I believe the village we went to was called Pêche? I'm trying to find it right now on GoogleMaps and it's not coming up... which could be because it's very small... Anyways it was about an hour or so outside of Paris, and absolutely lovely. I got so lucky with my host family; not just because they're very kind towards me, but also because they have lots of friends with nice houses and include me in all of their visits.
An entire room of Klein (my current favorite) at the Pompidou
Before I commence with the tales of this weekend, I should mention that on Friday I went back to the Pompidou to see the rest of their permanent collection and to buy a silver ring from a street artist I had seen out front the other day. She was from Mexico (as were the stones in the ring) and while I am very happy with my purchase, I am very unsatisfied with my Spanish. I tried to exchange a few words in her native tongue, but the only thing I could manage was a feeble, "muchas gracias." It was pathetic and so frustrating, but ça va. I'm thinking I might take a Pass/Fail Spanish class in the Fall to learn how to juggle both languages.
Later that night Reid and I went back to the home for handicapped adults that my host family volunteers at to celebrate one of the resident's birthday. It had been a few weeks since I'd last visited, but all of the people I'd seen recognized me. Unfortunately because of my voice, I couldn't really say anything to them, but it was a good reminder of how fortunate our situation is.
Then yesterday morning we left early for the country. I fell asleep in the car... but when we arrived we went directly to an open-air farmer's market. But this was no ordinary farmer's market, this was a French farmer's market. I marveled in wonder at the beautiful cheeses, bread, seafood, and yummy-looking produce, all in the tiny main square of the village, surrounded by little cottages with different colored shutters. We tried a sample of cheese with microscopic insects on the outside, and there was even an escargot cart on wheels (although we didn't try any of that -- someday, however).
After that we went back to their house, which was very simple but in a beautiful location. We dined on flavorful, raw radishes, apricots, some sort of sausage that they wouldn't explain to me for fear of shocking my usually-vegetarian self, fresh salad from their garden, and (of course) bread and cheese. We then sought to go for a walk, but made it no farther than 500m before being caught in a torrential downpour. Trying to seek shelter under some trees and failing, we finally decided to make a run for it through the sheets of rain. We laughed as we ran and tried not to slip in the mud, Vincent yelling, "Allez, allez, bon, bon!" like a hilarious personal trainer. Soaked, we made it back to the house not a moment too soon, where we alternatively took naps and painted. Then we gave walking another try. This is what we found...
...needless to say I got the breath of fresh air I was craving. My goodness, it was so beautiful. I still couldn't say much, so I ended up doing a lot of listening over the weekend, which was perfectly alright with me because I could feel free to tune in and out, choosing to focus on the gorgeous nature surrounding us, instead. We were accompanied mostly by a ménagerie (French word!) of animals, save for the occasional convertible or four-wheeler speeding down the country lane.
It's funny; being in a big city, it's easy to point out the things that set Paris apart from Stockholm. But out in the country, the little things between the two lifestyles stood out. For example:
- Houses are different. I mean, duh, but still, it was interesting to see the French version of "country living" in comparison with the Swedish version (see below).
- French people talk a whole lot more. Really, there was hardly a quiet moment -- a huge contrast with the mostly silent walks/meals in the Swedish countryside.
- Sweets are less vital, I would say, to the French. But then again, cheese is the dessert. This weekend, goat cheese was the dairy of choice.
- Meals are all over the place. I think my stomach has actually begun to shrink because I go so long between eating here. Breakfast is optional, lunch is pretty filling, dinner is large and late (around 9-10pm every night). Let's repeat that; breakfast is optional. Definitely not a Swedish habit, meaning it is taking me a while to adjust to the simple bread/jam/coffee routine, rather than filling up first thing in the morning.
Anyways, last night I slept rather well, and this morning, after attending mass at a beautiful, tiny stone church that possesses the oldest pipe organ in Europe (or so they say), we ate lunch and met up with some acquaintances from Paris that happened to be attending the same church in Pêche (?). Small world, but I guess it is Europe.
The house of these acquaintances is perhaps the most beautiful I've ever seen. It's probably a good thing I didn't have my camera on me because I would have been so tempted to rudely snap pictures left and right. Very old France, old money. Lots of toile de jouy -- a special fabric from France -- everywhere (see below). In fact, in one room, it was covering every coverable surface.
image from: boutiquesdemusees.fr
Everything that could be ornamented was, from the doorknobs to the lampshades. Exposed wooden beams held up a roof that was evidently tiled by hand. It was a veritable château. I have to say, I much prefer a simpler abode for myself, but it was quite an experience to witness the lifestyle of people who, in the words of Sophie, "n'ont pas besoin d'argent" (don't need money).
Another side note comparing Sweden/France; my French, grammar-wise, is almost as good as my Swedish. It's just that French is so much more complicated than Swedish is. The placement of indirect object pronouns, virlangue (the inverse of l'inverse, aka their backwards language - I know I'm not explaining this very well), different ways to negate phrases - heck, even the different verb forms, which Swedish doesn't have - other than my pronunciation/fluency, there's not much separating me from being equally good at both languages. Today I read a comic book (with decent vocabulary, mind you) in French and understood everything. Exciting, but still frustrating because I know there's still so much I have to practice before I feel as comfortable speaking French as I do Swedish. But still, I have a month here.
View from the Pompidou
That's the other thing -- honestly sometimes I feel ready to come home. It feels like I've been on the road for years. In reality, I've only been in France for a month, but I've been abroad for seven weeks and away from my family since January. That's a long time. Today when we were walking again through the countryside, I wanted so badly to share the view with my loved ones at home, but alas, postcards and photos will have to do. Plus, I keep reminding myself that, even when I'm tired and sick, being able to listen to French all day and see famous paintings in the afternoons is worth the fatigue. For now, I should go to bed so I can kick this cold and traipse around Paris like I ought to.
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