---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Wed, 17 Jul 2002 08:38:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Cathy Gellis 
To: cathyg@csua.berkeley.edu
Subject: A Provençal Accent


I'm now halfway through the third week of classes.  Hard to believe 
it's almost over.  We are back to the first professor.  I don't detest her 
as a person, but as a teacher she drives us all crazy. She's not as clear 
and patient in her explanations of things.  Nor is she as helpful and
nurturing as would be desirable when people make errors while 
speaking. ("that's absurd!" she sometimes complains when people have defiled some
rule of French grammar)  She's not horrible but she pales to the other 
teacher who manages to correct people's mistakes while not derailing their 
entire train of thought or tanking their self-esteem.

I feel like I speak 4 different languages: (my) written French, which 
is getting most improved by the classes and their attention to grammar;
'read' French - the French I read on signs and in the newspaper; spoken
French, when I try to make myself understood; and aural French when I
manage to understand what others are saying to me.  For some miraculous
reason unbeknownst to me, my oral (aural) comprehension is pretty damn good.  
When I don't understand something it's usually because I just didn't hear a
part of it, or encountered a crucial word I couldn't make out.
Unfortunately, my spoken French is not what I'd hoped it would be.  
It's still dusty, and sometimes my confidence wanes.  I've managed to have
entire conversations in French, but the best one occurred after I had 
been drinking some wine. (I discovered a few years ago that if I drink French
wine, I speak French much better.  I presume if I drink tequila I can
start speaking Spanish.)

Other than my one professor who can get grumpy at some of my errors, no
one laughs at my errors that must sound absolutely ridiculous.
Such as when I made a train reservation and instead of requesting a non-
smoking seat, I requested one that wasn't smoked (I prefer my seats to 
be salt-cured, thank you...).

But I'm generally understood.  Although down here in Aix
I've noticed that if you stutter for a moment, rather than repeat what
they just said, people will switch to English.  Which kind of takes the
fun out of trying to speak French.

The days here have passed quickly.  I tend to be awakened in the middle 
of the night only a few times per week.  Naturally "Sarah" was behind one 
of those occasions.  Last week was one guy's birthday.  His friend and
roommate declared that he would not have to pay for his own drinks, 
which was acceptable to the people who went out with them (including my
roommate, who related this tale to me.)  At some point Sarah showed 
up, and tried to get them to pay for her drinks.  She didn't succeed, so 
she decided to go hit up Frenchmen to have them pay for her drinks.  It
appears she was successful because at 4:30am, having left the windows
open, the entire neighborhood got to hear just how much she was 
enjoying paying them back...

Luckily I've managed to avoid her most of the time.  She didn't join us 
on the group excursion last weekend.  We went to Glanum, a site of 
excavated Roman ruins, then had a zillion-course French lunch at a restaurant 
whose building was built into a rock at an old quarry, then raced up to the 
top of Les Baux de Provence.  Les Baux has a huge stone ruin of a Chateau
(castle) that had been built on and into the stone at the top of a 
hill. You could climb all over the ruin and ascend lots of treacherous steps,
plus take in lots of terrific vistas.  Unfortunately, we only had an 
hour so I didn't get to climb as thoroughly as I would have liked.  It will 
be worth another visit.

The day before that Jennifer (roommate) and I went on the school's
excursion to the Luberon.  We started in Apt, saw Camus' grave in
Lourmarin, went up to Gordes (another town perched on a hill, built 
back when they thought that was a good idea), and had lunch outside 
Rousillon where there is a nature preserve with lots and lots of bright ochre 
cliffs and rocky spires.

Then last Saturday I went to Arles to rent a bike.  I had packed my 
bike shoes with the special cleat so I was hoping to find someone who could
rent a bike with the special pedal.  I found a place in Aix, but then I found out
that it was functionally impossible to take the bike on the train.
Despite one pamphlet which strongly indicated you could take bikes on 
any train, it turned out upon inquiry that you could only take them on a
handful of erratically scheduled trains.  So I found a place in Arles 
that rented them, and called ahead to make sure they could put on the 
special pedals.

Once at the shop and I realized there had been a misunderstanding.
When I had asked them to change the pedals, they thought I was going to
bring them (next time I come to France, I will).  The owners of the 
shop appeared very sullen looking and grumpy at the outset, but it was just 
a front apparently.  The man went and found pedals to put on, and got me
all set up.  Then I was off, headed to the Camargue.

Unfortunately, it was really windy.  I was originally going to ride 
70km from Arles to Nimes, but I didn't because it was too windy.  And I had
missed the turn.  The bike was also twice as heavy as my road bike at 
home so I didn't push the distance too much.  In the end I think I did a 
50km loop.  Along the way I saw much of what the Camargue has to offer: 
fields of rice and sunflowers, birds, horses, and bulls.  Even the roadkill 
was interesting.  At one point I stopped into Mejanes (sp?) which provided 
an interesting cultural melange.  It appeared that I stopped into a rodeo,
but the stadium there was for bullfights.  It was all dusty and 
desert-like, but with a sea breeze.  People spoke French, sang in Spanish, and wore
cowboy hats.  They sold typical Provençale souvenirs at the stand next to where
they sold bridles and saddles.

All was fine until I headed back and tried to follow the signs to
Arles-Centre and realized just in time that I was about to ride down a
freeway on-ramp.  So I rode around one of these annoying rondes points
(traffic circles), managed to not get killed, then pulled into the
driveway of a gourmet souvenir store sitting strategically in the 
middle of nowhere.  I asked some people leaving for
directions.  They were very friendly, but didn't know.  They brought 
out a clerk who was also very friendly, but not 100% positive either.
Fortunately her best guess was a pretty good one and I was able to get
back.  There all sweaty and happy I regaled the bike store owners with 
my journey.  A guy who entered the store to buy a motorcycle part (they 
sell all sorts of cycles there) thought I was nuts to have done this on a
bicycle and not on a vespa.  Between this and the fact that every 
person I ask about the Tour de France says they don't follow it, I have now 
come to the conclusion that no one in France rides bikes.

That was Saturday.  But Sunday was no day at the beach.  It was raining 
so I didn't go to Nice as planned.  My teacher was up in arms over the
weather - "It never rains on the 14th of July!" she said.  But it did.
And it rained on Monday and Tuesday, plus a bit on the trip to Apt.  
It's not horrible horrible weather, but not really as hot and sunny as one
might expect.  Bastille day was pretty quiet in Aix, although the night
before they had fireworks out by La Rotounde.  In France they let you
stand much closer to the fireworks than any American insurance carrier
would ever allow.  A few people got injured, but c'est la vie.  I 
inhaled a lifetime supply of sulphuric smoke but managed to survive the 
evening.

There had been another mini-excusion in the middle of the week to a
"cave" for a winetasting.  The owner, Gerard, brought out a white, rose, 
and red and also served a dinner of hors d'oeurves, cheeses, breads, and
desserts.  As it happens, I didn't end up sitting at either of the 2
tables with the rest of the CEA students.  I sat down with the program
director and her boyfriend, and then that table became part of a larger
table with Gerard and the friends he had invited.

It was so nice to be sitting with the grown-ups.  For hours I dined and
spoke French with Gerard and his friends (the wine helped).  I even
managed to correctly slip the subjunctive into conversation, which
impressed my director.  And I even was able to be witty in French, simply 
by understanding the conversation around me and correctly timing a 
response. (I am fairly sure the others were laughing with me, not at me...).  One 
of the men told me that I had a very good Provençale accent.  Such an 
accent, he said, comes from the laid back lifestyle of Provence.  Lacking the
urban tension of a Parisian accent, in Provence words are said slower,
softer.  It would be the difference between a New York and a Georgian
accent, I suppose.  Although how I ever got my own internal rhythm to 
slow down to a Provençale pace I'll never know.  It must have been the wine.

Other than that, my days are filled with classes, errands, and I bought 
a subscription for 10 trips to the local pool.  I was hoping to get a lot 
of exercise but it's hard to do laps.  Whereas in the US lap etiquette is 
more strictly enforced (swim down on the right, return on what is now the
right) the French seem to be more arbitrary.  The pool is enormous - 
twice as long as a regular pool - but there usually aren't lane lines.  There
are lane stripes but like much of the other striping in France it seems 
to only exist as a suggestion.  People tend to keep to the same side of a
lane in both directions, or meander over several during their journey.
I've gotten a little more used to it, but not only have I had to learn 
to speak in French, I've also had to learn to swim in French as well.  I 
tend to do about 20-30 minutes of swimming until I get pissed off because 
some little kid has nearly jumped on me.  They let the kids swim in the deep
water with arm-floaty things, even though there's both a baby pool and a 
shallow pool there as well.  The lifeguards seem to let a lot of ill-advised
behavior go unchecked - it must be nice to live in a land with no
lawsuits.

I decided ultimately not to take the second workshop (mini informal class) after my 
journalism one ended.  It was to be about French cinema dialog, but I decided it was 
better to try to live a French life than watch one on film.  Still, on Monday
night I went to a movie.  They restored a Jacques Tati film, 'Play 
Time'. It was unusual because it essentially had no plot.  A Frenchman gets 
lost in a modern office block (modern in 1967) and eventually meets an 
American tourist who sees nothing of Paris except this new development.  There's
very little dialog, and what there is is in English, French, and 
German. The whole movie is a statement against the impersonality and 
dysfunction of modern architecture, particularly in Europe.  The movie drags in 
some spots because there is no plot and Tati uses various urban scenes to
establish visual metaphors, but some of it is hysterical.  As if the 
Marx Brothers had once worked in La Defense.

I'm sure once I send this I will think of something else astonishingly
interesting, after having bored you with tales of Jacques Tati films 
and Sarah's exploits and swimming pools and French teachers and bicycle
pedals and and...  But oh well.  I still haven't eaten any more 
McDonalds, although I inadvertently ate at Quick once more.  I've eaten lots more 
ham sandwiches and some nice tomatoes.  The cherries are fantastic, and I
don't even really like eating cherries.  So tune in next time for the 
next exciting adventure of what in the world is Cathy eating...

A+
Cathy

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3