes to Paris is about 1 hour and 30 minutes, while the train from Paris to Lille is about 1 hour and 15 minutes.


Image ©Google Maps.
Despite traveling farther, it’s actually quicker to get to Lille thanks to the TGV.

Taking into account lay over time, getting my butt up North by train was looking like at least a 4 hour ordeal. It was also looking quite pricey.

Luckily, the train is not the only way to get around France. I did something I have never done before. I signed up for covoiturage.fr, a carpooling website.



Image ©Bla Bla Car.
I highly recommend it to my fellow travelers out to explore France. It was cheaper than the train, and got me to Lille faster (only 3.5 hours by car). My driver was on time, very friendly, and we had a very agreeable voyage (journey). We didn't even have to pass through Paris!


The point of zero kilometers (where the roads from Paris are measured from) sits in front of Notre Dame Cathedrale in Paris.
It would seem that all roads no longer go from Paris, but instead all trains do.

Dictionnaire Español-Français

For my masters, it is required to take a language class and this semester I decided to enroll in Spanish. Having had 4 years of Spanish in middle school/high school, I figured it’d be easier and serve me better than say Portuguese or Italian.

Learning a third language in one’s second language makes for some pretty interesting brain gymnastics. Nevertheless, I sometimes find that translating things into French makes more sense than the English equivalent (and vise versa).

While hoping there would be a Spanish-English dictionary at France's version of Good Will, Emmaus, there were only Spanish-French ones (but really, at a dollar a dictionary who can complain?). I bought one, confident that I speak French well enough that there shouldn’t be any trouble.

Despite it working out most of the time, looking up I no longer remember what, I stumbled upon the cutest word I have yet to cross in French, pommettes. Not sure what it meant, I asked a classmate.

So, what is a pommette? No, it’s not just a tiny pomme (apple). It’s actually the cheekbone part of your cheeks! The little part that grandmas like to pinch when they tell you they could eat you with a spoon.

I love having a word for that specific part of the cheek. Especially since it seems to fit perfectly. It does resemble a tiny apple one just wants to take a bite out of.

Confession: I'm dating a French boy. Since we met, I always adored his cheeks, but telling him so didn't exactly encompass what I meant. Really, I couldn't get enough of his pommettes. After learning this word, everything just fell into place. It felt right.

Now, my favorite part of Spanish class is enriching my French vocabulary.

A lack of permanence.

While I have been off exploring, and making do with the clothes, shoes, and things I could fit into one checked bag plus carry on, all my other belongings, cherished and not so cherished, have been safely stored at my parents house, the place where I grew up, the place I have called home for the last fifteen years.

My parents have moved. They no longer call that place home. They’ve moved into a smaller house, which meant a review of the objects I had safely stored away in my closet.

Did I really need to save all my board games? Couldn’t we just dissemble all my star wars legos, and put the pieces in the big lego bin for easier storage? How many childhood stuffed animals are really necessary? Couldn’t I do without all the knickknacks?

While I’ve always enjoyed considering myself not all that materialistic, it was easier knowing in the back of my head that my things were there and they were waiting for me to stop wandering.

The move made me wish I had chosen a more “normal” life path; that I had found a job and was where I was going to be for the foreseeable future; that I could unburden my parents of my things and take them on myself.

I would love to decorate my studio in Troyes with my Harry Potter posters. I would love to be able to have my board games on hand for when I have guests.

Alas, such is not my fate. Seeing how this time next year I’ll be who knows where for my internship, I’m going to have to keep on being nomadic.

So to all the things I gave away, I wish you well. And to my parents, thank you for finding the room to keep most of them. One day, things, we'll be together again.

Trousse

When I was an English teaching assistant one thing that I found remarkable was that even the highschoolers used pencil cases.

At the beginning of every lesson, out came the notebooks and a small pouch filled with pencils, pens, scissors, erasers, and tape.

I hadn’t used a pencil case since elementary school. I hadn’t seen a pencil case since elementary school.

I don’t know why I thought it would be any different at graduate school, but nevertheless I was surprised to see all my classmates take out their trousses (pencil cases) at the beginning of the first lecture.

By the end of the semester it became perfectly clear to me why nobody had abandoned the concept of a pencil case as something for little children.

While I had gone ahead and lost almost all my pens and pencils, my French friends still had all of theirs intact.

So for this second semester, I have taken the plunge. I have become a little bit more French.

I bought a pencil case.


My trousse in all its pink, see-through glory.
For now I still have all my writing utensils. Here's hoping I don't loose the entire trousse.

Genève : Premières Impressions

My first impressions of Geneva:

Geneva is beautiful.

The gorgeous stone buildings transport one from modern day to ancient times.


Stone buildings complete with a sprinkling of snow.
There are swans floating on the lake, immediately making one feel like the star of a Disney princess movie.


Swans on Lake Geneva.
It’s Protestantism with a bit a flare.

The church that houses Calvin’s chair looks a lot more Catholic than the churches in good ol’ America (probably because it was originally Catholic).


St. Pierre Cathedral.
The wall of statues celebrating the Protestant Reformers is very showy for Protestant principles, but I loved it all the same.


The Reformation Wall.
It’s also full of lovely modern day activities, such as giant chess in the park, or drinks and snacks at a restaurant floating on the lake.


Babies playing chess.


View from the Bains des Paquis.
A great place for a day trip, it left me wanting more.

Il Fait Beau

I used to disagree with any French person who ever told me “il fait beau” (it's a beautiful day). Especially in winter.

But despite saying, “mais non, il fait froid!” (but it's cold!) occasionally to my exbellemère, I would keep my mouth shut, as they all seemed pretty convinced about the excellence of their days.

It still irked me though. How could the French find so many days “beautiful?” A day needs to be pretty remarkable for it to get that accolade from me.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in Southern California where the weather is some of the best out there, but I seemed to need more from a beautiful day than the French.

I need sunshine and blue skies (although a cloud or two might be acceptable as long as they are the pretty fluffy white kind), a light breeze (but not windy), and a good temperature (hot but not too hot). I want that day to inspire me.


The beach in my hometown. How I miss beautiful, beach-worthy days.
The French seemed to find really ordinary days beautiful.

Then, after three years of hearing this expression, I finally got it. I’d been looking at it all wrong.

One shouldn't translate “il fait beau” into “it’s a beautiful day,” but instead into “the sun is out today.”

It’s as simple as that. To the French, the sun being out is equivalent to beauty. I think this has to do with the fact that the French use the word beautiful 3600 times more often than Americans do.

For a day to be beautiful it doesn’t need to be exceptional; it just needs some sunshine. The word doesn’t carry the same weight.

Once I accepted this fact, my conversations about the weather weren’t secretly putting me on edge.

Now when someone tells me “il fait beau,” I agree. Why yes, the sun is shinning today!

I no longer secretly resent the French for being able to find so many days beautiful. And after having lived in the northern gray climates for three years, I'm starting to understand why the French are so eager to applaud the sun.

A Hidden Statue

Back in November, my darling little brother came to visit me. We meet up in Paris and spent the weekend.

While cutting through the jardin de Luxembourg, I suddenly remembered that the statue of liberty has a second residence there. Or at least, I thought I remembered there being a copy of her statue, and was pretty sure it was in the Luxembourg gardens.

So we checked out the directory. There was no mention of it. But I wasn’t going to let some silly, not very precise map be the end-all-be-all of statue of liberty locations.

Luckily just then, a rather cute twenty something Parisian gentlemen happened upon our path. I asked him about the statue.

He was in agreement with the directory.

I was in disagreement with both of them.

My brother was growing impatient, and seemed ready to give up on our quest, when I saw them; an elderly couple going for a leisurely stroll through the park. And I knew that they knew because, as I said to my brother, “old people know things.”

“Excusez-moi? Bonjour” (Excuse me? Hello)

“Bonjour…” (Hello…)

“Desolée de vous derangez, mais je voulais savoir si vous savez pour la statue-“ (Sorry to bother you, but would you happen to know where the statue-)

She didn’t even let me finish my question.

“Ah oui, tout le monde veux la voir. Elle est juste là, à gauche, derière les joeurs de pétanque.” (Oh yes, everybody wants to see her. She’s just over there, on the left, behind the bocce ball players).


Little brother and I with Lady Liberty herself!
Following her flawless directions, my brother and I saw the tiny version of the Statue of Liberty. Not a common tourist destination to be sure, but the important thing to remember is that I was right!

Best Beer in the World : A Visit to Saint Sixtus

50 minutes by car away from Lille, in the middle of nowhere Belgium, surrounded by flat fields as far as the eye can see, lies a hard to find monastery, the Abbey of Saint Sixtus.

While there are eight beer-brewing monasteries, collectively known as Trappists, the Abbey of Saint Sixtus remains much in the shadows when compared to its monastic brethren.

This is because their beer, unlike its better-known counterparts such as Chimay and Orval, is not sold commercially. In order to buy it, according to their website, one must call in advance, hope to have a little luck as their phone line is often busy, and give them your license plate number. Each car is allowed one crate.

In order to taste it, however, there is a lovely little visitor’s center just across the way from the Abbey. This is the only place in the world where the beer is available.

Why would one go to so much trouble just to drink beer you might ask? Easy, it is widely considered the best beer in the world.

And boy oh boy, I dare say I do agree.

The Westvleteren 12 is a strong, dark beer, coming in at 10.2%, and it is to this beer the Abbey owes all its fame.


The Westveletern 12 in all its glory.
I don’t usually enjoy dark beers, but this one was delightful with a caramel finish. I spent a lovely afternoon there with friends, drinking incredible beer and eating delicious cheese.

While we had a great time, we were definitely of the wrong age. We were the only young people in the room. And to make matters even more complicated, the menu is entirely in Flemmish, the servers only speak Flemmish, and all the other people in the establishment were speaking in Flemmish.

Not to worry, all one really needs to do is drink one Westveletern 12, and that 10.2% ABV makes everyone fast friends.

Check it out:
"In de Vrede"
Donkerstraat 13
8640 WESTVLETEREN
Tel. 057/40.03.77

Registration

While I have gotten somewhat used to never having a clue as to what is going on at my school, whether it be the administration or assignments, I must admit some things still throw me for a loop.

Unlike most French universities, UTT does let its students choose some of their classes. As a graduate student, the choices are usually between two or three pre-selected classes, but first semester we even had an UV libre, or a free class, where we were allowed to pick “any” class we wanted (any class that fit into our already set schedule, which did reduce the choices considerably).

Despite registration for the second semester being a week away, we had yet to receive any information about which classes we would be taking next semester. In the guide des UV (course catalogue) there is a list of classes we are supposed to take. However, it lists all possible classes, and does not say which ones are mandatory, and which ones we may choose between.


Le guide des UV (course catalogue)
Never mind the fact that I think the school should inform us without us having to ask, wanting to research my choices, I finally gave in and sent an email to our program director.

To which she responded, “Yes, I’ll do that soon. By the way, when is registration?”

And when I sent her the registration dates, which were not only on all of the school websites but also had been emailed to the whole school several times over, I got an automatic reply from her inbox. “Je suis absente jusqu'au mois d'aout et ne pourrai prendre connaissance de votre message avant mon retour (I will be absent until August and wont be able to look at any messages until my return).”

So much for registering for classes on time.