The Long-Awaited, Over-due Update

Hi all! I feel a little sheepish about updating the blog at this point -- it has languished for so long without updates -- is it too late? Is it worth reviving at all? I feel like my life has taken a different turn, and perhaps a new blog, a fresh start, is warranted. We'll see.

So, here's the poop. I've been working at the Women's Environmental Institute all summer as a farm intern. Getting dirty, growing veggies, lots of female bonding. I briefly blogged with my farmer hat on at this url: www.weicsa.blogspot.com. My cohorts have taken over updating that blog, since, just a few weeks ago, I ceremoniously removed my farmer hat (not for good, I hope) and put on my Americorps VISTA hat, swearing my allegiance to my country, "so help me God." My current job is coordinator for the North Circle Project. You can find out more about it at the Women's Environmental Institute's website: www.w-e-i.org. Basically, I'm organizing farmers in the North Branch area to help them network, expand their markets, and maybe, if the winds of change blow just right, build a processing house and state certified kitchen to do value-added products. It's a big job, but I'm loving it so far. I get to talk to a lot of real good, downhome, country, salt-of-the-earth, and just plain salty folks. Spent my 24th birthday at the Wild River Bar, where a guy named Cobb made me an unforgettable drink out of ingredients he made me swear never to divulge. Just me and a few co-workers and a dollar for the juke-box -- what could be better? Yep, country living suits me just fine, and I'm in no hurry to return to city-living, though there's been some rumors about me applying to graduate school.

I do miss the friends I made in France -- Mieko, Tati, Sabrina... Got a message from the mom of a couple young kids I was teaching English to in Toulon. They finally made their big move to Pensacola, FL, and for those of you who know french, she's got a great blog: http://chasse-pensacola.over-blog.com. Reading her messages and seeing the photos reminded me of how much fun I had with them -- It's always the people you meet that make all the difference. Makes me feel a little of that wanderlust coming back. Don't know when I'll have the means to do another big trip, but hope it's soon.

The biggest, most exciting thing in my life, and in the lives of every Minnesotan, is the State Fair! I have finally been given the chance to realize my life-long dream of having a booth at the Great Minnesota Get-Together -- Ya'll can see me at the Eco-Experience on August 30 from 10am-2pm. I'll be working at the Minnesota Grown booth for their CSA day. Maybe I'll see you there! (And, if you need someone to come out to the fair with you, I'm always ready to go!)

Back in the U S of A!

Yes, its true! I never thought I'd finally wind my way through all the red tape to get myself home, but I've finally done it! I must appologize for the long bout of silence, but it was all because lousy France Telecom cut off my service two weeks before I left France. I've just come back from a week-long wirlwind tour of Europe with my dad and my aunt, and I've only got one whole day to readjust to American customs and timezones before I start my new job on the farm, so I'm going to be brief for the moment. More to come, I assure you! Also, I understand that my old cell number is still functioning, so I hope to hear from you all soon!

You Had to Be There!

So many times I find myself without my camera at an opportune moment for taking an unforgettable photo. Of course, every day in Toulon presents itself as the perfect inspiration for a Walker Evans wannabe. (This afternoon, I counted three passed-out drunks on one street corner – that’s a muckraker’s mother lode!) I’ve also been dying to snap a few shots of all the middle-aged women with Bozo the Clown hair-dos; yep, hair dyed bright red and sculpted into a nicely rounded poof, really brings out the jowls. But, today was really the crème de la crème!

I show up for my class of post-Bac students, they’re basically in a junior college type program to become profession business people, and they keep going on and on about one student who is late. Generally, the students are always late, but that’s usually because they’re loitering outside the school gates smoking cigarettes. This time, however, the buzz in the classroom was that one of the students was supposed to appear dressed as an Indian. Now, what that had to do with his tardiness, I couldn’t tell. Ten minutes later, though, the Chieftain arrived! To say that he was dressed as an Indian (which I now fully understood to mean Native American, and not Indian of the Origin of the Asian Subcontinent), is to drastically understate his case. The 22-year-old was dressed in nothing but a headdress, loincloth, and slippers, and at his waist he had a plastic toy hatchet and bow and arrow. I had to hand it to him, I did not see that coming! (Nor, did I expect him to have had quite so many tattoos; and, if I had known that he had them, I certainly did not expect to be in a position to see them.) And then, there we all were, one English teacher, one American, a handful of French youths dressed for what one could only guess would be a funeral from all the black they always wear, and one errant member of the Village People. Just when I thought the situation couldn’t become more ridiculous, they all turned to me as if I fully understood what the Indian thing was all about because I am from North America. Of course, the only thoughts running through my head was how incredibly un-PC this all was and how this would never ever happen in an American school and how it is most certainly inappropriate to even refer to someone as an Indian when they are in fact Native Americans and it is more inappropriate still to dress like one and parade around as such; that, mixed with uncontrollable blushing because here was a half-naked man in my classroom, and prudish American that I am, I am unaccustomed to such vulgarity. (Actually, I was starting to wonder how strippers collect tips. I mean, the smallest paper currency is 5 euros, and that’s like $6.50. Do European strippers wear little coin purses on their g-strings? Or, do they actually make more money? The cost of living is certainly greater here…) At any rate, I feigned ignorance, which was easy to do, because I really had no idea what was going on. When I inquired as to why this individual was dressed as an “Indian”, the only response I got was that it was for the North American Carnival, which, unless I’ve been kept in the dark about this all these years, and that every year at this time all of North America has been throwing a big party behind my back, I seriously doubt the existence of said carnival. But, man, you really had to be there!

Show Me Your Boutis!

Ok, I will! Due to my ineptitude as a photographer, the above photo does not do justice to my recently commenced chef d'oeuvre in boutis (pronounced "booty", if you couldn't guess by my off-color pun). So, here is another, more masterfully realized photo of someone else's (more masterfully realized) boutis:



And, whence my boutis? Mieko and I signed up for an all-day boutis workshop in the small village of Calvisson, maybe 20 km or so from Nimes. I discovered the town, its Maison de Boutis (translation: boutis house), and its workshops while searching on the internet for the source of the provencal placemats my Mom and I had been eyeing while shopping for souvenirs in Nice. My interest in these simple quilted placemats sent me on a wild google chase through the ins and outs of French regional handicrafts. I discovered that most of what goes by the name of boutis is in fact "pique de Marseille," a simplified version of boutis that more closely resembles what we in America call quilting. Boutis is a much more elaborate and fascinating craft. It's made by sandwiching two pieces of white cotton fabric together, then embroidering a design over top so that small pockets are created in the layers of fabric. These pockets are then filled with cotton yarn by carefully attaching the yarn to a piece of thread and a needle and gently tugging the yarn through the underside of the design. The result is a quilt design with incredibly high relief in the areas filled-in with cotton, and a lovely tranparency in the spaces left empty. Traditionally, boutis was reserved for only the most precious garments or linens, like wedding gowns or baptismal bonnets, whereas the more common "pique de Marseille" was used throughout the home, and is probably why people associate it more with Provence and confuse it with the highfalutin boutis. For me, this workshop was an opportunity to experience more of the local culture, and learn a skill I could bring home with me.

The boutis workshop in Calvisson turned out to be a great experience. Unfortunately, the weather was crappy, so I wasn't inspired to take more photos, but in retrospect it struck me as a textbook French medieval village. On Saturday it was utterly dead, except for the die-hard drinkers, smokers, and gamblers loitering in the town's two cafes, yet, the narrow, winding streets and houses fronted with ancient and cock-eyed looking doorways were indeed charming. The country-side butted right up against the sleepy village so that under certain archways you could spot idle tractors and grazing poultry. At the workshop, we were joined by a handful of mostly middle-aged and older women, most of whom traveled no farther than Nimes to get there (Mieko and I might not have had the nicest boutis, but we won the distance contest hands-down). The other women were curious about us young Americans, but if they were suspicious of our intentions, they never let on. In fact, they seemed eager to learn more about fibre arts in the United States. Most of their vocabulary on this subject appeared to have been imported from the States as they talked about doing "le patch" (patchwork quilting) or things they want to "quilter" (verb: to quilt). They also talked about buying quilting thread from America and Canada over the internet, since evidently selection in France is limited, and not surprisingly, prices are too high. Even the thread we used in our workshop was Coats & Clark, made in the good ol' USofA. (As protectionist as the French are, it strikes me as funny that they are making their traditional handicrafts with imported materials.) We spent the whole day working on our boutis projects, with one break for lunch when we all went to the charming local creperie. At the end of the day we were given free admission to the town's boutis museum where we got a taste for what our newly minted skill could yield. The most impressive pieces were the largest ones, whole gowns or bedspreads covered in boutis. It boggled the mind imagining how long it must have taken to complete these when after 7 hours I had only completed one measly flower less than the size of my palm. The museum also displayed several exquisite examples of pique de Marseille using the traditional provencal cotton prints as well as others in silk.

So, good news: I did learn a new skill. Bad news: Mom, those placemats aren't going to be ready any time soon!

Our Story Takes an Explosive Turn...

Car explosion at 174 bd. Robespierre. Sure didn't see that one coming.

I was on my way home for a spot of lunch and some coffee, when I began to notice an unusually foul smell in the air. Toulon is almost always smelly, and because they often burn their garbage, the smell of smoke isn't all that uncommon. Yet, this smell was so acrid that I couldn't help but think it out of the ordinary. A few blocks from my apartment I began to see clouds of smoke rising in the distance, and in jest I asked myself, what if my apartment building were on fire? Did I leave the burner on? The heater? No, definitely not. What if my good-for-nothing neighbor set the place ablaze, maybe exploding a speaker while listening to Dido at full blast, as he is often wont. And, if my building were on fire, would I run in and try to save any of my belongings. I had to admit, I don't have a lot of valuable stuff. Nothing worth risking my neck on. Well, maybe my computer, my external hard-drive with all my music on it. When I turned the corner up my street and saw the firetrucks parked directly in front of my building, I felt like I was going to faint or puke or both. Just by imagining it (I imagined), I had made it true! Agast, I continued up the boulevard, and with great relief, I realized that my apartment was not on fire, but that a car parked directly in front of my building was. As you can see from the photos, the little sedan had been so engulfed by the flames that all that was left was a charred skeleton. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and word on the street was that the car "a pris feu" spontaneously. Ever wonder why you don't see French cars for sale in the U.S.? Not anymore, eh?

New Feature -- Music Sidebar

Thanks to my good pal Dana, I've just been turned on to the world of music "scrobbling." I find this a most onerous term, like most of the recent crop of technolingo like googling, podcasting, ripping, digging, burning, blogging, etc., but this really is quite an ingenious service. Go to Last.fm to check it out. Once you download the software, it keeps track of what you listen to and shares it with your friends. You can find other people who are into the same stuff you're into, and it makes it really easy to find new music you might be interested. Also, it has all these radio stations that it tailors directly to your interests. Perfect for someone feeling a bit detached from popular culture by, say, the span of the Atlantic Ocean. So, if you want to digg what I'm into (yo), check out the sidebar. (I'm only mildly embarassed by the noticeable preponderance of tracks by NPR.)

The French Say the Darndest Things

On the occasion of this lazy Sunday, I thought I would take advantage of one of my very rare moments of repose (as if I never pass an entire day in my pajamas ever) to catch you all up on the highlights of recent events in my irresistibly fascinating life in Toulon. To begin with, you should know that around these parts, the French have a familiar saying that they use to demarcate something they find especially foolish. The phrase is : n’importe quoi. Here’s how they might use it: Avec Segolene Royal, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi. Literally translated, that means, “with Segolene Royal, it is truly anything.” Figuratively, however, it means that the speaker thinks Segolene Royal is so crazy and stupid that she is totally unpredictable and will do anything no matter how ridiculous it seems (which is actually how most southerners of France feel about the leftist presidential candidate). Last night, a friend and I went out to a bar to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday that in fact few French people (if any) celebrate at all, but feeling staunchly true to our red American blood, we felt obliged to carry on the tradition even in hostile territory. Arriving at the bar dressed in ridiculous green garb, we immediately attracted attention as conspicuous Americans. After a short time, we fell in with a group of young people, some of whom we had met previously on another night. Even though we already knew some of these people, I felt like I was having a difficult time interacting with them in anything other than a very awkward way. We exchanged a few pleasantries amongst those of us packed tightly around one rectangular table, but after barely opening my mouth one young man felt obligated to tell me that his English was much better than my French, which had the double effect of both insulting me and convincing me to keep my mouth shut (he said this, of course, in barely intelligible English). I finally found what I thought to be a suitable “in” to a conversation going on next to me when a couple who had moments before been necking furiously joked that they were, in fact, brother and sister (oh, the sparkling French wit, always so charming and sophisticated!), to which I responded (I thought cleverly), that with the French it is truly “n’importe quoi.” Everyone laughed, which I took initially to mean that I had both effectively used a common phrase and made a good joke, but it didn’t take me long to realize that they were not laughing with me, but at me. For the rest of the evening, I was the simple American girl who said that “avec les français, c’est vraiment n’importe quoi.” The joke was repeated for everyone who passed by the table and even for distant friends who were eagerly lured over to hear what foolish thing the American girl said. And, after a while, it wasn’t so much what I said that seemed to matter, but that I had said anything. I was a novelty to them, and American who spoke not only French, but their own patois. I was no more interesting than a talking parrot, and there was really no convincing them otherwise since when I spoke they were so astonished by the words coming out of my mouth they couldn’t even pause to hear the content of what I was saying.

Incidents like these are particularly frustrating given the amount of time I spend at my job patiently trying to decipher pitiful attempts on the part of French young people to communicate to me in English, and overlooking the ridiculous things that they say. Just the other day, in fact, I had a real doozie. The topic of my lesson was what the students did during their most recent vacation. I had just asked if anyone in the class had a funny story about something that happened on vacation, when everyone pointed to one young man, we’ll call him Jean, saying that Jean had a funny story. Jean squirmed a little in his seat, reluctant to be in the spotlight, but finally he confessed that over the vacation he had eaten a bus. Yes, that’s right, he ate a bus. Here’s roughly the dialogue that ensued:

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. You ate a bus?
Jean: Yes, yes. I ate a bus.
Me: But, you couldn’t possibly have eaten a bus. (I made the hand-to-mouth motion to indicate the meaning of “eaten.”)
Jean: Yes! I ate a bus! (He mirrors my miming motions.)
Me: Please explain.
Jean: I was on my cycle, and I ate a bus.
Me: Oh, you mean you HIT a bus. Or, rather, a bus hit you?
Jean: No, not HIT, ATE. I ate a bus. (I now think one of us is crazy. Jean continues.) It is… how do you say? A figure of speech. You say, ate a bus.

The discovery of this strange idiomatic phrase leaves me speechless. It is just too weird. I’m also not sure that Jean is a reliable source, although his classmates confirmed that it is a figure of speech that the French use to describe a collision. The reason I don’t trust Jean is that, first, Jean appeared to me to be unharmed. Had he hit a bus, I would expect to see at least a moderate amount of physical damage to his person. Second, it would seem more logical too me if it was the other way around, that the bus ATE him, not that he ATE the bus. But, then again, the French have all kinds of these ridiculous idioms. For example, to say that you’ve stood someone up, in French you say, literally, you left a rabbit. Or, if you have a hangover, you say you have a face made of wood. (There’s a great book on this, by the way, called “Ciel! Blake!”)

And, one more thing. There is a talking parrot in my neighborhood. He lives on the balcony of an apartment overlooking the main street, and most of the time he’s too preoccupied to say much of anything (it is a busy life, isn’t it, that of the talking parrot), but when he is feeling a bit loquacious, he says “merci” (thank you) and “ta gueule” (shut up) alternately and at random. Kind of has the effect of making the poor bird appear a bit unstable. And, have a bird shouting down at me from two stories above my head while I’m walking down the street has the effect of making me feel a bit unstable as well. So, I’m sticking to my guns on this one. With the French, it is truly “n’importe quoi.”

Heroes Are Eating My Brains!

Ahhhh! I'm addicted to Heroes! Seriously, is anyone else watching this show? Its popularity is spreading among the expat crowd like the plague around these parts. My intention was to write a nice update blogpost, recapping my two week vacation, etc., but all I can think about is this NBC network program that I have in fact only ever seen in grainy pirated versions scrounged off the internet! I've already blown through the first eleven episodes in the last four days. The show is just that good... Or, it makes for a great escape, which is what I think all the assistants and I are really hungry for right about now. Vacation was fun, nay, really really fun, but coming back to Toulon is like a bucket of cold water in the face, a truly cruel awakening. I can't instantly teleport back to Barcelona or Paris, but Hiro (a character in the show) sure could! (He could also stop time so that I could watch every episode back to back and not feel guilty about wasting time!)

All mental diarrhea aside, vacation was great! The new photos should be up, and I hope to have more photos soon from my fellow travelers as well. Spent the first week in Barcelona, staying in a really cool youth hostel called Gothic Point. Did some sightseeing during the daytime and saw a lot of really cool architecture by Gaudi and strolled along the 5 km shopping route, and then in the evenings we partied almost until sunrise! Seriously, half the clubs in Barcelona don't even open until 3am! I wasn't crazy about the tapas, the traditional Spanish food, but I was all over the falafel! That's right, Barcelona has a fantastic falafel chain called Maoz that features freshly made falafel and an all-you-can-eat salad bar including the really yummy (and artery clogging) deep-fried cauliflower, all for super cheap. As a vegetarian, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! We left Barcelona just as it was starting to heat up, and got to spend at least one solid afternoon laying on the beach, where people actually walk around selling beers and offering back massages to the beach bums. Then, I flew to Paris where I met up with Zoe and her mom. We ate a Maoz there too, except for some reason (if you've been reading my blog for a while now, I'm sure you will share my utter lack of suprise) the Maoz in Paris was totally lame! They didn't have the deep-fried cauliflower or any of the really tasty sauces they had in Barcelona, it was twice as expensive and the portions were half the size. (Leitmotif = everything in France sucks more than anywhere else. Period.) But, the really cool part about Paris was I actually spent the first two nights there by myself. Readers may recall my initial hesitation about traveling alone, but I decided to go for it as it was only two days, and it was a city that I'm very familiar with at this point. You're never alone in Paris, anyhow (even if you want to be!). It turned out to be a very serendipitous choice. When I first arrived in Paris, I checked into my hotel, and then decided to take a stroll to grab a bite to eat and maybe check to see if there was a movie theatre nearby or some other way to wile away the evening alone. Not three blocks from my hotel, I stumbled upon a theatre advertising a concert being held that night featuring Lily Allen (if you don't know who she is, you need to listen to her album, its fantastic!). I inquired about tickets, and sure enough, the concert wasn't sold out yet. I went back to my room to freshen up, then stood in line for tickets with a couple of die-hard Lily fans from Limoges who graciously let me cut in line with them. It was a long wait, but totally worth it. The show was fantastic, and it was probably the best venue for the cheapest price I would ever have the chance to pay to see her since she's not too famous in France (she's English, afterall, a major cultural and linguistic stumbling block for the French). Being packed into a tiny theatre in and amongst a multicultural crowd of hipsters felt so... homey. Where were the slicked back black-dyed mullets and the lace-up pointy toed pirate boots? Nowhere, that's where. In Toulon, where they should stay. These were my people. This was the Europe I was hoping to find, one in which language barriers dissolve when met by an overarching global culture based upon a philosophy of really great music, art, fashion, and enlightened principles. Such a relief to know it may actually still exist outside the realm of my inner fantasies... And then, Zoe's mom came and went, and then it was just Zoe and me in Paris. She made me spend too much money as always (not my fault, I swear). Finally, we spent last weekend in Digne, staying up too late with the Digne assistants and doing a little hiking, and then POOF, I was back in Toulon like I'd never left.

So, there's my vacation in a nutshell. I left a few things out, of course, but maybe I'll get to those details at a later date. You never know, it could happen. I could squish up my face in this really cute way that makes me bend space and time. Watch Heroes. You'll get it.

Vacation Roundup

The pictures from my Milan trip one week ago are finally on the web (and by this I am insinuating that you should see them, especially since I took great pains to write descriptive captions for each and everyone one). Since I've been back, I've done nothing besides work and pine for my next opportunity to escape the "Ville de Merde" (or the locals' nickname for Toulon). Fortunately for me, my next vacation starts this weekend! Starting Saturday, I have a full two weeks of paid vacation ahead of me. I am currently in travel guides up to my eye-balls (aparently all that time I spend brooding and pining was not, actually, productive). Two weeks may seem like a long time for you stationary, non-migratory types, but for the world traveler with a wad of euros burning a whole in her pocket (euros do so ressemble play money, don't they?), time is not on my side. At the moment, I have committed to a full week in Barcelona, traveling with four other language assistants, and then it's on to Paris to meet up with Zoe and then head... who knows? Only problem is, I've got a gap of about three or four days in between Barcelona and Paris. I am (understandably, I think) loathe to return to Toulon. The city will be even more miserable since everyone (and I mean literally everyone since anyone who works get's time off at the same time as everyone else. That's what the french call "equality." It doesn't literally mean, in the democratic sense of the word, that we are all endowed with the same inalienable rights. No, it means we all go on vacation at the same time, probably to go skiing in the Alps, where we will all wear the exact same thing, and try not to become confused about who is who exactly, because we are all so very "equal." But, I digress...). Yes, it would just be me, and people who don't get off work, probably because they don't HAVE work, i.e. the homeless. But, my only other alternative, it would seem, would be to travel... alone. [Cue dramatic music.] I avoided the soul-searching question -- am I constitutionally capable of being in a foreign city all by myself? -- by doing some research. Google "women traveling alone" and there are lots of helpful advice columns and message boards (bordering on support groups) for women venturing abroad solo. Their suggestions include what to pack, ways to occupy your companion-free hours, and of course, staying safe. I read their advice, and now I'm back to the soul-searching question, only now it's a bit more fleshed out. Am I constitutionally capable of packing light enough to always have at least one hand free -- just in case? Ok. What about staying in a hotel room alone -- always make sure the person who knocks on your door is actually hotel personnel! Alright. How would you feel if someone propositioned you for sex -- it's not unusual to expect that a woman alone is a prostitute. Well, it wouldn't be the first time, I guess. But, usually I at least have a companion to laugh off the incident with me. Am I prepared to act as though I am the next victim of every person I meet, whether it be theft, rape, murder, or all three? How do I know the consierge at the hotel isn't really the mastermind behind a ring of internal organ thieves? What's to stop the man from driving the taxing from taking me to an out-of-the-way location and having his way with me? No! Not alright! Fear is the number one reason that keeps women from traveling -- it's certainly mine. Coming on the heels of V-day, and I don't mean Valentine's day, I mean the "V" that brought each and every one of us into this world, a day that passed sadly into history without celebration or acknowledgement on the part of the French, chauvinist bastards as they (mostly) are, I want to stand up and grab my suitcase and liberties in hand, and go wherever my heart desires and show my male oppressors that they cannot hold me down! But, then, I am forced to confront reality... Even if all the horrible things that could happen NEVER happen, could I even enjoy myself knowing all the while that they might, and they have (to other women). I don't know, dear readers. Are my fears irrational? Or, would I be a real Pollyanna to venture out alone?

I'll await the advice of my readership, of course. but as it stands, I'll probably still have to spend one miserable weekend in Toulon, deadbolt and chain securely fastened. And, that's why God created books, and anxious, introverted women who love them!

The French Connection

Last weekend, my friend Mieko (another assistant from Berkeley, CA) and I spent a day in Marseille. According to my guidebooks (and I have no reason to doubt them), Marseille is the oldest city in France, built in 600 BC by the ancient Greeks, who were then conquered by Romans, who were then conquered by the Franks (who had recently joined up with the Christians, a rather faddish thing to do at the time, which I think presages many French tendancies), and scattered through all these more historic conquerings were more minor ones, what with the constant influx of immigrants from all along the Mediterranean bringing with them disease and avarice, like one does. Marseille is more popularly known today for its bawdiness and mystery (which is a very nice way of saying gangs, drugs, and violent crime). Lots of crime novels, or "policiers" as they are known in France, are set here, as well as the famous film "The French Connection." In France, Marseille is considered the second most important city in the country after Paris, which to me goes to show exactly how arogant the parisiens actually are.

I didn't like Marseille at first, but I have to admit, its beginning to grow on me. The first time I saw the city, all that caught my eye was the apparent destitution of the people, the filthiness of the buildings and streets, and the way the roads having been destroyed in the process of reconstruction (I hope!) looked above all else like the gaping mouth of hell out of which the city seemed to be slowly oozing out! Of course, all that stuff was still there last weekend, but this time, and again, with my trusty guidebooks in hand, I got to see some of the really great parts of the city. For example, our first stop was L'abbaye St. Victor, a 5th century church which, like St. Peter, was built on the ruins of a pagan cemetery and currently houses the sarcophogi of several early Christian martyrs (though, none so famous as St. Peter). The church was especially remarkable since even though it housed all of these amazing early Christian and pagan artifacts, the place was not touristy at all. In fact, on a Saturday afternoon, we were the only ones there! The catacombes below the church where the most important artifacts were to be found, were very spacious (which meant I didn't get claustrophobic like at St. Peter's), and without the crowds we were able to wander around quite comfortably. The church also had a beautiful organ which was played while we weret there, adding a very authentic (and a bit creepy) ambience to the whole experience. Also, because the church is, like most ancient european churches, still in use, it was easy to feel as though one were being taken back in time, becoming swept up in the life and spirit of a living church community.

[Side note: right at this very moment, as I am typing these words, my next-door neighbor and his crew are apparently drunk and singing "Proud Mary" in slurred english at the top of their lungs and pounding on the floor. I just thought you'd all like to know that. Sailors.]

Anyway... L'abbaye St. Victor is located right next to the oldest bakery in Marseille, Le Fours aux Navettes, where they make, among other things, of course, the signature Marseille treat, the navette. Navettes are long, almost canoe shaped cookies that are so dry it is said that you can wait to eat them for up to one year after they are baked and they will still taste exactly the same. Mieko and I opted to eat ours right away. They were good, but as we say back home in MN, they were "different." Crispy on the outside, and just barely moist enough on the insight to not break your teeth, they taste strangely of almonds, vanilla, orange zest, anis, and something that tastes like Earl Grey tea, perhaps bergamot? According to legend, the navettes were created for the pilgrims who came to St. Victor (likely on hands and knees) to stave off hunger. And, since they last forever, I can imagine sailors smuggling a few onto the ship for an occassional treat during their long forays at sea.

[Good god! Will the pounding ever stop?!]

Ok... where was I? Right. So, after St. Victor and our navettes, we wander to the other side of the Old Port, the ancient heart of Marseille, to the opposite side to a neighborhood called the Panier, or Breadbasket. No bakeries on this side, though, mostly just residences tucked back into winding narrow streets at seemingly impossible angles. It was a nice place to escape the throngs of aggressive shoppers, moping smelly homeless folk, drug dealers, prostitutes, etc. It was there that we found a lovely and affordable place for lunch where we could soak up the southern sun and take a load off for, oh, two hours or so, since that's generally how long restaurant service takes in France. Around the corner was the apartment where Napolean actually lived (and not just took a nap or tripped over his shoe-laces, like most of the other monuments throughout France in the form of "Napoleon-was-here").

Finally, we joined the throngs of shoppers (if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!), and lightened the load in our wallets. Not a bad day.

I also bought a few postcards. Want one? Let's make this a little competition, shall we? Nothing like a prize to make things more interesting!

First 5 people to post comments to this blog-post will get a handwritten postcard from yours truly!

Say anything you want, just put your address in there somewhere's so's I can get the darn thing to ya.

Finding Hope in Bluegrass

I don't usually post links to other stories like this -- I know my readers are busy people, and aren't likely to chase links all day -- but this one is truly special and deserving of your attention. It is a beautiful story, full of heart, the likes of which you don't often find in a newspaper anymore.

Bluegrass beats the cancer blues

Mark and Karyn Nelson mean a lot to my family, and their strength and creativity has greatly inspired me over the years. I don't pray much, but I'm praying for them.

How I'm Paying for All This Bling (and by Bling, I mean Book-learning)

Ok, so this has nothing whatsoever to do with my being in France (unless you consider that my increasing alienation has drawn me closer to my computer and the endless frontier of the information super-highway). I was just reading a random blog, and, like you do, I clicked a link and landed on another random blog, and another, and yet another, until I found myself at the home of Steve Pavlina. Mr. Pavlina -- oh hell, let's call him Steve, since I am certain we are soul-mates hence we can do without the formalities -- Steve has promised to give $1 million to anyone who joins him in his great endeavor. The catch? All you have to do is repeat the following phrase to yourself once every day:

" In an easy and relaxed manner, in a healthy and positive way, in its own perfect time, for the highest good of all, I intend $1,000,000 to come into my life and into the lives of everyone who holds this intention."

That's it! Steve calls it "passive manifestation." And, it works! How do we know? Because, Steve keeps track! If you join up with the team, he puts your name in a database and you tell him when you've made your million, and Steve records the data. So far, Steve's team has made a whopping $2,878,202.86! Granted, no one individual has actually made a million dollars yet -- that figure I just quoted is the sum total amount for the hundreds of people who so far have promised to passively manifest money with him -- and some folks haven't made a dime. (What? Not passively manifesting hard enough? Time to be more passive!) Not only is Steve the team bean-counter, he also works tech support. For example, you can download from his website wallpaper and screensavers that are designed to reinforce your passive manifesting. Is there anything Steve hasn't thought of? [Mom, please disregard the following paragraph.]

Maybe. Like, how do you know when you've actually made money off of this passive manifesting scheme? Will I get a check in the mail? Will Richy McRicherson call me and pay me a million dollars to give his poodle a bath? Will I have to report the income I make from passive manifestation on my tax returns? And, if hundreds more people become millionaires without doing any actual work, how will this affect the economy? I mean, the rich/poor gap is already as wide as its ever been. Plus, money doesn't just grow on trees -- might my riches obtained through passive manifestation come at the cost of labor exploitation, that is, people who are actively manifesting their dollars through work?

[Mom, you may continue reading.] Nope, Steve thought of everything! Soon I'll have my passive manifestation merch (screen-savers, t-shirts, and the like), and I'll be ready to fully commit all my energies to productive passivity. Time to put all those hours I wasted on work to good use -- ooh! The hit WB series "Charmed" featuring Shannon Doherty is almost on TV, dubbed in French! Now, that's entertainment. So, no worries about all that mounting debt, Mom. Me and Steve got it all figured out!

[My appologies to Mr. Steve Pavlina for the sarcastic tone I have taken in this blog post -- the truth is, I'm totally reading your entire blog and I'm embarassed to admit it. I especially like the stuff about subjective world view...]

Top Ten Reasons Toulon Is For the Dogs

Does it ever happen to you that you're just walking down the street, minding your own business, when you are suddenly alerted to the presence of a disgruntled wino by virtue his incoherent shouting (to no one in particular, it seems)? Does it usually turn out that the wino also happens to be a bit of an exhibitionist, and is making all this comotion so that everyone has the pleasure of watching him pee on the street? I don't know about you, but this happens to me all the time! Though, today's incident had a special twist in that the wino decided to strip off most of his clothes to facilitate his peeing, which was much more theatrical than the usual "drop trow' and pee" routine. Granted, it was an unusually warm day. I'm sure he found it refreshing. Me, I wanted to cry. Which brings me to...

The Top Ten Reasons I Wish I Weren't In Toulon (and Why I Want to Go Home)
1. Winos. They're everywhere. They smell. They expose themselves and masturbate in public.
2. Dog shit. It's everywhere. It smells. I step in it, and I smell.
3. France Telecom. My phone doesn't work and I don't why. Is it worth the pain of trying to get customer service to get it fixed? Can I even afford to pay for customer service? No. Unequivically no.
4. French TV. I turned on the TV last night, and it was nothing but soft-core porn and the Maury Povich show. It was Sunday night. I'm not kidding.
5. Men who carry purses. Every time I look at my purse and wonder if it looks "too masculine," I want to cry.
6. Men with greasy mullets who leer at you and then spit on the street. This could really be three separate points, but I'm trying to limit myself to only ten reasons.
7. The post office. They send me the wrong mail, and I have to wait an hour in line just to try to give it back to them, which I am just not willing to do because my blood sugar is tanking, I have to pee, and it's like a million degrees in the post office like it is in every building here... I also need stamps, and the stamp machine is always busted. Why can't they fix the damn machine? Why can't I just buy stamps at an ATM like in America? Why?!
8. Having to pay for everything, including customer service and using the toilet. Every time I go out I have to plan my route based on my proximity to free and semi-hygenic toilets combined with a careful calculation of when I think I will next have the urge to go. There are certain places I just can't go, because, well, I just can't go there. I try to extend my territory by drinking fewer fluids, but then I'm just dehydrated all the time.
9. People who bump into you or refuse to get out of your way. Which is, like, everyone. They're rude, they don't care. I walk down the street, and I cease to exist.
10. French high school students. They don't want to learn, I don't want to teach them. They think they're too cool to waste their time with me, and they're probably right. They should be at home, styling their mullets.

and, oh, what the hell...

11. French food. All empty carbohydrates and crazy meats that you wouldn't eat even if you were the kind of person who eats meat, which I am decidedly not. Dry lumpy sausages, horse meat, fatty liver, giblets, intestines, and even testicles are some of their favorite delicacies. Why, lord, why? I would kill for some Smart Bacon or a veggie dog right now. Tofu, tempeh, seitan, even a little vegan cheez! Also, they won't castrate their dogs because they seem to think its cruel, and yet they'll eat the testicles off cattle? You know what's cruel? Forcing me to look at big ugly dog testicles!

Ugh.

I Knew It!, or, What Italy Taught Me About France

I have but recently returned from my whirlwind tour of France and Italy with my mom for the Christmas Holiday. Soon, I will have photos posted on my sister photo site for you all to feast your eyes upon and share my journey vicariously. (I would have had these photos up sooner, but I've basically been asleep for the past 48 hours since I've been back in my Toulon pad.) Until that time, I have the above photo for you as a bit of a teaser. A picture is worth a thousand words, as they say, and as far as I'm concerned, this photo captures everything I could possibly want to say about France. I found this little shop on a random street in Paris, and I just couldn't help myself. I think it gives the viewer a good sense of the fact that Paris wants desperately to be, or at least, to be perceived as, an international city, but she finds herself foiled time and again by the foibles of her backwards and provincial citizens. The French incorporate English, the international language (for better or worse), into their own patois the way they litter their sidewalks with poodle poop, like haphazard little bombs for the consummate linguist to stumble into and either grimace or giggle (depending on whether or not one happens to be a glass half-full or half-empty sort). I think the photo also reflects a kind of decadence on the part of the French. The sign reads like a list of favorites for the average frenchman, first liquor and wine ("alcool and stranger wine", a poor attempt at translating the french "alcool et vin etranger" into English), followed by fruit, which could be read either as their "gourmand" disposition or a more tongue-in-cheek reference to their "fruity" behavior (no offense, but we all know that frenchmen are yellow-bellied turncoats who carry purses, which is absolutely true). I also get a whiff of xenophobia when I read "stranger wine," which is probably just my attempt at reading too much into the silly sign, but when it comes to the French, you just never know where a racist joke might weave its way into the most benign situations, so I always keep my guard up. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that France is not it's all cracked up to be -- but Italy is!

Please, if you have plans to go to Europe...
a) take me with you,
b) go to Italy
c) learn Italian or make sure that your children do.

Look, Italy has everything that France has, with none of the shitty parts (I mean that literally and figuratively, of course). Italy has great food, in fact, the food is better in Italy since all the good food that you get in France is Mediterranean anyway (unless you really really love to eat frogs legs and horse meat, and in that case, I don't think you should be my friend anymore). I mean, Italy is the home of the Slow Food movement, for crying out loud! France only got CSA's five years ago, and the STILL don't have co-ops (think about it, people, this is a 3rd world country!). Italy also has great cities. I know, I know, Paris is the most visited city in the world, but who wants to do what everyone else is doing? What, are you lemmings?! Rome is a million times better than Paris! 1st, there is no poop. The Romans keep adorable dogs, but, unlike the French, they actually pick up after them. Now, that's what I call civilization (well, the Romans did INVENT Western Civilization, afterall, remember?). 2nd, Rome is much more "walkable," in my opinion. Romans are just as maniacal behind the wheel as the French, and they will kill you if you try to cross a busy street without looking, but there are many more small streets where cars simply can't go. And, if you really want to leave the world of gas-guzzlers behind, go to Venice, where cars are not allowed! Heck, not only cars, but motorcycles, and bicycles as well! And, I promise, you cannot get hit by a gondola, try as you might. 3rd, Rome (though not Venice) is not nearly as touristy as Paris (remember that part about being the most visited city in the world? well, guess what, Paris is chock full of annoying and annoyed tourists). If you want to connect with real local people and culture, Italy is the place, and Italians are the people, since even if you go outside of Paris the French will still ignore you because you're not French (unless they are ripping you off or teasing you, both of which the French enjoy very much). Which brings me to the 4th reason to go to Italy, which is that the Italians are nice. Bump into an Italian, and you will hear, "Oh, mi scuzi!" Bump into a Frenchman, and you will hear.... nothing. Probably, you will just hear the sound of yourself saying, "ouch" because they've just whacked you with their enormous Chloe bag with the giant solid gold lock on the front of it. How about a 5th reason? Here's one for you history buffs: Italy practically invented Western history. Sure, France has history too, but basically all their history they just copy from Rome. You like churches? You could go see Sacre Coeur or Notre Dame, the two most famous churches in Paris OR you could go see St. Peter's church where Peter is actually buried. We're talking the birthplace of the Christian church, here! How about other kinds of monuments? The Pantheon? Yeah, France has one, but Rome has THE Pantheon! What about art? Well, Paris has some nice museums, but again, Italy invented the Renaissance (why it's a French word, I have no idea). Oh, and here's a 6th reason for you ladies: the Italian men are gorgeous. I mean, H O T, hot! And, charming.... sigh. Long story short, I am totally kicking myself for having learned French instead of Italian. Every time I see a French man in a track suit with gold chains around his neck, a mullet hair-do, and a fake Louis Vuitton purse over his shoulder I just want to throw up.

But, it's not all bad. Coming home to my little flat in Toulon was really nice. They turned off the Christmas lights, which was sort of too bad because it was really the only beautiful thing about Toulon this time of year. Still, the weather was warm and sunny, as always, which was a comfort after the cold, grey raininess of Paris. And, seeing the old gang of winos lounging around in the late afternoon sun after I finally got myself out of bed to get some groceries at the neighborhood store was almost comforting. They look so peaceful, really, all snuggled up with their plastic wine jugs, drooling and scratching themselves. With the holidays over, life is slowing down a bit, and I don't mind that at all. Hope your was as good as mine.