1.12.07

I don’t like Paris much. Too big, dirty, impersonal, daunting, expensive. Toulouse however is another matter. I pulled myself out of bed at eight thirty, wanting to visit the Saturday market. I make the tour first to see what is there. Old men selling eggs and honey. Women selling pumpkins and clumps of garlic. All is sufficiently surveyed, I go back once more, hands out of my pea coat, ready to harvest for the week. Eggs, carrots, cabbage, a pre-made soup mélange, cheese. I ask for two I like, then ask him to propose something, highly recommended. An old cantal. Strong, breaks like parmesan. Running home with my treasures, Nico, David and Cecil are on the street. I am late. Today is a trip to Toulouse for wandering and presents. The city has rain. I can’t remember any of the sounds, only the feeling of contentment. Buying doesn’t entice, I go in on a Frisbee. Dinner for one at nine.

30.11.07

I taught my first official, sweaty underarm, dry throat, all in French class today. In front of thirty-two kids and one economics teacher I talked about my ‘financial testimony in America’. It felt fairly natural. Class started at eight, one student. We talked about video games. The two afternoon classes were equally inspiring, but after I did get to encourage one of the guys who was trying, despite the two girls around him making fart noises. Apparently, the headmaster made a few decisions that have rendered the Lycee Soult less than tranquil. The profs are uniting next week to form their response. I am part of the French Alpine Club here. The one hundred ninety participants got together to look at the pictures from the year, eat and drink; talk. I starred in three pictures. Nico’s mom came to get us at 11. Good thing, I used up all my good French for the day. It was going downhill quick.

29.11.07

Not a usual Thursday, but welcomed. I slip easily into habit. Trying to be disciplined to work on lessons at night makes it tough to touch the floor four hours before the bus the next day. Heaving myself out of bed, donning spandex and a shirt I ran my hill course. I only have two routes, this is my favorite. The space heater warmed the bathroom so upon returning the shave and shower were delicious. Ninety minutes until departure. I drink coffee and read. Grab the bus at eleven twenty-five, the slightly grumpy pony-tailed blond woman chauffeuring. A quick prep for class; perfect; the class I dread is next week. Three classes, ending at five, debates raised more emotion than I thought. Substituted soccer for watching climbing. Tendonitis equals no climbing. Nico and his mom took me home while recounting Sarkosy’s speech on TV. Note to self, ‘Friends’ does not inspire. Wrote, ate the last bit of food, bed.

28.11.07

Rotten apples spoil the bunch; a rotten kid can ruin your day. I try. Try to make the topics interesting, but today one kid would not shut up. Tried to ignore him, nothing. He was interrupting with useless English words. The third straight hour of teaching and thankfully the last, I was a little tired and edgy. Raphael, who took me home, gave me ammunition I can use to discipline them. Made it home before one and don’t have class for twenty-four hours, so I take the afternoon off. Looking for a pot to cook soup in, hesitated, to big? Left empty-handed. Right to the lovely library. I like it there, the clientele is interesting. Came home, napped, spent time being quiet in front of Jesus, and made crepes while talking to Laura on Skype. Looking for class ideas so watched some episodes of Friends. Yannick called. Quickly crawled into sub-zero bed, the first five seconds are the worst.

27.11.07

Tuesday starts with the game of see-how-long-I-can-stay-in-bed-until-I-HAVE-to-brave-the-freezing-air. It lasts till 6:45. I happily walk past the busses I have missed twenty minutes ago. Meet Angelina at the municipal electric building to drive to school. Thirty-minute small talk session. She shushes me to hear about the riots that happened south of Paris. First class doesn’t show because they have to make up another class. I wander to the teacher’s lounge to fill five hours between classes. The university kids here are on strike; so to be ‘one’ all the high school kids decide to follow suit. However, one of my friends is an organizer and decides to call it off because most just want a day off. I eat lunch with the teachers; teach two classes that average out to be below bearable, and meet my ‘new’ Peugeot mountain bike. Dragging it over to the climbing wall, I freeze for four hours before Jean Baptist takes me home.

One week, onethousandonehundredandtwentywords

Brandon encouraged me to write everyday, and not just for me.
I saw this challenge in action as a friend had to write a story in 160 words exactly for a contest. On my run today I decided to do the same. This is one week. Seven days where I will write 160 words exactly about each day. It is so that a week will be documented, so that all of you will be in the know, and for me, I am trying to be a better writer so this is good practice.
Welp, here it goes.

26.11.07
My week doesn’t really begin until Tuesday, I will have to have a less than stellar intro day. Monday, there is not a whole lot open with, I don’t do much really. Recoup from the weekend, I slept in this morning till 10:30. And plan for the week. I spent a little over a half an hour under the table reading and journaling. Why under the table? No heat save a small space heater so I put it under the table, put a blanket over and called it good. I did yoga in my freezing kitchen, and then sat on the computer for a few hours, looking at pants, dietary changes to help tendonitis, and ideas for lessons. A run along a city path. Flat and oddly crossing streets. Passed by old women on a walk, slowly moving, but moving none the less, they smiled at me, ‘bonjour’s all around. Made a rice, lentil, quinoa salad. Worked some more. Bed.

Regional food

One of the many interesting things about France and most of Europe for that matter is that back in the day, people didn’t travel a whole heap. However mundane and sleepy this statement may be to start out a blog entry, stay with me, the crescendo is coming.

So since Frenchies didn’t go many places, and had to make a living with what they had, they started taking those things that grew well in their area and making France the culinary mecca it is. For instance, in the north of France, cows liked the open areas and helped to make some of the best Brie and Camembert in the world, if not the only. Apples also grew surprisingly well in the climate and tended to like the rain and wind and soil, much like in Washington. They take these apples and make the best lightly fermented cider you have tasted, and for those, like me, who like it a little stronger, there is Calvados. Beautiful amber color, sweeter than most like it, but strong and delicious. And with the French when two things are good, sugar and cream, meat and cheese, butter and chocolate, why not mix them? You got it, mix whatever parts cider and Calvados in a tall glass and you have a Pommeau [ pronounced pom-o, French for apple is pomme]. Usually served before dinner, or as a sedative if drank alone.

Near Chamonix up in the mountains it is cold and a little tough in the winter, but les dames, (the ladies) the cows, as they are called, like the sweet alpine grass and the cool mountain streams so this is where we get fondu (bread dipped in melted cheese) and a delicious dish known as raclette. Raclette is cheese melted in a small open oven in the middle of the table, and then scraped onto a plate full of potatoes, thinly sliced meat, onions and pickles. Well really you could have half a sock on your plate if you wanted, and once you put that melted cheese over it, you’d probably like it just as well. Although neither one of these plates are particularly light, they are good when it is negative 10 outside and there isn’t much to do but try and stay warm.

In the West there are delicious wines in Burgundy area, Seafood galore in the south, sauerkraut and sausage in Strasbourg near Germany, and as for me…well I got to try the specialty of the my region last night at a local restaurant.
Here in the region of Tarn the specialty is fois gras, which is goose liver, as well as a main dish called Cassoulet.

The next entry will be about my experience tasting these treats, but while we are on the subject of regional food.

My father is a gardner, by hobby, not profession, but he darn well should be. I have never in my life tasted a better tomato than the ones from dad’s garden. Not even a heirloom tomato sold in Bellingham for $6 a pound at the farmer’s market compares to the taste and texture my dad produced in his tomatoes this year. Organic has nothing on these fruits. Blood meal is about the harshest thing he puts down for them, that and a truckload of carefully chosen ripe manure from the local stalls.

So the challenge to myself is to get out to the public library here and learn all I can about growing stuff. Who knows, when my folks retire, and if this takes off, maybe dad will be the community farmer. Or maybe I will learn enough to take care of my household and maybe create a local delicacy of my own?