On a completely different note

The reason French girls don't wear shorts: French men.

A lesson learned the hard way.

Going on strike: the solution to everything!

Let's not lie here, quality of education was not high on my list of concerns when I was picking where to study abroad. In fact, I had a hard time deciding between a semester here or in Paris, where I could study at the world renowned Sciences-Po political science institution. I picked Bordeaux because I wanted to really soak in French language and culture, and I knew it would be easier in a small, intimate city rather than a sprawling cosmopolitan metropolis. I don't regret sacrificing a stimulating academic environment for a more authentic experience of la vie francaise, but all the same...

This is fucking ridiculous. 

Let's backtrack, shall we?

There's a reason I've kept entries about my classes to a minimum. Mostly because the overwhelming majority of them have been a complete and utter waste of time. Unimaginative curriculums aside,  strikes and demonstrations at the school began within a week of classes starting. I have to admit that I know embarassingly little about the rationale behind the strikes, but it has to do with educational reforms at the national level. Sarkozy is notoriously unpopular in the southwest of France, and teachers and students alike stopped showing up to class as a protest against his measures. The French word for strike is grève, and the first week or two we laughed it off as another French idiosyncracy. "The professors are grève-ing!" We'd joke in Franglais at this charming, unapologetically fulfilled stereotype. No school? Cancelled classes? It seemed like a sweet deal; all it meant was an extra night of staying out late.

Our amusement quickly subsided as the grèves began in earnest. There was no way of knowing if your professor was a gréviste, a striker, so we had to trek to school and find out through trial and error. We'd show up to our classes and find them empty (keep in mind that some of us have 45 minute commutes to campus). Professors would spend two hours discussing the protests instead of going through the course material. We'd step into our lecture halls, only to find them taken over by general assemblies voting on various measures. Few of us have any idea what kind of work we're supposed to be doing outside of class, when to turn it in, how we're being graded. We'd try to get into classrooms and buildings, only to find them blockaded by students waving banners.

Recently they have been voting on a blocage total, which would barricade all university buildings and effectively halt classes completely. Today, it passed.

Look, I can appreciate the French sentiment of political activism. It certainly can be a refreshing change from the apathy that's so ubiquitous in America. I know there are nuances in the organization of educational institutions in France that I don't fully understand, but somehow I find it hard to believe that PHYSICALLY BARRING students from their classes is the best solution to dissatisfaction with the government. One of the reasons these reforms are being implemented is because France is lagging internationally in higher level education. It seems a little ironic that the prevailing reaction is to halt it altogether. 

On a personal level, I am starting to get really annoyed that I'm paying out-of-state tuition to sit on my ass. Sure, going out all the time is great, but even I have a limit - and my brain is reaching its rotting threshold. I have not once felt mentally stimulated since I've been here. I didn't come here looking for the same caliber of education as Cal, but this is just too much. I have to say I expected a little more from the country that gave us Descartes, Rousseau, Sartre, Montaigne (and Camus, for Jacob). Unfortunately, all I've been served is a healthy dose of waste-of-time.

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Tiff's take on the subject here:

http://whereyouvelanded.blogspot.com/2009/02/by-way-school-is-joke.html

http://whereyouvelanded.blogspot.com/2009/03/french-universities-for-win.html

Tomatoes and pets

Tonight my host mom made this wonderfully light vegetable stew. I was so excited to eat something not loaded with carbs or cream, but I had barely gotten the tiny squares of green and red into my bowl (first sign of color in my diet in weeks!!) before I heard, "Wait! You can't eat it like that - here, put some butter in your soup."

It's official - even soup gets buttered in France. 

But this time I wasn't going to stand for it. "NON MERCI." I made an excuse about  my cholesterol being high (unfortunately not fictional) and got away with it.

Yesterday I bought cherry tomatoes at the supermarket near my homestay. Not wanting to offend my host mom, who prides herself on her cooking (which is very good by the way - just a little heavy on the beige), I hid them behind my books, praying they'd still be good the next morning without refrigeration. They were. Like a thief, I rinsed them off in the bathroom sink, dreaming of antioxidants and vitamins, then wrapped them in a piece of purloined foil and took them to school. You know you've hit a dietary low point when you've got a secret stash of vegetables lying around your room.

Seriously, how do French women stay so skinny? Eating disorders must be an epidemic here becuase you could not eat a normal amount and not expand/die from a heart attack at 30. Meals are interesting in France though - you'll never see someone eating a sandwich on the tram or while walking. Mealtimes are sacred and slow affairs, meant to be savored. Dining is an event, not a necessity for survival. In fact, almost the entire campus has no class from 12:30 to 1:30 - apparently the French can't imagine life without a lunch break. Unfortunately, this means monstrous lines at the cafeteria during lunch. I guess you can't have it all.

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One of the funniest things about my homestay is that I speak French to the animals - Bill (or Billou), the dog, Mausy the evil cat, and Mauschen the good cat have all been cooed over or chastised by me - en francais. I have yet to speak French to the poules (chickens), but I did get some shots of them today. Here are the non-human members of my family:

Billouuuuuu. He is the sweetest dog ever, though recently with the rain he's developed a, erm, odor. A strong one. He likes to sit right next to you during dinner, staring up and whining for the duration of the meal, occasionally pawing at your leg for attention. If you open a door he goes batshit insane wanting to go out. Close the door while he's outside and he goes batshit insane trying to get back in. In conclusion he is crazy, but I love him. He's an old dog with the soul of a puppy. I speak French to him a lot, but mostly to yell "Arrête!" (Stop that!)

Mauschen, the good cat. My host mom told me that Mauschen means little mouse, which doesn't make much sense but is still cute. He's not in the house as much, but when he is he never objects to petting. Likes to stake out the floor by the living room heater.

Mausy, the evil cat. Her name also means little mouse in German. She's not so much evil as bipolar - catch her at a bad moment and she'll launch at you with her teeth when you try to pet her. On a good day she'll plant herself on your lap and purr for hours. Both she and Bill sleep on my host mom's bed at night, it's precious. One time she came into my room and lay behind me on the bed without my noticing. I reached behind me to grab something from my coat without looking and ended up whacking her across the back. It freaked me the fuck out. I probably actually screamed. Since then we have kept a respectful distance from each other.

Chicken! I don't think they have names. Not yet, anyway. They're scared of me. And apparently eat out of frying pans.

January 9, 2009: Californian invasion of Bordeaux

A few days ago, a director of our study abroad program cautioned us against debauchery in France.

"In France, they don't drink to get drunk. They have one or two drinks and that's it. You'll make a complete fool of yourself if you go out and get drunk."

I found out last night that this is complete and utter bullshit. Let's start from the beginning:

My host sister (also named Lisa) asked if I wanted to go to a party chez her friends Boris and Piga. Knowing that there was at least one other alcoholic in my program, I told her yes sans hesitation. I texted a couple of friends, not really expecting all of them to show up. My host sister and I were the first people at the party, which was not exactly awkward but a little confusing - I understand NOTHING when French "jeunes" or young people start yabbering to each other. It's incredibly fast and all in slang. Thankfully Lisa is amazing and leans over once in a while to ask me if I know what's going on, to which I unequivocally answer no, and then explains it to me in 3-year old French.

Anyway, then the "Californiennes" started arriving - all 9 of them. Oops. Lisa and the guys were joking that soon, "les Californiens" were going to outnumber "les Bordelais," Bordeaux folk. When the party got underway, I really enjoyed talking to the French kids, who were all hilarious. We explained to them what our program director had told us about French drinking habits, and they told us that it was ridiculous. And then proved it by taking consecutive double shots of vodka without chasers. I also mentioned a rumor I heard that French people don't smoke pot, and was proven wrong when a French girl pulled hash out of her purse. Damn.

There were so many hilarious things that happened at the party. Here are some of the most notable:

- Boris looking around the room and telling a friend that it was like 6 juin 1944, as in D-Day.

- Us speaking French to everyone, and everyone responding in English to us.

- Arnaud, a friendly Frenchie, yelling "Put your hands up! Put your hands up!" while awkwardly dancing to house music. Tiff and I tried to explain to him how 1990's that phrase is, and then taught him "Get low." We then realized we had created a monster, as he spent the rest of the night yelling "Get low get low, get low get low."

- Learning key words from our new French friends, like trashed, wasted, stoned, weed, and "shut your face."

- That one douche who asked Laura if "all American girls suck everyone," asked me if I liked to eat spring rolls, and threw a drink on Tiff's head.

- An unnamed friend who missed the last tram at 1:30 because she made out with a hot French boy and came back for seconds.

All in all, I love the French. Everyone, except that one asshole, was incredibly friendly and engaging. I'm consistently impressed by how well everyone speaks English, and I keep getting complimented on my French which is feeding my ego and hence fantastic. The only thing is that my clothes/hair/everything aboslutely reek of smoke now, because the apartment became a giant tobacco hotbox. Le sigh. Other than the chain smoking and the house music, it was just like an American party. It's good to know that alcoholism is an international language. At least I've got that one down.

5 of us missed the last tram, so we had to figure out what we were going to do for the next 4 hours before the first tram at 5 AM. Some brilliant guys had the idea to go to a discotheque, and since our other option was to stand in the freezing cold, we followed them. Except by brilliant I mean retarded, because this was the sketchiest of sketch places. Imagine the shittiest frat party you've ever been to. Now imagine it with 40 year old men and techno. We left after a little bit, but it was still only 4...so we decided to walk in the direction of home until the trams started running. This took half an hour. In below freezing weather. Except I didn't mind at all, because we were walking through the scenic, historical part of downtown Bordeaux and I had just had an amazing night.

All in all, a ridiculously good first weekend. Am going to leave soon for a British pub downtown and I'm sure I'll have much more to report after that.

Dress codes and posture

Two posts within 20 minutes of each other seems like bad form, but right now I am too nervous/excited to give a fuck. 

Today I finally cracked open the handout given to us at our orientation - "France: A Cultural Primer." Yes, it's as frightening as it sounds. Here are some of my favorite excerpts - 

"Nothing amuses (or horrifies) [the French] more than the American habit of stepping out of one's home in shorts, sneakers or sandals, and a wrinkled T-shirt."

Uh...there goes my Berkeley uniform.

"The French body tends to be kept muscularly tense while walking, standing or even sitting, which induces a sort of stiffness further reinforced by wearing more formal attire."

I'm really hoping this handout is comprised of outdated non-demographically-correct French customs. Of course, if facebook pictures don't lie, my host sister's posture is positively lax, especially when she's passed out on couches with penises drawn on her face.

Then again, I have yet to see a photo of her in a t-shirt.