Toast du Jour

La Rentrée

2011-01-12T17:18:00.004+01:00

Not surprisingly, I seem to forget to blog when I’m happy. Life has also settled down and there isn’t much to write about. However, as relatively bored (and boring?) as I am right now I’ve decided to post something, if only out of boredom. Since my last blog (and my move back

to Blogger.com) I’ve:

-moved with friends and lovers (ok, only one lover) to a largish apartment near the train station
-acquired a dog (and her master...)
-started a M2 in linguistics and teaching ESL
-taken ballet and modern jazz back up
-travelled to Perros Guirec, KY and London

I also have some interesting projects for the future:

-start an indie dance night at a local bar with a friend
-learn to make veggie Pho
-attend my first bar-mitzvah in London in April (bf’s sis’s bf’s son)
-write my mémoire for my masters (let’s hope it will be interesting)

However, I’m not working very much at the moment and I miss writing and working on creative projects. I’m afraid if I don’t do something soon there might be an episode of cabin fever coming on...

The language school where I work is on a contractual basis and most of the contracts don’t start before February or March. I’ve recently managed to get some hours teaching at the local business school but that doesn’t start until February either. Sigh. To make this even more frustrating, I got a bill from my dance school last night for nearly 600 euros. This sucks in of itself, but it’s even more frustrating because I like to think free time = dance time, but I may not have the money to sign up for 4 days a week of classes. It’s ironic, when I have enough spare change I don’t have the time and when I have the free time I don’t have enough moo-la. I need a real job.

Otherwise there’s not much to complain about. Gone are the days of last spring when I was drinking away my sorrows caused my an unworthy male and working for a dick-tator at a lycée. Life has definitely taken a turn for the better, but unfortunately that is not the stuff an interesting blog is made of.

Keeping your Goals to Yourself...

2010-11-17T23:33:00.002+01:00

Already thinking about New Year's resolutions? Wanna tell everyone about your goals? Here's a guy who thinks you shouldn't...

Keep Your Goals to Yourself

Moving back...

2010-05-30T16:10:00.003+02:00

So, I'm moving back to Blogger.com! A little over a year ago I switched over to Wordpress.com...I don't remember why. I'm coming back because I find Blogger to be more user-friendly and I have more friends who use this site. Here's a link to my previous Wordpress blog:

http://toastdujour.wordpress.com/

But from now on I'll be updating on here. Sorry for the trouble and thanks for following me!

Spring has Sprung!

2009-03-24T02:34:00.000+01:00

When I descended into Rennes’ giant open air market this morning* I was flooded with flashbacks from the Renaissance Festival in Florida that I attended every spring with my aunt and cousins until I was about 20 years old. Okay, there was no joisting, camel rides, face painting stands, or giant turkey legs for sale this morning, but there was live Celtic music, a festive ambiance, an eclectic mixture of locals and even some weird carni-type folk.

Nearly everyone was in good spirits : I shared a laugh with the people walking beside of me when a toddler ran toward a small dog with her arms opened wide while making an adorable squealing noise. Families and friends were out and about sharing organic apple juice, wine, fresh fruit, bread and cheese from their favorite vendors and galettes, crepes and cider from a local eateries.

But some people have unique ways of conveying their enthusiasm for springtime and their renewed appreciation for their fellow man. Example: the man who's organic sheep yogurt I dream about. He greeted me with a "Bonjour. I responded the same and asked for 4 pots of this unbelievable product. His response: "Oh, you have a very strong British accent!" (he said this in French.) I clarified saying that I was American and I asked him if he really though my accent was that strong. (I would like to think and have been told that it's pretty subtle.) He affirmed his opinion and went on to say that I sounded like two previous customers that morning from Jersey Island. Obviously one of us was drunk. Then he said, "I bet you don't have markets like this in America, do you?" I conceded and added that you can't find yogurt as good as his in America either. (I don’t know if this is quite true, but I wanted to play his game.) Score! Apparently my accent isn’t too thick - he gave me 2 free yogurts « for the road! » I think this vieux monsieur is actually a really nice guy who likes to provoke conversation in anyway possible. This doesn’t mean that I’m convinced of his sobriety.

After I had bought everything on my list: the yogurt, a black radish, avocadoes, potatoes, carrots, clementines, apples and bananas, I came home and made a delectable salade composée with a tahini dressing. All and all a pretty good start to an early spring day. Tonight might be a different story, however. I‘m going on pointe during ballet class for the first time in 7 years. At least I'll have some good, healthy food to look forward to when I come home famished and exhausted (best case) or when I‘m released from the hospital after having fallen and broken my hip (worst case). I’m thinking homemade soup and yogurt or carrot, potato, roasted garlic purée and yogurt, or a veggie omelet and….

*written on Saturday afternoon and accidentally saved instead of published

La Règle du jour....

2009-03-10T18:10:00.000+01:00

Since no one reads my blog (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one that's been to this page - correct me if you're actually reading this and your're not me) I don't have to worry abouot scaring people away by taking about my period. Well, I'm not actually going to get descriptive about my menstral flow, but I would like to rant, rave and compare my favorite high calorie, high sugar, high fat, low fiber, low protein once-a-month splurges.

When aunt Rose comes to visit me in Kentucky you can usually find my curled up in my bed watching the L-Word or Nip-Tuck with a bottle of wine, Terracotta exotic chips, dagoba dark chocolate and my cat all sprawled out around me. This may sound too cliché, but I assure you, Polly, that I lose all energy and crave nothing but salt, fat, sugar and cacao solids when I'm bleeding profusely once a month.

In France the bottle of wine (or belgiun beer) is still there, but the Terracotta's have been replaced by Vico's mustard flavored chips à l'ancienne, and pain au chocolat crubs can be found on the floor, in all the crevices of my keypad and, if it's a really bad cycle, between my sheets. And this is not a replacement for plain old chocolate, I'm eating a few squares (ok, a bar) of Lindt's dark chocolate with roasted almonds as I type. Miam-miam!

As for the chips, the dijon mustard flavor is heaven in my mouth, while the texture leaves much to be desired. With a connotation like "a l'ancienne" made the old-fashioned way, you would expect something more than greasy, crumbly, minimumly crunchy crisps. Still, these are the best I've found - France is sooo behind in chips. Baked Lays are a new concept and obviously the Kettle Chip has yet to be perfected. On days like today I might sell my soul for a bag of Miss Vicky's Jalepeno Kettle Chips or even for some decent tortillas.

On the other hand, French pastries are the perfect period cure and there's nothing that even comes close in Americaland. Buttery pastery crust filled with chocolate, almond paste, or a custardy raisin mixture - impeccable.

If only I could find them both at the same store (in the same country)...

...plus...

On second thought, these two items would surely make my head explode...or at least make me vomit due to the massive quantity of both that I would inevitably consume.

We were the young Americans...

2009-03-04T14:18:00.000+01:00

A favorite topic of conversation between myself and one of my flatmates is our mutual disdain for people who look down upon cultures different than their own, especially when they don’t have any personal experience with the culture. She is French and lived in the States for a number of years, and we’ve both had to reassure others that, yes, French people do actually take showers, and that ,no, not all Americans live off of fast food. In fact, the French are probably just as hygienically inclined as Americans and only slightly less enthusiastic about McDonalds.

However, due to three recent anti-American (or anti-tourist/anti-Anglophone?) encounters I’ve had over the last 2 weeks, I started to question if there wasn’t something to the stereotype that French waiters are rude, specifically to Americans. Experience number one: My American friend and I went to a local wine bar that we had both previously been to and enjoyed. We found a table and sat around for 40 minutes while the waiter served every table around us, except us. When I finally caught him staring into our general direction as though he had nothing else to do, I raised my hand to catch his attention. His response: to flash me a faux smile and to wave at me as a school boy would excitedly wave to his friend, then exit the room. We left angry and confused - we had both been to the same bar before with different groups of French friends and the guy was perfectly normal.

Scene 2: Paris, last weekend with two English-speaking friends at a restaurant so chick I never could have never afforded without some help from my friend’s (dad’s) credit card. The three of us girls were having a great evening out thanks to some great sushi, an interesting ambience and exotic cocktails. Our waiter was not especially friendly but his service was decent and he did replace my friend’s cocktail after he had cleared it away too soon. However, he went from average waiter to slime ball con artist when at the end of the meal he leaned in to my friend and said in English, « Oh, I don’t know if you want to put away your wallet. I don’t know how it is in America, but in France the tip is 20 percent. » My friend who has lived in France for four years responded, « Yeah, it’s already included. » His response: « That’s only taxes, ma chère. » He was lying through his teeth thinking he would trick some American tourists in to leaving a 40 percent tip!

The third chapter of the story takes us back to the wine bar. Last night we decided to give it a second chance. We ordered our wine and everything was fine until the waiter noticed that we were speaking English. From then on he took new customers’ drink orders and went around to every table but ours offering free snacks. I attempted to wave him over again, and this time he looked at me, rolled eyes and said sarcastically to a random female customer as though we would not understand « I love it when people get my attention that way. » We gritted our teeth and ordered the second drink which was served without a snack - not even peanuts! I finally went to the counter and ask him for something to much on and he reluctantly handed me a small bowl without even looking me in the eye.

When I told my roommate about my experiences, she exclaimed, « It’s jerks like him that make the French look bad! » Just like it’s the Americans who come to France and expect everything to be just like it is at home but more French, make Americans look clueless. But why is it so easy for some of us to stereotype, categorize, judge and/or dislike other individuals without even giving them a chance? My only consolation is knowing that these unwitting people will never know what it is like to really discover and experience a new culture, or to have friends from all over the world. They say ignorance is bliss but for those of us who have to put up with such closed-minded self-flatterers, sometimes l’enfer c’est les autres.

à la télé....

2009-03-04T14:14:00.000+01:00

(originally posted 13 Feb. 2009)

There’s a wonderful Internet site in France where you can purchase almost anything you desire at a discount price over the course of three payments: http://www.cdiscount.om/ When I first happened upon it I figured it must be too good to be true, that I would have to sign up for some sort of credit card with outrageous finance charges. But the site actually does what it claims with no hidden stipulations. It’s where I found my latest coup de coeur : an off-brand flat -screen TV with a built in DVD player!This may seem like an impulse buy, but I like to think of it more as a study aid. Watching French television allows me to learn vocabulary that I normally wouldn’t come in contact with. Last week I thought a barrette is simply s French is not only something you put in your hair, but it’s also a sachet that holds instant coffee and a synonym for pipe. And who would have thought that Survivor actually translates to Koh-Lanta?

The best part about French TV, however, is comparing it to it‘s American counterpart. The most obvious difference (besides the language thing) is the way television shows and commercials are presented . In France you can watch a 30-minute sitcom in 20 minutes since there are no commercial interruptions! Here commercials come at the beginning and the end of a program (what an idea!) and cars, private insurance, and food (mostly cheese) are advertised most frequently. Interesting fact : Maybelline Cosmetics uses the same music for their jingle in France and in the States, but instead of ”Maybe it’s Maybelline”, they sing, “Gemey Maybelline. ” Trippy, huh?

In fact, French commercials and television shows tend to be very similar to their American cousins. There is the previously mentioned Koh-Lana, obviously inspired by Survivor, A Prendre ou à Laisser, which is a lot like Deal or No Deal and Nouvelle Star and Star Academy that closely resemble American Idol (though one could that Eurovision, which first aired in the 1950, was the true original.) Otherwise I would estimate that at least fifty percent of shows that air on TV1, France’s equivalent to ABC or NBC, are American. On any given night you can see Grey, CSI, Monk, Desperate Housewives, or 7th Heaven, all dubbed into French. Dubbing is my least favrite part about TV here. It is impossible to get both the translation and the lip synchronization right so one or the other is always compromised. My roommate even swears’s that the audience response if often cut out of the dubbed version of Friends because the humor or irony doesn’t translate. Oh, l’horreur!

As for the DVD player built in to my study aid , I won’t lie - I could be renting classic Film Noir or Nouvelle Vague cinema for free from my local library, but so far I‘ve opted for The Shining, Brokeback Mountian and season 3 of Six Feet Under. I guess sometimes I just need a fix of old favorites. That’s something that not even Days of Our Lives, which airs here as Les Jours de Nos Vies, can do if it’s dubbed into French.

2009-03-04T14:08:00.000+01:00

I realized over the Christmas holiday that people are seriously misinformed about the state of French fashion. A friend at home sincerely ask me if French women wear heals at all times? Apparently this is a common stereotype. Another time as I was checking out at Marshalls department store I commented to the cashier that it was so nice to spend half of what I spend in France on clothes. She responds, “I bet it’s all high-fashion there though. Isn’t France like the fashion capital of the world or something?” Or something.

The first problem is that people think France = Paris. I hear a lot of French people complain about this misconception. Parisians are pretty high fashion, I suppose. I mean, Paris is pretty hipster but with a French twist; no-fuss long hair with a deep side part, heavy eye liner, and caramel-colored riding boots are staples. Of course I’m overgeneralizing, but i bet 80% of white, middle class Parisian girls own a pair of caramel riding boots. Really.

However, I live in Rennes not Paris, and while you’ll find a lot of girls who sucessfully immulate Paris chic, or who are classic in their own right, but the two predominant styles of dress (and of girls) here are pétasse and baba cool.

Your typical pétasse has highly processed hair that might be straightened, curled or in corn rows (especially if she’s white.) Like Parisians, she generally wears a lot of eye make-up, but à la Amy Winehouse; you get the idea, there’s nothing subtle about these girls. If you still can’t quite envision une pétasse, here’s an example of what she might prefer over the caramel-colored riding boots:

(I actually found these by searching for bottes de pétasseon Google Images.)

Then there’s baba cool which is not only a style, but a lifestyle. Baba cools are both male and female and are the French equivalent of hippies. Like American hippies they can usually be found listening to Bob Marley, smoking herb, and ranting about the government. However, their style of dress is pretty unique. Babs wear layer upon layer of brightly colored clothes. A typical outfit? A bright yellow t-shirt, a red hoodie with strange patterns embroideredall over it, a green woolen sweater over that, linen parachute pants with no designable crotch, a beany with a long braided tail or cat ears, and a pair of Vans.

The parachute pants, actually called sarouels are the strangest part, not only because they look so odd, but because they are an obligatory part of the baba’s everyday repetoire.

But I shouldn’t be such a critic. You’d NEVER see a French person with sweat pants on at the grocery store. Nor would you see anyone in the local McDo looking like they just rolled out of bed. There’s a higher standard here for looking presentable at all times, whether presentable to you means hipster chic, tight jeans and fake lashes, or even the inexplicable parachute pants.

Noel, Noel...

2009-03-04T14:07:00.000+01:00

(originally posted 19 December 2008)

The holidays are almost here (and everywhere else in the western world) and for some reason, the closer they get, the more and more I find myself annoyed with my adopted country and it’s natives. I’m not sure if it’s because things in France like at home are much more hectic, or if it’s because the novelty of being in France has once again worn off after a a couple of months here. In any case, in order to vent I’m presenting you with my top list of annoying things in France which may or may not be related to Noel.

10.) The weather. It is cold, rainy, and very very humid in Rennes, now more than ever. This means I’m always sick and never very motivated to go outside.

9.) This country is cher! Since most things (besides cheese, wine and bread) are more expensive here than at home, and because my paycheck leaves much to be desired, I am particularly broke right now. I can’t wait to return to the U.S. for a while where my December pay check might go a little further.

8.) Shopping. The shops and boutiques here are crazy during the weeks preceding Christmas, not unlike in the U.S. The difference is that the French seem to have no concept of “personal” space. I mean, I’ll go into a store to browse and people are all up in my grill. The salespeople will follow you around, clients push each other around to find what they want, and sometimes people (usually old women) will literally grab something out of you hand. For example, last week I was checking out the price of a hoodie in H&M (price tag in hand) when a mother pulled it right off the rack to show to her teen-aged daughter. N’importe quoi!

7.) The Marche de Noel. Ok, no. I actually LOVE the Christmas market, but I hate that the cute stuff the vendors sell is so expensive and that all of the food they they offer is made with some form of pork!

6.) Crowded buses and the #3 bus that I have to take every morning to get to school. It seems like no matter what time I arrive (the bus is *supposed* to leave on the hour and every ten minutes thereafter) the bus is pulling away from the stop. Which leads me to number 5…

5.) How unpredictable things are in France. Anything good that happens here is de la chance. Otherwise you’re just stuck in the merde. Example: two friends of mine both have 9-month contacts like me, and one of them received a 9-month Visa, while the other received a year-long Visa. There’s no explanation other than that they saw two different people at the Visa office, or the same person who just happened to be in a better mood one day.

4.) Les fonctionnaires. They are usually very unpleasent to everyone, and they lie if they don’t know the answer to your question. The only way I can tolerate them is by reassuring myself that they must hate their lives knowing that no one likes them! One can only hope that this is true.

3.) Having to say Bonjour whenever walking into any sort of public place, then Au Revoir when exiting. There are some days that I just don’t feel that friendly.

2.) Waiting in line. For everything. A long time. Sometimes hours. Usually because people are incessantly cutting in front of you and because the person behind the desk has already taken three smoke breaks.

1.) French people that, when they hear my anglophone friends and I speaking to each other, scream out, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” or something equally ridiculous. This is SOOOO annoying and it happens WAYYYY too often! I just wonder where this come from and people expect the interlocutors to respond to them. *Note: the perpetrators are usually university-aged boys.

So needless to say I’m very excited about going home for two weeks and having a break from all the cheese, public transportation, and from the loud, obnoxious middle-school children who speak a version of French that would make Moliere to roll over in his grave. But knowing myself, by January 4th I’ll be just as tired of cornbread, having to drive everywhere and hearing everyone around me speaking (Appalachian) English.

'Tis the Season

2009-03-04T14:02:00.000+01:00

(originally posted 24 November 2008)

I spent my first Thanksgiving in France in 2004. I was at the University of Caen living in the dorms and the holiday would have passed by completely unnoticed had my American friend not mentioned that he was going to stay up until 5 a.m. in order to talk to his entire family in Washington State. At that point I was still getting over that year’s presidential election results, so celebrating anything that month didn’t seem appropriate. In 2006 I was in Deauville, France – my first year teaching small French children – and living with two American roommates. Regardless, I don’t think we celebrated at all. I remember we were supposed to go to some kind of dinner organized by the twin cities committee, but we canceled at the last minute because after learning that it would cost 30 Euros a plate.

During a recent email correspondence with a friend from Lexington, I was complaining about the weather here and how I was suffering from mild seasonal depression. Her response was, “I know, the smell of cinnamon makes me want to vomit.” What lovely imagery, right? But her comment got me thinking about the effect the commercial presentation of the holidays in these two cultures I’m living between. In the States, Christmas-mania begins as soon as the Halloween decorations are taken down since Fall/Thanksgiving decorations have already been on display since August. I remember going to Target last year sometime in early fall and the store had a Halloween section near the front, an all-purpose autumn section around the cards, and a budding Christmas display in the back near the toy aisles. In France, you’re lucky (if you like October 31st as much as I do) if you’ll see any Halloween decorations at all. There’s no Thanksgiving (which some people are actually surprised to hear), and Christmas is more of a gourmet experience than anything else; an excuse to drink champagne, eat foie gras, and finish the evening with peculiar cake fashioned to look like a log, called a Buchette. However, beautiful Christmas lights abound in every French town, and there are no fake Santa’s or reindeer on top of people’s houses!

If I were home I may feel the same way as my friend – forced into holiday immersion despite not being in the holiday spirit – but since I’m here and not home, I have to admit that I do miss some of the holiday cheer. As for Thanksgiving, this year promises to bring a semi-authentic American experience. I’m having a small Thanksgiving dinner Thursday night with two American friends, then a large Thanksgiving party with the whole American community in Rennes. I’m making my mom’s broccoli casserole (modified because you can’t find cream of celery soup, cheddar veggie cheese or Pepperidge Farms ½ white bread, ½ cornbread breadcrumbs in France) and pumpkin pie. Between all thirty of us who are attending we should have everything from Apple Pie to Yams. Then in a month I’ll be going home for Christmas to get my fill of tacky Christmas decorations, pine trees, and hopefully snow; we have none of these things in Rennes! I’ll get to spent time with family, and ring in the New Year with old friends. The best part is, after all that I get to come back to France afterwards which means I won’t have to look at the tacky Christmas decorations until mid-February, and I’ll have the January “soldes” to look forward to – this is a big national sale where all stores mark-down about half of their clothing from 25-75%. Sometimes I feel so lucky, like I get to have my Buche and eat it too!

Peace de Nice

2009-03-04T13:59:00.000+01:00

So I just got back from a week-long vacation in the south of France. I went to Nice to visit my very good friend Catherine and her boyfriend, Fred. I was hoping for a week of sea, sun, and relaxation with old pals, but in the end I got a week of cooking, eating, tasting various wines and movie marathons because it rained EVERYDAY! I was so disappointed! But we did throw a mean Halloween party and I met some really cool friends of my hosts.
Aside from the rain that was eerily reminiscent of Rennes, Nice couldn’t be any more different from my currevt city of residence. First of all, it’s a coastal city with a port, a lighthouse, and beaches as far as the eyes can see - you can see Monaco to the left and Cannes to the right - not a bad view! Secondly, the local cuisine was extremely different. Instead of crepes the nicois have Socca. A big, thin pancake type thing made out of chick pea flour, olive oil, eggs, and spices. This is traditionally eaten at the apero (before dinner drink) with a glass of rose wine. Otherwise there is the Salad Nicoise, my favorite salad, consisting of lettuce, green beans, potatoes, tuna, boiled eggs and sardines. There are Pizzerias galore and bistros that serve local plats like legumes farcis (veggies stuffed with meat and spices) and beingets des fruit de mer (seafood tempura).
However, the most shocking difference between Rennes and Nice was the people. Rennes is a pretty laid-back university town with a lot of hippie students and simple, quiet people. The Rennais remind me a lot of the English; they are very reserved and keep to themselves until the soiree begins. After a couple of beers they become very friendly and often humorous. The Nicoisemay be the exact opposite. They are loud, flashy (often just plain tacky), and verging on rude. In fact, I saw no difference in a nicois sober and a nicois after a few pints. There are also a lot of rich people on the cote d’azur who drive the flashiest cars, own yatchs, and live in their own exclusive neighborhoods.
During my week in Nice I had a few notable encounters with the locals: My first or second day there I went shopping with Catherine to get groceries for our evening meal. We ended up at the local Monoprix looking for a certain flour to make crepes and a nice bottle of rose which we found without a problem. But as we climbed the stairs to make our way to the check-out, two men dressed very sharp stopped us and said “You two are very beautiful,” In their southern french accent. When we checked out we warned the cashier that there were two men pretending to be employers that were bothering the customers. She asked, “Are they dressed in black with darker skin, about in their forties?” We responded in the affirmative. “Oh, unfortunately they work here - they’re the security guards. We’ve had young girls complain before. Sorry about that.” WTF? This is apparently normal.
Second strange encounter: Another grocery store cashier who completely ignored her customers and practically threw our purchases at us. Instead of the Bonjour you are always greeted with in Rennes, nothing. She was too busy talking on her cell to her boyfriend about how much she hated her job.
Last encounter: I was on the metro on the way to the train station when suddenly a man yelled out in a strong African accent: “Tomorrow, a black man will lead the most powerful nation in the world. You’ll see, I know these things.” There was a pause followed by, “Sarkozy (French president) is a (insert profanity). He doesn’t want Africans here. He won’t be reelected. I KNOW these things!” Then when everyone had stopped laughing and thought the man finished with his fortun-telling, he added one last prediction: “You’re all going to die one day! Hahahaha! Me too! Believe me, I KNOW EVERYHTING!” I think this last guy was the most sain of all.

Attention Champion Shoppers...

2009-03-04T13:56:00.000+01:00

The smell of fresh baked bread, the vast array of cheeses, wine galore - a trip to the supermarket in France is usually a holiday for the senses. A holiday that is sure to leave a rumble in your stomach and if you’re not careful, a whole in your wallet.
Of late, however, I have been left queasy rather than hungry from my trips to the local Champion. There is no lack of the above-listed gourmandises, just an abundance of people who choose not to buy them. Instead they opt for cheap processed foods or animal body parts that I wouldn’t even consider feeding my cat. A little sampling of recently seen check-outs:

Monday afternoon, Champion, south Rennes:
It was time for the man in front of me in line to check-out. As he slowly removed item by item from his reusable shopping bag (kudos to him for that at least) I became progressively more and more nauseated. First: pack of orange hot-dogs, some other sort of big sausages (frozen), pack of ground beef, 5 baguettes (not so gross, but kinda strange,) toilette paper, a couple of cans of lentils, generic foie gras, beer, more beer, and for the cherry on top…spray air-freshener. It was more the combination of items here that made me sick rather than the items in themselves. I imagined their order of consumption: hot-dogs in the morning, beer and hamburger meat on a baguette for lunch, lentils and sausages, baguette and beer for dinner, finally toilet paper and the much needed airfreshener. Maybe my imagination is just too vivid.

Netto, north Rennes:
Old man in line beside of me: vitamins, coke, raw whole chicken, milk, frozen green beans and…condoms. I didn’t bother trying to imagine the chronology of events made possible by his purchases.

Champion, beside of my apartment, yesterday:
The lady in front of me bought some very typical products like milk, yogurt, cider, potatoes, lettuce, carrots, and…two huge cow tongues. The were enormous and in the same packaging used for chicken cutlets or steak. I imagined what it would be like to be the woman working the register, who picked up the tongue which was covered only with a thin layer of plastic wrap and scanned it like it was nothing.

Back to France - Rennes

2009-03-04T13:51:00.000+01:00

(originally from 30 September 2008)

I definitely have a love/hate relationship with France. When I’m home I always wish I that I’m here. When I’m here I’m often frustrated with so many things: not sounding as intelligent as I do in English, the bureaucracy, the lack of heating/cooling, how hard it is to make friends with locals. Plus I always seem to get sick. I already have a cold. In fact, I’m drinking a grog as I type. (If you don’t know what that is you’re missing out on the best part of having a cold.)
I’m keeping busy with paper work, meeting this and that teacher/principal, making photocopies, taking endless passport-sized pictures, babysitting. I love those kids - so cute and generally well-behaved. Overall I think I’m better off here than sitting on Greasy Creek worrying about my mental health, the future, and how much I hate my hair or tattoo. When you’re in a new place trying to get adjusted and figure everything out, you don’t have time to think about yourself. (Save when you’re blogging.)

oslo in the summertime...

2008-08-13T04:49:00.000+02:00

For a couple of reasons, I slept in today - like, really slept in. The rest of the afternoon/evening has been a self-reflective haze. Of course by self-reflective I mean I thought about what a loser I am for letting myself be lazy and unproductive. I wonder if this somehow reflects my unwillingness to grow up. Only teenagers and very depressed persons sleep 10 consecutive hours, right? Am I on the right medication?

But I eventually stopped beating myself up, concluding that days like these are inevitable (and somewhat refreshing.)

I've been listening to Of Montreal* for a couple of hours now and I'm stuck on the song, "The Party's Crashing Us":

Still, I only feel alive when the VU is flashing
Alarms going off in my head
I want to grab you and just kiss you
Maybe I should calm down
No sense in cacheing us now

I think I feel most alive when I have the opportunity to be alone and contemplate life. Or when I'm not worrying about anything at all. Or when wake up hungover, memories of falling off of my roof and running drunkenly down the street coming back to me one at a time.

*I'm am mildly obsessed with these guys, especially after meeting them last year in Caen. See, obsessing over a rock band, something people are only allowed to do during their teen years.

listen @ : www.appalshop.org

2008-08-05T07:15:00.000+02:00

I’m blogging right now as I do my radio show. I should probably stop typing and concentrate solely on the program—I’ve already f’ed up 3 times:

1.) I think someone dropped the f-bomb in the first song I played.
2.) I cut Amy Winehouse off somewhere between “rehab” and “no, no no.”
3.) I accidentally played a song that fit in really akwardly into my playlist. (Thanks itunes
for selecting a new song and playing it everytime I touch my
mouse!)

I also received my first fan letter today. It was from an inmate at the Red Onion Federal Penitentiary. (My show comes on after Holler to the Hood. If you’ve never listened to H2H, do. It’s on Monday nights 8-11.) In any case, I was flattered and planned on writing back to my fan (*not plural.) Then, while I was bragging about my admirer to a colleague, he interrupted me mid-sentence with “Whatever you do, DON’T WRITE BACK!”

I didn’t ask why, I just wondered why I was so naïve in the first place.

shooting and editing and editing and editing...

2008-07-30T04:51:00.000+02:00

I've come to realize that making documentary films is 1 part research, 1 part shooting, 2 parts editing and 3 parts re-editing; Luckily I enjoy tooling around with Final Cut Pro. Like writing, it's interesting (though somewhat tedious) to weave together small bits which become bigger bits that, when arranged in a pleasingly coherent fashion, evenually make up a final product - something I have yet to accomplish.

Bad Branch...

2008-07-25T05:03:00.000+02:00

This week has gone by insanely fast as has this summer in general. Today the boss man sent Pat and me to shoot some footage at Bad Branch Falls just over Pine Mountain. I was horrified to be hiking/carrying a very expensive camcorder ($15,000). I actually fell on my ass once, but luckily I was carrying the (somewhat less valuable, but still ridicuously pricey) tripod.

This was the most beautiful place, Bad Branch. I had heard the name mentioned a few times around the 'Shop but I always just assumed it was another holler. It's not. Think green all around, so much green that it's like you're wearing tinted glasses. There were a lot of rocks, moss, ferns and Hemlock trees. The star of the show was a 50 ft. (ish) waterfall which jutted out the cleanest water in the area (or so I hear.)

After filmming we took a refreshing dip in the chilly, shallow ponds. Won't know if we got any good shots until we watch the tape with Herb tommorow.

Author/Murderer

2008-07-24T06:46:00.000+02:00

I was reading an article on MSN France this evening about the violent murder (something somewhat rare in those parts) of a 22-year old waitress by a 24 year old out-of-towner from Normandy (the West Virginia of France as David Sedaris says.) While the crime was horrific, my greatest shock came from the textual content of the article:

"Dès qu'il a été contrôlé, il a indiqué aux policiers qu'il savait pourquoi il était arrêté, et qu'il était l'auteur du crime de Pontivy", a indiqué le procureur de la République de Lorient, Jean-Pierre Picca.

The author of the crime. In French 350 we discussed the term auteur (author) and how it can be used interchangealy with directeur and cineaste to denote the director of a motion picture, but the author or a crime? Either the press is giving this killer too much artistic recognition or something is lost in translation.

I saw a film today, oh boy.

2008-07-17T17:59:00.000+02:00

It was an ironic drama that takes place in a small town in Eastern Kentucky. The lead character - she wasn't really the lead character, just the person who seemed most important to me - has a dramatic week - a few highs but mostly lows - that leave her somewhere in between restless and jaded.

First, Monday morning her car won't start and she is already late for work. It isn't just any day at the office, however. It was the final day of her radio training before she got her own show! So she decides to walk. Then, while walking down a busy highway, a rusty nail enters into her foot through her shoe. From there this character, we'll call her Holly, rides to her hometown with her boss who was conveniently headed in that direction, to get a tetanus shot at the local clinic where her father works.

That night she does her first radio show which was a success! However, she leaves her laptop in the on-air room overnight and it mysteriously disappears.

Will Holly find her laptop? Will this string of bad luck continue for Holly or will things take a turn for the better? Stay tuned to find out!

jager bombs and muffin tops.

2008-07-14T05:02:00.000+02:00

So, for the past couple of months I've been working at Pikeville's only hot spot, blowing up hellium balloons, pushing drunk men of all ages out of my way, and serving up some cocktails when I get a chance. I usually get trampled when I'm not paying attention to what is happening around me (too busy looking at the odd couple on the dance floor), or I suffacate from the dense cloud of smoke (Pikeville has yet to enforce a full smoking ban). Last night was no different, but it bothered me much less than usual because patrons were uncharecteristically generous with tips.

This doesn't mean I made a lot of money, but compared to the $30 I made last time, I did pretty well. It's a bummer when $70 seems like a lot for 8 hours of HARD physical and mental labor(they added .25 to every drink so I walked around with a calculator in my pocket all night).

I try to put myself in the place of the customer: did my mother never tip when we went out to dinner as a kid? Do I only have $30 to spend all night and want to get as drunk as I can with it? Do I think my cocktail waitress is checking on my table every half hour or so because she thinks I'm hot?

I guess you don't have to tip at Long John Silvers, but come on folks, I'm not your friend, I don't think you're attractive (at all), and if you have $30 dollars to spend, wouldn't it be nice to plan to give your server 15% of that? It's what's expected of you when you receive good service and it makes you look like less of an ass-hole, even if you did call me "girl" and knock the Budweiser and two jager bombs off of my tray.

Home of Me and the Smashburger

2008-07-11T13:32:00.000+02:00

So two of our interns are leaving tomorrow, leaving only myself and only one other intern in the Casa - it's going to be so strange. I will certainly laugh a little less without Matt's subtle sense of humor and pout a little more when Ryan's no longer around to patiently explain the quirks of Final Cut to me. Tomorrow we're having a little going-away cookout/party for them.

Today my boss and fellow intern Pat went to shoot some footage of two members of the Virginia Organizing Project attempting some door to door canvasing; the natives were not very receptive, either of the camera and equiptment, or to speaking to strange people who come to their door in general. Then this evening I went with the gang to Pikeville for a Dairy Cheer treat, then back to my parent's house for Sangria. Nice ghost story-filled evening.

Right now I can't sleep, likely a result of the moonshine I pulled from the fridge at my parents' house for everyone (including myself) to sample, and the mugging feeling which has taken over my room.

the dangers of blogging.

2008-06-24T06:26:00.000+02:00

This week I heard second hand about what can happen to a blogger in a small town. A blogger who thought it was a good idea to write insults about people (s)he has to live and work with. (I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT MYSELF.)

During the same phone call I pieced together a story of betrayal which ended with the line, "and she was never so quick to trust a stranger ever again."

As if I didn't know already, small town + young people = drama.

People love drama. You always hear people say, "I'm over drama." or "I don't need any more drama in my life." They're lying. People look for drama, create drama, talk shit in order to start drama, discuss drama and complain about drama (as I'm doing right now.)

Why do we do this? Why do some people take it further than others?

As though I'm not jaded enough already, this week has dealt me two cynical blows (hopefully to the head, but probably to the heart) which made me throw up a little bit in my mouth in disgust of humanity.

Seeds and Indonesians...

2008-06-10T03:41:00.000+02:00

This week at the 'Shop...

Got into Whitesburg today and walked into an empty Shop (except for one always-on-top-of-things employee who told me that everyone else was in the theater.) So there they were, along with 15 Indonesians at the 'Shop for some sort of media/cultural exchange. After a presentation of slides from their home communities, we caravaned down the street to Pizza Hut for a buffet lunch. (Indonesians can sure put away a lot of (non-pork) pizza.) I was lucky enough to get to chauffeur around an awesome PH.D. student at Harvard, his wife and adorable little boy who held my hand and spoke Indonesian baby-talk to me as we walked from my car to Wiley's.

Wiley's : acres of land, big aqua-marine pond with fountain, puppies, pink flamingos, canoes...craziness.

Tonight, a walk at Fish Pond lake, then back home for a hot, hot night at the Casa. (no AC)

2008-06-05T00:35:00.000+02:00

June 4, 2008.

10:00 a.m. – got to work on time. Checked my email, talked to Christian on facebook. Ate some yogurt, drank some coffee.

11:00 a.m. – Talked to Mia about doing some community correspondant for WMMT. Thinking about doing some kind of audio documentary on Appalachian dialect. Sat in on film directors meeting.

12:00 – 1:00 p.m. – lunch with Silvia; Salad/Spaghetti mixture. Coffee. Chocolate. More Coffee.

2:00 – 4:00 – talked to H. about Appalshop; how it started, what it does, the function of the board, the director the employees. We discussed “up the creek,” “down the creek,” “yer,” “yonder,” “yougens”. Then we watched the preview documentary for the community organizer project.

4:00 – 5:00 – Made tea. Worked on editing a little.

Appalshop

2008-06-04T01:16:00.000+02:00

Appalshop: n. \ˈa-pəl-shäp\ A non-profit cultural center in central Appalachia promoting the preservation of Appalachian cultural traditions. It is home to WMMT public radio, a documentary film production company, and various educational programs. Appalshop offers employment and internship opportunities for individuals interested in Appalachian culture, the arts, documentation, sleeping in, working late, and relaxed environments.