this little piggie went to marché

Back from the market and I am beaming.

Whether because of the cold winter weather or waking up after 1pm following a late night out, I haven’t made it to the marché in months. So I made it my personal goal to get there this morning, and boy am I glad I did.

One of Lyon’s greatest attractions are its many outdoor farmers’ markets. Practically every quartier or arrondissement has one (some bigger than others; the one on Quai Saint-Antoine, for example, is one of the biggest, spanning nearly a kilometer along the Saône), and they consist of (sometimes hundreds of) vendors selling everything from fresh produce, cheese, and meat, to flowers, soap, clothes, and an assortment of random trinkets.

What a great tradition and an awesome way to spend the morning. I walked up and down the market closest to me – the one along the Rhône just after Pont de la Guillotière – bought my share of vegetables, fresh cheese, and half a poulet rôti (rotisserie chicken), listened in on people talking about their weekends, and wished everyone I interacted with a bon dimanche (good Sunday). My hands full of bags, I made my way home along the berges, stopping every now and then to take pictures of this beautiful city, and eating the still-warm strawberry muffin I bought from one of the market’s many pâtissiers (bakers).

And now here I am, sitting in my kitchen, a slight breeze drifting in through the open window, the almost-March sun shining brightly on these yellow walls around me. Just made a delicious lunch out of my market goodies and am thinking about heading to Place Bellecour to read and people-watch.

Life is good and I never want to leave this place.

(poivron rouge et aubergine sautés avec huile d'olive, sel, sucre, et épices mexicaines)

(poulet rôti)

(sesame baguette)

(dessert)

españa part 2: in shades of grey between city and sea

More rain. But I’m unfazed as I sit in the warm shelter of Le Troquet des Sens (my new favorite café – the one I discovered wednesday), the soulful words of Aretha Franklin resonating sweetly in my ears.

Barcelona: Day 1

My alarm (a tone I’ve come to detest) went off Tuesday morning at the bright-and-early hour of 7:30. I took a shower in what was by far the cleanest hostel bathroom I’ve ever been in (worth far more than 12€ per night), got ready, packed my bag, and set out. Little did I know that nothing is open that early in Spain. I should have figured it out after I hopped onto the nearly-deserted metro and saw only a few tired-looking commuters (a rare phenomenon on any given 8-am metro in France). But already wide awake, I made my way to the Diagonal metro stop, and, walking out of the station, had my first Gaudí sighting.

La Pedrera (also known as the Casa Milà) is an enormous apartment building in the center of the city. With its undulating walls and organic ironwork, it’s like a mirage straight out of a Dalí painting. Unfortunately, the dull, grey weather made it impossible for me to get pictures worthy of doing Barcelona’s – and particularly Gaudí’s – incredible architecture justice, but the experience was monumental all the same. From La Pedrera, my map led me no more than three or four blocks down Passeig de Gracía to another Gaudí piece, Casa Batlló. I’d love to see how this otherworldly edifice interacts with the sun! Covered in luminescent tiles of various shades of blue, teal, and orange, I imagine it can only be described as a dreamlike, polychromatic light-show. Indeed, I would later see it illuminated at night (an amazing spectacle in and of itself); but I can’t help but feel as though Gaudí’s intentions are somehow undermined by this artificial display. Oh well, wanting to see it in the daylight will just give me an excuse (among many) to return to Barcelona in the future.

Following these architectural sightings and nearly two hours into my Day 1 explorations, I determined it was finally appropriate to eat some breakfast, and settled on GrupoAMT, some random restaurant I passed on the sidewalk. Still new to me, the language barrier continued to be kind of freaky. With the realization that I didn’t even know how to say such basic things as “I’d like…” or “What is…?” I resorted to pointing stupidly at the menu, doing my best not to butcher the pronunciation of the ous ferrats amb xoriço (fried eggs with chorizo sausage… worry not, Hispanophiles, this is Catalan and not Spanish) I ordered with a café sin leche (without milk – a request that, if my muteness hadn’t already made completely clear, confirmed my being foreign). Of course, because the waiter had whisked away my menu before I was able to finish ‘ordering’ (does this imply verbal communication?), my huevos (eggs) came con jamón (ham) and not with sausage. Oh well, still a deliciously satisfying breakfast experience for this lover of anything pork, and only a minor linguistic glitch. After gulping down my gigantic coffee (seriously – this thing was big even by Starbucks-inundated American standards), hurriedly calling Liz to see if you’re supposed to tip in Spain, and listening to the Spanish translation of YMCA, I left the restaurant in a kind of caffeine stupor.

(huevos con jamón)

(café sin leche)

[Side note: music has now switched, somewhat randomly, from Aretha to Serge Gainsbourg. This is good stuff.]

This almost out-of-body daze only intensified as I made my way down Las Ramblas, the gigantic pedestrian avenue cutting through downtown Barcelona. Las Ramblas has some weird stuff. Among all of the newspaper kiosks and postcard stands are a random assortment of mobile, collapsible pet ‘shops’ (that’s right, buy a chicken or ferret while you’re out if you happen to feel so inclined), flower markets, and – scariest of all – people dressed up as human statues soliciting euro-cents for their bizarre spectacles. These artists (can they be called that?) are definitely committed, dyed from head to toe in silver- and copper-colored paint; they stand completely still until you drop a coin or two into their tin cans, at which point they’ll adopt a new pose and hold it until they get more money. The most frightening of these street performers was neither a faux statue nor the white-clad angel handing out turquoise marbles to children brave enough to approach her; rather, it was a man who had somehow created the illusion of being an infant in a cradle, wailing like a baby when he wasn’t taking pictures with tourists or asking Spanish women to grace his cheeks with dos besos (two kisses). Needless to say, walking down Las Ramblas was an unsettling and surreal experience, but one that was also an oddly appropriate representation of the city of Barcelona.

Hoping for a momentary return to earth, I decided to turn off of Las Ramblas onto some random side street. I savored the calm of this particular alleyway, listening to the steady sound of rain on the rooftops above me and watching precipitate globules fall to the cobbled ground with a splash. This moment of tranquility was all too fleeting; turning the corner, I ran into the commotion of the Mercat St Josep La Boqueria, an immense covered market positioned smack dab in the city center. There, I weaved through a maze of produce, meat, egg, and cheese stands, eyeing, among other things, the heaps and heaps of beautiful Spanish citrus! Catching sight of a particularly inexpensive (not that anything was terribly costly to begin with) stand, I bought an excessive kilogram of Valencian oranges (for only 0,89€!) and another kilo of local clementines (0,99€). With my backpack now approximately four pounds heavier, I made one more circuit around the market, remarking such contradictions as women in ruffled floral aprons hacking away at slabs of raw meat with frighteningly large cleavers before placing them indifferently onto beds of ice in front of them. Spain sure is something special.

(produce, produce, produce!)

(huevos a-plenty)

(cítrico city)

The afternoon was, as far as jam-packed 2-day tourism goes, pretty relaxing. At first frustrated by the grey weather because I felt like I wasn’t experiencing the “real” Barcelona, I readjusted my attitude and decided to use the weather to my advantage. I abandoned all hopes of getting great shots of the city’s many tourist spots and instead dedicated myself to observing and documenting some of its lesser-acknowledged aspects, and thus headed to the port. I admit this is a pretty popular sight, but unlike the tourists hastily making their way down the promenade to the aquarium and back before rushing to their next destination, I decided to hang around for over an hour in the hopes of gaining a profounder insight into the complexities of this particular part of the city. In addition to the multitude of camera-clad sightseers, I noticed that the port also attracted a number of locals; and I understand its appeal – even on this rainy day. One thing these locals shared in common: they were all alone. There’s something oddly humbling about being caught between city and sea, and Barcelona is unique in partbecause of its position on the Mediterranean. Staring out over the water, back against the roaring city, you experience this strangely comfortable but inevitably transitory moment of self-awareness...this is deep stuff.

Other events from the afternoon and evening include: buying my train ticket to Valencia followed by sitting for half an hour in the train station away from the now pouring rain and people-watching in my continued pursuit of discovering everyday Barcelona; getting lost in some random, narrow-roaded barrio (neighborhood) with lots of graffiti, cranes, and construction; more coffee; standing over trashcans as I peeled oranges, my hands literally dripping with juice and stained a semi-permanent shade of yellow-orange; sitting on a bench on Las Ramblas where I successfully convinced an Algerian girl who said I resembled Clark Kent (one of THREE people in Spain to do so!) that I was French; dinner at Samoa where I got a delicious pizza with ham, goat cheese, and red peppers; La Pedrera and Casa Batlló by night; returning to the hostel, internets, bed.

Sorry, folks. Brevity ain’t my thing. I’ll go ahead and give you guys a break and write about Day 2 in another post. You may thank me.

mercredi musings

Between classes and catching up with friends in cafés to discuss various February-break adventures, I haven’t had a lot of time to write. My weekend begins tomorrow, though, so I’ll work on getting post #2 up soon.

In the meantime, I’ve realized (and some of you have told me) that my blog is lacking in the pictures department. I was inspired this afternoon by the warm(ish) weather to explore the quartier just across the Rhône from my apartment. I had no particular destination in mind and no expectations, but after nearly 6 months in this city, I figured I should probably be familiar with the area, since it’s so close to me. I won’t go into too many details, but my findings – and the afternoon in general – made me fall in love all over again with Lyon.

Here’s why:

(Pont de l'Université)

(The berges du Rhône)

(Bateaux sur le Rhône)

After taking a staggering number of these kinds of pictures, I finally made my way across Pont de l’Université (of which I’ve pretty much taken ownership, referring to it as my pont if anyone even mentions it) and began to explore some of the side streets. I wish I’d discovered this area sooner! It was full of eclectic antique shops, furniture stores, tea-houses, restaurants (including a tapas bar!), boulangeries, etc., and I’m excited to waste time perusing the piles of useless knick-knacks hidden behind their doors when they’re not all closed for the evening.

Eventually, I settled into a cool-looking café, ordered an espresso, and read the book I bought this morning, Lettres à un ami allemand by Albert Camus. Eva joined me soon thereafter, 500-page Voyage au but de la nuit in hand (intimidating stuff!), and while she barely made a dent in her roman (novel), I finished mine.

All in all, a great afternoon.

españa part 1: barça-bound

There are many adjectives you could use to describe me, but concise is not one of them. Because of this, I’ve decided to break my Spain-related entries into (at least) 3 installments. I’m doing this for the sake of you guys (I can handle my own long-windedness), so bear with me.

My trip began somewhat fittingly in a crowded train station across from a bug-eyed girl in bright red glasses. As she and I sat there waiting for them to announce our voie (platform), the percussive humming of music spilled out of her gigantic green headphones. Her suitcase, the color of fresh orange citrus – of which I would soon consume a shameful plenty – lay at her feet in stark and almost rebellious contrast to the otherwise monochromatic black-and-grey landscape of metropolitan France. This intriguing, insect-like girl, who I secretly hoped was my travel partner (at least for the next two hours), would become a kind of caricature for my week-long Spanish vacation, her music the rhythmic pulse of my dissociated self, beating with increasing force as I began to perceive and discover this alien land through my own pair of rose-colored glasses.

My fleeting dream of getting to know her, however, vanished as quickly as it had appeared as she boarded the one o’ clock train to Paris. Instead, I got stuck next to a bespectacled 10-year old boy who had long ago outgrown his “cute” phase, but neither he nor his mother had realized it. In fact, his non-charming behavior was only aggravated by maman, who encouraged him to talk to the people around him (including, unfortunately, me) and who had clearly bestowed upon her son no conception of personal space. By the end of our 2-hour voyage I was relieved to dismount the train, released from the suffocating confines of my window seat and away from this boy’s spastic elbow jabs. After a series of piercing Blake-like glares, it’s safe to say that he and I were not amigos as we parted ways in Montpellier.

Because my train from Lyon departed fifteen minutes late, I was forced to jump off of it in Montpellier and immediately leap onto the next as the conductor’s whistles blew and the train I prayed was on its way to Barcelona began to leave the gare (station). So that I wouldn’t have to wonder for 5+ hours if I was actually going to make it to Spain (and perhaps come up with a new plan in the event that I ended up hundreds of miles away from my intended destination), I confirmed with a woman in my voiture (car) that we were indeed Barcelona-bound before locating my seat and falling into it with a great sigh of relief.

For the next several hours (or as long as there was still daylight), I sat with my eyes glued to the window. What an awe-inspiring ride! At uncomfortably high speeds, we wobbled precariously along the edge of the Mediterranean (literally the edge; at times, I’d look down and see nothing but an inch or so of iron track separating me from the water, which crashed into the cliffs nearly a hundred feet below me), passing every now and then through terracotta-roofed villages and stopping occasionally to let people on and off the train. The sea was framed by the winter skeleton of a paysage (countryside) that, although completely barren, possessed its own sublime beauty. With increasing frequency, we burrowed through tunnels that penetrate the ancient hills and mountains of the Mediterranean coast. As grey dusk approached, a dense haze hovered heavily over the wavering waters, the horizon a distant and blurry abstraction existing more in theory than in actual reality. Inside the train, an idle silence fell over my fellow passengers and me. Aside from the slow, somnambulistic traffic of travelers wandering through our taupe-and-beige-colored car on their way to the dining compartment, things seemed to be at a complete standstill; time itself appeared to have stopped. That is, of course, until we crossed the Spanish frontière (border).

We appropriately entered España at nightfall. As darkness closed in on our windows, so did it close in on my ability to communicate, and the reality of my not being able to speak Spanish became quickly apparent. I followed the actions of others, doing but not fully understanding why, and nodded confusedly as three Spanish policía took my passport into a neighboring car before returning it to me five minutes later, seemingly untouched (I still don’t know what that was all about). From the moment I stepped off of the train an hour or two later (my first view of Barcelona was through the train’s window and consisted of nothing more than a series of black hills against black skies, which were illuminated by the frenzied twinkling of lights), I entered a world of chaotic energy. Barcelona is huge and finding my way to the hostel, which was on the other side of the city, was a daunting task for this country boy, especially at night.

My leaving the half-shelter of the Estació de França marked the true beginning of my Spanish aventura. I navigated my way to the Barceloneta metro station, and there entered the bowels of the city, only breaking the surface 10 stops, 2 connections, and 35 minutes later. Of course, at that point, the rain was coming down – and hard. Somehow, the directions I’d copied from Google Maps were wrong, and I spent nearly an hour wandering Barcelona’s poorly marked streets, failing to communicate successfully with its citizens given their lack of English and my lack of Spanish, and confused as to why I seemed to be on the right track but couldn’t find the street I was looking for. Finally, I managed to find the correct passatge (a narrow alley I’d already passed two or three times but had somehow missed; I’m convinced, now, that you had to pass it three times before it magically appeared out of thin air like the Room of Requirement), and reached the refuge of my hostel. My clothes and luggage sufficiently drenched, I entered the warm hostel after being buzzed in, and got my room key, a map of Barcelona, and a list of sites to check out from a friendly Spanish girl who spoke (thank goodness!) perfect English. From there, I settled into my room, momentarily (but never seriously) considered trying to find something to eat close to the hostel, and put on some dry clothes. Perched in the Yellow Nest (the name of my hostel), I passed out by 11:00pm (ridiculously early by Spanish standards), excited to explore Spanish culture for real the following day.

Phew, voilà part uno of my babblings. I promise to get part dos (Barcelona + pictures!) up as soon as possible! Thanks for reading. ¡Hasta luego!

la vie est grève

This is actually going to have nothing to do with my previous post, despite my promise of a sequel (although I never actually said part 2 would follow immediately). But I just had such a typical French moment and felt I had to share it with you all.

In true Tyler fashion, I’m just now starting to plan a possible trip for the week-long February vacances (vacation) I have starting at the end of next week. (On second thought, planning something a whole nine days in advance is completely uncharacteristic behavior for me…) Anyway, if everything works out, I’ll be heading to Spain (specifically Valencia and Barcelona!) for the break, which is an exciting prospect after more than a month of this below-30 weather.

Still running on the caffeine high induced by my post-class café, I was able to motivate myself to leave the shelter of my hermit’s abode for the second time today. I hopped on to the T1 (literally – the doors were sliding violently to a close as I squeezed through them) and set off on my journey to Perrache, home to one of many SNCF train stations here, and one of two principal festering eyesores infecting the otherwise picturesque Lyonnais cityscape (the second being the Part-Dieu Tower, Lyon’s only real skyscraper, which pierces the skyline like a pencil and thus earns itself the nickname “le crayon”).

At Perrache, I was welcomed (I use this term loosely) by the unfriendly faces of TCL contrôleurs, who refused to let me descendre until I handed them my metro pass and proved that I was, indeed, a paying customer and a legitimate, rule-abiding traveler. From there, I ascended a series of stairs (I opted not to take the escalators following my rash decision this afternoon to eat two full sandwiches for lunch instead of my usual one), at the top of which I paused to catch my breath (its officially time to start running again) before walking the last stretch to my destination. When I got there, the line was nearly out the door. But I decided to stay because I felt like this was important (ha, let’s be honest, it was really because I had nothing better to do and a full 54 minutes to kill before Megavideo would allow me to continue watching the season premier of Lost). Grabbing a random selection of train- and travel-related brochures, I took my place in line behind an old woman sporting an ensemble (coat, hat, gloves) made completely out of fur. For 30 minutes I stood in line behind this lovely lady in leopard-print, reading the useless literature, and catching the occasional whiff of the offensive odor (a combination of stale cheese, smoke, and salami) that has undoubtedly been trapped inside of this woman’s thick fur coat for years. Needless to say, I was happy when it was finally my turn to talk to someone. Stumbling over the phrase I’d gone over in my head while I was waiting in line (Je voudrais me renseigner sur la possibilité de prendre un train de Lyon à Valence en Espagne - I’d like to find out about the possibility of taking a train from Lyon to Valencia, Spain), I was told that I’d have to come back tomorrow because they weren’t helping people today with questions regarding international travel. Why? One word, plain and simple: grève (strike).

Ah, the infamous French grève. Even before I came to France, I knew that grèves were common occurrences here. Last spring, for example, there was a student strike that lasted for almost 3 months, during which classes were canceled more frequently than not, and many students studying abroad had to find alternative means of meeting people and getting class credit. Within my first few weeks in Lyon, the TCL (public transportation people) declared a grève that they estimated would last 3 months (apparently you’re required to say how long the strike is going to last, but that approximation isn’t binding). It was something we all felt we should experience at least once, but got old pretty quickly. These people know how to strike; they don’t completely stop the metros/trams/buses, but rather figure out how to make traveling as inconvenient as possible. They’ll cancel some lines and not others, and force you to check the constantly-changing schedule online on a daily basis.

So after four months, this whole grève thing has become so second-nature to me that even when I’m aware of them, I store that information in some poorly-organized, rarely-accessed file lying haphazardly on the floor of my brain. Which is why I should have known that I wasn’t going to get the answers I was looking for today, but completely forgot. With several of these experiences now under my belt, I’ve been able to reach the following conclusion about this form of strike: more than anything, the French grève is a simple act of cultural pride (because yes, they do seem to be proud of this irksome tradition) masking itself behind the façade of a mouvement social.

customs and mannerisms, part 1

After finishing Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood and scrambling all over Lyon in fruitless search of her Oryx and Crake, which takes place in the same post-apocalyptic world, I finally decided to take the easy way out and ordered it online from Barnes and Noble. As I anxiously await the arrival of what I don't doubt will be a good read (it better be, at least - it ain't cheap to get books shipped to France, let alone back to the U.S. when I'm done with this year-long shindig), I have started a novel I heard about months ago entitled Netherland by Joseph O'Neill. I don't intend to bore you with a review of this book (mainly because I'm only 60 pages into it), but I did encounter an appropriate quote, which, lucky for you guys, has inspired me to end my two-week dry spell (can it even be called that after only one post?) and blog.

Here's what the protagonist Hans van den Broek has to say: "Coming to America [...] I'd eagerly taken to new customs and mannerisms at the expense of old ones. How little, in the fluidities of my continent, I missed the ancient clotted continent. But self-transformation has its limits; and my limit was reached in the peculiar matter of batting."

We all choose our study-abroad destinations for different reasons, and throughout the early stages of this process I had to ask myself whether or not I wanted to feel like a tourist in a place I would temporarily call "home." It's true that as a French major, I was drawn to the Francophone world. But with French as the official language of nearly 30 diverse nations, not to mention widely-spoken though unofficial in a number of others, this criterion hardly narrowed the spectrum of my choices. It wasn't until I met with Davidson professor Dr. Fache that I got a true sense of what I wanted to gain from an experience abroad. We were actually discussing the prospect of my being away for a full academic year instead of a semester when she advised me, "With a semester you'll become proficient in the language; with a year, you'll be able to break that language barrier and immerse yourself in the culture."

Although my passion for the French language certainly influenced my decision to come to France, it was by no means the deciding factor. With Dr. Fache's words ringing in my ears I realized that even more than immersion I wanted assimilation. I wanted to become and play an active role in my new culture. And I recognized that this wouldn't happen if I constantly felt like a tourist. From the beginning, I've wanted to blend in to this whirlwind French world, and part of that has come from a dedication to the mastery of its language. But it has also - and perhaps more importantly - come from the adoption of its "customs and mannerisms."

Which is why I find myself sitting in this crowded café, sipping coffee from a cup small enough to fit in my pocket, and nibbling away on this sugar-and-butter-coated croissant. And aside from you, my devoted readers, I can say with near certainty that I'm the only person who knows for sure that I'm not French - at least not yet.

Stay tuned for part 2 of this post, i.e. what I was actually going to say before I got distracted with the above ramblings.