Azay-le-Rideau

Today, I took the bus to Azay-le-Rideau, another chateau in the Loire Valley. Like so many other chateaux I have visited, Azay-le-Rideau passed through the hands of Francois I, although he only slept there for two nights (he also spent an afternoon there). I arrived just in time for the guided tour -- in French, naturally, but French for genuine francophones, rather than the slow, simple French of the genial professor of civilization at the Institute. Therefore, I’m not entirely certain that I correctly understood everything he said: I have decided, for this reason, not to copy from my notes certain facts, such as the construction of the façade by purple elephants, and the secret passageway to San Francisco.

In 1510 Gilles Berthelot, an important courtier at the courts of both Charles VIII and Francois I, acquired the old stronghold of Azay, and decided to build himself a new castle in its place, in the Italian style. Berthelot was not a nobleman, but a banker, and when the bankers suffered royal persecution -- prosecution, of course, I mean -- in 1528, and his personal protector at court was executed, Berthelot fled, and Francois I happily took possession of the chateau, handing it over to Antoine Raffin, whose family possessed it until you-know-what in 1791. The state has owned Azay-le-Rideau since 1901. A token of its original owner, the façade still bears a pair of prominent sculpted Gs, for Gilles. Now converted into bathrooms and a gift shop are the old stables. There were originally two: one for workhorses, the other for riding-horses. Horses, and thus the buildings they inhabited, were an enormous mark of prestige.

With all of the campaigns in Italy of Charles VIII, continued by Francois, Italian architecture had begun to interest the French, especially the bourgeoisie, of which Berthelot was a member. While there are many Italian features of architecture in Azay-le-Rideau -- such as pillars and pilasters in classical orders, and a square staircase -- there are many older features as well. However, one Italian feature in is evident: the preeminence of the design of the inside over the design of the outside. It may seem obvious to us that, seeing as houses are meant to be lived in, living space is more important than outward appearance, but this has not been the architectural consensus in all times and places. For this reason, a few parts of the façade are irregular on the outside, because the living spaces they covered took priority. Unfortunately, Berthelot never finished the chateau’s exterior, and for this reason, there are many empty niches; however, he remembered to include a salamander, symbol of Francois I. The two towers that flank the main building are also somewhat newer.

The 2^nd floor (in France, the 1^st) contains the bedchambers of the residents, as well as the party room: for this reason, the guides call it the floor of nobility. The party room (the word is used somewhat differently chez JD) is still available for rental, for a mere 3,000 Euros a night. The decorations of the whole floor are quite magnificent, many dating from the 16^th century. There were several magnificent tapestries depicting biblical scenes; particularly good was the tapestry showing the Queen of Sheba’s visit to King Solomon. Other tapestries showed the complete love-affair of Cupid and Psyche. Unlike the el-cheapo tapestry from Amboise, these tapestries had many characters (all of whose hands were visible), and what were once vibrant reds. Imported from Mexico, red dyes were quite precious. The quickest-fading color on tapestries, apparently, is yellow. Many of the tapestries were wholly Gothic in style; what differentiates a Gothic tapestry from a Renaissance tapestry? A Medieval Gothic tapestry depicts many people, but no perspective; a Renaissance tapestry depicts relatively fewer people, but puts them in perspective (I believe it was Brunelleschi who developed perspective).

There were quite a few pieces of highly-prized furniture, including a French tortoiseshell cabinet, and 1620 Portuguese ebony cabinet, and a 16^th-century Spanish cabinet. The latter were part of a huge craze in the early 16^th century -- all of the nobles had to have their Spanish cabinets. I wasn’t quite certain about this, and the guide gave me a very exasperated why-do-you-anglophones-need-to-bother-my-tour look when I asked about it, but one Spanish cabinet was involved in some sort of poisoning plot in the reign of Francois I. One room was filled with portraits of several generations of French monarchs, from the late middle ages through the early modern period. One particularly striking full-length portrait of Louis XIII had an unusual history: it had originally depicted a different patron, who decided not to pay. Therefore, the artist simply repainted the face, and sold it to the king. Louis XIII himself inhabited the chateau for some time, while he was ill, but was eventually restored by means of some cherry syrup. Meanwhile, the 3^rd floor, meanwhile contains a real historical treasure: the degree of skill in the carpentry of the roof was an enormous novelty at the time, at least according to the historian of carpentry who recently visited the chateau.

On the way out, I learned that Balzac had visited the chateau, and it had served as the model for the setting of one of his stories, in which he depicted the castle as a jewel. I had to leave fairly quickly, in order to catch my bus back to town. Tomorrow, I plan to visit another chateau, perhaps Villandry. Misaki, with whom I sat at the guinguette last night, described Azay-le-Rideau as mignon, meaning cute. This is a good way to sum up the castle: it is not enormous like Chambord, as beautiful as Chenonceau, or as historically fascinating as Notre-Dame de Chartres, but it is an important part of the pattern of the chateaux of the Loire Valley.

~JD

“Aux coups d’Etat ‘type 18 fructidor’ succedaient les coups d’Etat de droite (’22 floreal’) suivis, eux-memes, par une deuxieme vague jacobine, contemporaine des evenements de prairial an VII” [The coups d’Etat in the style of Fructidor 18^th were succeeded by rightist coups (22 Floreal), which were themselves followed by a second wave of Jacobinism, contemporary to the events of June 1799] (Denis Woronoff, La republique bourgeoise, p. 181).

Bilan de l'Institut de Touraine

“Bilan” is an excellent word in French. It’s meaning approximates “bottom line” or “account.”

Like all schools, the Institute of Touraine measured and compared me, and sent me my grades: its overall judgment of my abilities, reduced to numbers and letters, in addition to a few comments. For those of you who don’t know, in France, grades are fractions with a denominator of twenty; according to Madame Abowd at IHS, nobody ever receives twenty out of twenty, because only G-d is perfect.

I’ve spent four weeks at the Institute, and I think that it’s only fair that I write my own evaluation of it. At least one reader of this blog is interested in attending the Institute, and some others (Mr. Moss, perhaps?) might have become curious in the course of reading my blog. This is a public assessment of the Institute’s pedagogy, for any future attendees.

Writing Practice: Projects included writing friendly letters, formal letters of request, and letters to request a job. Most were formulaic, but formulas are important to learn. Projects and vocabulary largely pertained to the business sphere, but there was something for students like me, too: I learned several terms to describe artwork (foreground, background, still-life etc.), and cinema and photography (blurry, movie camera, failure, etc.). We also covered a fair amount of grammar, including the subjunctive, participle, and gerund (all review for me). Although the pace was quicker and the hours longer than in a high school French class, this was not an intensive course, as was my six-week class in Ancient Greek last summer. I had an excellent instructor, but not all teachers were excellent.

Oral Practice: Oral exercises ranged from the unimaginative to the extremely creative. On the whole, however, they were excellent. The instructor had us strolling Tours, conducting short interviews; listening to radio and television clips; playing “Pictionary” and “Time’s Up” (Misaki told me that “Taboo” and “Telephone” also appear, sometimes); and visiting lab. The lab courses were excellent: we were trained to distinguish similar-sounding sounds, to listen to and understand song lyrics, and to recognize various inflections. In lab, students wore headphones, in order to highlight the fine differences between vous and vue, or pente and peint. Some exercises, especially the lyric-recognition, had clearly been painstakingly prepared. Oral instruction included more information than one could learn from a book, even a book with an audio CD.

Electives: I had one excellent elective in literature; one very good course in French civilization, and a rather bad one in French business. In all cases, though, I benefitted just by being in the room, and listening and interacting with the instructors and other students.

Excursions: The professor of civilization deserves a gold star for his enthusiasm, energy, knowledge, and, above all, patience and endurance. In case you had not understood so from my blog updates on chateaux, I was accompanied by a guide who not only knows a great deal of art history, but also explained everything in lucid, understandable, conversationally convivial French. He is truly passionate about his job, and I do not think I will ever look at a chateau or cathedral in the same way, now! The excursions were pricey, however, and other students spoke almost entirely in their native languages.

Other Resources: The library and mediatheque offered great opportunities to practice French after class, if one choose to do so. The mediatheque contained computers, with subtitled French movies; I watched several, and not only learned vocabulary, but also improved my listening skills. The library is not free, but I think that it was worth the cost, especially because the public library was closed for the first two weeks of my stay (and requires applicants to jump through many hoops to bypass the 21-Euro inscription fee).

Student life: I had no friends at the Institute. I am being perfectly frank when I say this. Misaki, my housemate, absolutely counts as a friend: she is a wonderful person, and I will never forget her. I had a good acquaintance, named Marco, who I think liked me in return; but because I did not speak Spanish, there was a certain barrier between us that I could never surmount. On the way to an activity, I encountered him visiting a real friend; we stopped and chatted, and were friendly enough, but the idea of setting aside time to spend with me had never occurred to him. I have become very attached to my blog, because I know that through it, I am communicating to my friends back home. Victor, I can sit on your bed at the CJL, and we can talk about Sherlock Holmes, or bizarre Talmudic verses, or members of the KOACH board; I can relax around every Sam who reads this blog, and have a friendly conversation; Talia, I can take a walk with you, with nothing between us.

Host Family: I was unusually blessed with a host family with constant children and grandchildren visiting. The Avertins were very friendly, and did everything to make me feel welcome. They have been welcoming students to their home for many years, and are therefore old hands at the game: not all of my friends were so lucky: some had single adults as host “families,” whereas others chose to stay at the Youth Hostel (where I’m staying now). There might be a little bit of an element of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” to the choice between a host family and the hostel, because while a family is a wonderful thing to have waiting for you to come home every day (and waiting to speak French to you!), it is very costly. I only feel that I made the right decision because I was randomly assigned to a host family that knew how to play its part very well. But as much as I enjoyed staying with the Avertins, I’m not so certain that I would visit them, as friends: they are a semi-retired couple, and typically have two or three students staying with them: being a good host family is almost their vocation. This is far from a criticism; but I am not certain how much I would share in common with them outside of our special host-student relationship.

Other: There was absolutely no way to compel students to speak French out of class, and most didn’t (the Koreans didn’t even bother to wait until after class).

Sum Total: The Institute teaches many skills difficult or impossible for an autodidact to acquire. Notwithstanding, the courses are far from intensive, and one has the choice to either go without friends, or spend most of one’s day speaking one’s native language. Perhaps I just have the wrong sort of personality for the Institute; but although my French improved greatly, I think I owe it more to my particular instructors and host families than to the general establishment of the Institute of Touraine.

~JD

“La faiblesse du regime faisait le success durable des brigands qui ranconnaient ou tuaient preque impunement” [The weakness of the regime led to the sustained success of the brigands who robbed or killed with near impunity] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p. 129).

Culture and History in Tours, Part III

Today, I visited the Musee de Beaux Arts of Tours; the building used to be the Palace of the Archbishop, but has now become a museum featuring paintings, furniture, and a few sculptures, principally from the 17th-19th centuries.

I really don't know very much about art history, and I'm trying to teach myself to at least understand European art, so long as I'm here. I know the real superstars of European Art -- Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Monet, Picasso, etc. However, beyond the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the Impressionists, I don't know eras and schools. The Musee de Beaux-Arts has a couple paintings by big-name Dutch artists: a Rubens painting of the artist's clients posing with the Virgin, and a very small (but rather beautiful) Rembrandt of a biblical journey in the desert. There was also a painting by Monet, but not a very good one: there is none of the beautiful color in it that one finds in, say, his paintings of water lilies, gardens, haystacks, etc.

But most of the paintings were French and 18th-century. I am going to speak as if they were representative of 18th-century French painting: if they weren't, then the following observations are all fallacious. Most of the paintings depict classical or biblical subjects, or else are allegorical, in which case they generally derive their symbolism from classical motifs. There were paintings of Hercules chucking some dude into a lake, the faulty judgment of Paris, Apollo about to have sex with a shepherdess, Achilles arguing with Agamemnon and getting told off by Athena, Hector and Andromache saying their last goodbyes, Octavian discovering the dead Cleopatra, David immediately after his victory over Goliath, Judith holding Holophernes's severed head, Jesus resurrecting Lazarus, etc. For the most part, the painters tried to depict crucial emotional moments in all of these scenes: so it's Hercules still holding the poor guy by the crotch, and Lazarus just rising up while onlookers stare with wonder. As far as portraits go, apparently during Louis XIV's reign, it became fashionable to pose young women in the act of playing the guitar.

Furniture-analysis is a skill I'm going to need to learn. Thanks to the professor of civilization at the Institute, as well as a little prior knowledge of "baroque," I understand the very basic differences between Louis-Quatorze, Louis-Quinze, and Louis-Seize furniture. I really don't know Louis-Treize, Imperial, or anything else, though. Throughout the museum, I would look at a bureau or dresser (they're easier than chairs), make a guess, and then look at the placard, to see if I was right. Happily, I was still wrong 50% of the time. Still it was a real moment of triumph when, while examining a wooden dresser, and hopelessly torn between designating it as Louis-Quinze and Louis-Seize, I read the placard to see that art historians had designated it as "epoque Transition." The rule of thumb is as following: if the piece is ready to fall over due to gold ornamentation, it's Louis-Quatorze; if it's very curved, voluptuous, and sexy, it's Louis-Quinze; if it has straight lines and geometric motifs, it's Louis-Seize. ASAP, I will be uploading pictures of the artwork from the museum onto Facebook.

Also, the museum had managed to acquire quite a few of the Cardinal de Richelieu's personal furniture. He was into classical busts and statues, apparently, which dated back to the 2nd century. There was a painting of his nephew, the Duc de Richelieu, on horseback, as well as a few paintings of the Cardinal and Louis XIII campaigning in Italy: in the backgrounds, battles played out, while in the foregrounds were Louis and the Cardinal on horseback. In 1629, France went to war in order to intervene in the succession of the Spanish Hapsburgs. France backed the Duc de Nevers against the rival claimant, the Duc de Savoie. On May 6th, the French armies were successful in crossing over a pass in Mantua, and there is a painting depicting the victory, as well as several following victories. In spite of Albino Black Sheep, France was victorious in more than a few battles and wars!

There was a whole room devoted to paintings of the city of Tours. It was wonderful to look at paintings of a town other than Ithaca, and recognize the landmarks! The towers of the Cathedral's facade, the dome of the Basilica of Saint Martin, the massive tower from which the Duc de Guise escaped, the bridge over the Rue National, the various steeples... Although the 19th- 20th-century paintings were not terribly interesting, there was a fantastic, haunting picture of "Judith victorieuse," from 1874, painted by some dude named Thirier. However, for the most part, the painters of the museuem were would-be Rembrandts, would-be Davids, and would-be Monets. Also interesting, a great deal of the explanatory placards had "Saisie Revolutionnaire," or "Revolutionary seizure" printed on them!

Close to the ruins of the old Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the 19^th-century reconstruction, is the Museum of Saint Martin, dedicated to the hagiography of the saint, and the history of the building. Sam or Shea, I hope you’re reading this (please ignore all of the hagiographic rationalization). For the rest of you, the following information at least makes a good story; furthermore, Saint Martin is one of the most important French saints, nearly 4,000 churches in France alone bearing his name.

Saint Martin was born in the first half of the 4^th century; dates are disputed. Because his father served in the Roman Army, he was obligated to join the alae scolares, a mounted company of the Emperor Julien. However, soon after the incident with the beggar and the cloak (see “First Look at Tours”), he visited the Emperor to personally tell him that he refused to serve -- Julien, according to legend, was the first of three Roman emperors Martin would personally meet.

He became a hermit, and, it seems, it was during this stage in his life that two bizarre events occurred. The first involves his survival in spite of a pine tree falling on him (or, maybe, just missing him). There seems to be some confusion about this episode: a villager was chopping down the tree, and yet, there was believed to be something sacred about the tree, and it seems odd, not only that a villager chose to chop down a holy pine, but also that Martin didn’t hear the axe blows. Mr. Secular Historian says that this episode probably reflects the memory of Martin ordering the destruction of a tree associated with local idolatry, and the surprise of local peasants that he did not die on the spot. Other tales describe his overturning of idols, etc., and destruction of a holy tree might have been part of his dissolution of local pre-Christian cults.

The second is even stranger, and even Mr. Secular Historian has difficulty rationalizing it. A Jew (the stained glass in the cathedral depicts him with the red pointed cap used to designate Jews in the Middle Ages) placed a small statue of Saint Martin in his house; soon after, thieves stole some of the Jew’s property. The Jew whipped the statue, after which Martin persuaded the thieves to return the stolen goods. I have no idea what aspect of Martin’s character this story is meant to teach, other than, perhaps, a susceptibility to anthropopathic violence.

When the previous bishop of Tours died, the locals universally wished to elevate the hermit, Martin, to take his place; Martin, however, preferred to remain distant from worldly affairs. The villagers, therefore, resorted to deception: while one of them distracted Martin by begging alms from him on the highway, others grabbed him, bringing him to Tours, and declaring him their candidate. He accepted the post, but before long, made a compromise, going into semi-exclusion at Marmoutiers (which I might visit in the next few days).

Many deeds and miracles are attributed to Martin: he cured the sick, raised the dead, healed a leper by embracing him, and opposed Aryanism and pre-Christian cults. He was a sort of Apostle of the Gauls, and traveled through what are now France, Austria, and Italy. The chair of the Emperor Valentine caught fire when he refused to pay proper respect to Martin, and Martin dined with the Emperor Maximus. He died on November 8^th, 397, and was reburied at least twice; since then, his corpse has since been destroyed in one of the many destructions, natural or deliberate, of his basilica in Tours. Pilgrimages began in the fifth century, and have included such celebrities as Clovis and his wife Clotilde, Pepin the Short, Charlemagne, Alcuin of York, and Charles the Bald. His original chapel has grown in spite of fires and Norman pillaging, transforming from the Romanesque to the Gothic style (“Angevin Primitive,” to be precise) in the late twelfth century, the date of the oldest standing ruins. A decorated half-dome remains from the 11^th century, however; and just enough remains of the original painting to see that it depicts Martin’s coronation. In the Revolution, the Basilica became the “Martin Stables.”

Whew, that's a lot for today. Hope you enjoyed it!

~JD

"De toute facon, l'assignat, dont la circulation atteignait 45 milliards, ne pouvait plus survivre: il ne valait pas davantage que son cout de fabrication. Les planches en furent publiquement brisees a Paris, le 19 fevrier 1796" [In any case, the Revolutionary currency, of which 45 million units were in circulation, could no longer survive: it was worth no more than its cost of creation. Its minting-plates were publicly shattered in Paris, February 19th, 1796] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p.110-111).

Auberge de Jeunesse

It turns out that there is, in fact, a McDonald's here in Tours. It's the only McDonald's I know of that has quotations by Balzac and Apollinaire printed on the outside; but it's still a McDonald's, which means, of course, free Internet access. I'm seated on a chair outside, and can read that "Ton Happy Meal" costs 4 Euros.

I moved out of the Avertins' today, receiving kisses from Madame and Stephanie, a hug from Misaki, and a handshake from Monsieur (Katie was still asleep, overwhelmed with jet lag). They drove me to my room at the youth hostel, or "auberge de jeunesse," before driving off to morning church. I've never stayed in a hostel before, but I think I've made the right decision, by staying in Tours, and not moving immediately to Paris: I know Tours, can find my way around, can sneak into the Institute for free Internet and a reading room, and know which museums I haven't visited.

The hostel room is nearly spartan: there's a bed, a table with a drawer in it, a window, a small dresser, a closet with a few hangers, and a sink. The room is about the size of my bedroom at home: a definite downgrade from Jerome's old room at the Avertins', which had more room, a bookshelf, two bedside tables, a larger desk, a television and VCR, and, most significantly, Wi-Fi. This means that I can communicate during the daytime, at the library, McDonald's, coffeeshop, etc., but I can't watch Les Schtroumpfs on YouTube before I go to bed. Just as well: perhaps this way, I'll read more.

After unpacking what I needed, I headed over to Les Halles, the local market, before it closed at 12:30. Here in Tours, virtually everything is closed on Sunday, and what doesn't close either is open for limited hours, targets tourists, or is a quick mart. I bought some groceries, pulled alternately by my gourmand instinct and my frugality instinct. I bought fruit, but chose apples and nectarines, rather than figs and peaches; I bought bread, but a baguette and an almond loaf rather than croissants and pastries; I bought relish, but cheap jam and camembert rather than Nutella and gourmet cheese. Here, camembert, and not cheddar, seems to be the common cheese; after all, cheddar is imported from the U.K.! Actually, I think that I payed too much for the camembert, because I bought it from a fromagerie and not from a quick mart.

I took my first run since my arrival in France, on a bicycle trail beside the Loire. Not having run in a month, it felt a little strange. I passed many bicyclists, a single runner, a few fisherman, and an unattended wheelbarrow of freshly-picked peaches. Yes, Mother, I wore a shirt, even though I desperately wanted to take it off: although there are runners here, I do not think that the French, or at least the Tourangeaux, run shirtless. Running here is common, but not as common as it is in Ithaca, it seems; however, bicycling seems to be more common. I have not seen a specialty running-store yet, as we have in the states.

I completely forgot how tiring running is! I was fairly lethargic, but decided I needed to take a walk, and found at least two sites with free Wi-Fi. It sure beats the 10 Euros a week for access in the Hostel!

I'll be back tomorrow, with something a little bit more substantial.

~JD

"Le 26 mai, le jury prononca la sentence: Babeuf et Darthe etaient condamnes a mort, Buonarrot, Germain et cinq militants babouvistes, a la deportation, tous les autres etaient acquittes" [May 26th, 1797, the jury pronounced the sentence: Babeuf and Darthe were condemned to death; Buonnarot, Germain, and five babouvist militants were sentenced to deportation; and all the otheres were acquitted] (Denis Wronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, 64).

Farewell Letter

I just returned from the guinguette, where I had been watching an low-key, enjoyable performance. Then two of my Korean classmates happened by, and completely ruined the atmosphere by speaking to me in pidgin English: the speaker thinks she is fluent. I returned back to my room: I need to pack, in any case, so it's just as well.

For four weeks now, I have been living with my host family, the Avertins. They keep notebooks, in which all of the students who stay with them write a short message, upon leaving their house. In addition of bringing them a large bouquet of gueules-de-loups (aka snapdragons), I wrote my own parting message, in as good French as I could muster. I will provide here a translation of the letter; in doing so, I will attempt to convey my talent in French grammar and orthography.

Dere Avertin family,
I stay with you since fuor happy wekes. You are a very nice fmily, and I want tahnk you.
When I make mistakes, you me correct nicely, and explain nicely the vocrabrulamary and grammar lawws who I don't know. You let me play hidengoseke with thine adorables grand childs, who pleased me a lot.
At dinnner, you spoil me always. I like a lot of things you make: grean beens, qiuches, zoup, and I never forget eating you with them. Each day when I retuned from Institute, you gave me eats, and were very nice, and talked with me, two. The Saturday, Mister always raising up early, to make me into a sandwich, and I ate him when I looking at all the pretty castles in France. I liked Jerome, makes think of brothers, but he not kicking me under the table. Thank you very mcuh, and talk to Arthur and Daphne I like them a lot to.
Very kindlely,
Jonathan

As you can no doubt tell, I count myself very lucky in finding so welcoming a host family. Tomorrow morning, I move out, in order to make room for a tall, handsome, blond-haired Swedish student. Out with the nebbish, in with the prince!

~JD

"La tendance, en tout cas, etait claire: les 'honnetes gens', a qui la Constitution donnait pratiquement le monopole de l'expression politique, avaient plebiscite les moderes ou, si l'on veut, venge les girondins" [The tendency, in any case, was clear: the 'honest people,' to whom the 1795 Constitution gave the virtual monopoly over political expression, had, by plebiscite, voted in the moderates; or, if you will, they had avenged the Girondins] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p. 47-48).

Les Bedes

Mazel Tov to Eli Davis and all his family! This weekend, Eli will read from the Sefer Torah, and become a man. Unfortunately, I am an ocean away from the festivities, but send my love and kisses from overseas to my Uncle Bobby, my Aunt Lisa, and my cousins Eli, Hannah, Rachel, and Sara (in alphabetical order).

Eli is a great connoisseur of Les Aventures de Tintin, in English, although the series is originally written in French. Tintin is not French, however: he is Belgian. In France, Belgium has the reputation of being the world capital of comics.

The French word for a comic is bande-dessinee, literally "drawn band." Shortened to B-Ds, Bande-dessinnees are a little bit different from the the comics produced by DC Comics and Marvel: the action is paced page-by-page, I suppose because the comics were originally released serially. Therefore, at the end of each page is a joke, a surprise, a cliffhanger, etc. I think that B-Ds might also be more popular in France than comic books are in the U.S., although I'm not positive. There are perhaps three or four "classic" B-Ds here in France.

Les Aventures de Tintin, also very well known in the states, is Belgian, and describes the journeys of a globe-trotting young reporter. I read the books back home, and have been borrowing more books from the Institute's library, since I arrived in France. Some stories are fantastic: L'Ile Noir, Tintin au Tibet, and Le Crabe aux Pinces d'Or are some of my favorites. The art is vibrant, varied, and aesthetically pleasing, and the dialogue is not only engaging, but grammatically correct: Tintin is one of my best professors of French. Some adventures are assuredly better than others: I read a relatively late adventure, Tintin et les Picaros, and had to put it down because it felt so boring and contrived. I felt that Herge, the artist had run out of energy: the characters were mostly just talking heads which stiffly acted out the stereotypical roles assigned to them in earlier stories. This is really part of the main criticism I have of all of the Tintin books: the characters never change or evolve; the books are serials, not bildungsromans.

The other two great classic Belgian comics are Les Schtroumpfs, known in English as The Smurfs, and Lucky Luke, a cowboy comic. Although I have never read either one of these comics, I have recently been watching Les Schtroumpfs on YouTube: they are, mostly, easy to follow (although I sometimes have problems understanding every word in Gargamel's longer anti-Schtroumpf rants). Now I know why Andrew enjoyed the cartoon so much when he was young, and why Mom didn't mind watching it with him: the episodes are gripping, multi-layered, and cute, all at once. Les Schtroumpfs are funny and adorable; according to a recent book, they are also racist and anti-semitic. One social critic, Antoine Bueno, recently published Le Petit Livre Bleu, the thesis of which is that Les Schtroumpfs is actually filled with political undercurrents. Some of the books theses include that les Schtroumpfs are caricatures of blacks; that Le Grand Schtroumpf is a totalitarian ruler, in the style of Hitler or Stalin; that Gargamel is an anti-semitic caricature; and that La Schtroumfette symbolizes idealized Aryan beauty. I do not necessarily agree (or refute) these arguments, but they exist.

France does have one classic Francophone comic to its name, the immensely-popular Asterix le Gaulois. Asterix is a 1st-century B.C.E. Gaul living in the northwest of what is now France; he is the best and cleverest warrior of the only Gallic village that has resisted the armies of Julius Caesar. The village remains independent thanks to the magic potion brewed by the druid Panoramix, which temporarily grants the victim superhuman strength. To be honest, there isn't much substance to the Asterix I have read and seen: a great deal of slapstick, and completely unrealistic scenarios. Unlike Tintin, there is no way to suspend one's disbelief, and often, fight scenes between Gauls and Romans include over-the-top violence, as the magically-reinforced heroes hopelessly pound upon the outmatched, hapless enemies. Ironically, the story is supposed to be about the tiny hero resisting the Roman hordes, and surviving in spite of the odds; however, thanks to their super-strength, the Romans never have any real hope of winning. To paraphrase George Orwell, there is more dwarf-killing than giant-killing. The series is incredibly popular, with over thirty volumes, a cartoon, three multimillion live-action films (with one more forthcoming), and a theme park. I think its popularity has more to do with nationalism than with substance.

Hmm, am I bold enough to try the Schtroumpf-flavored ice cream at the Place Plumereau, this coming week? I think not.

Shabbat Shalom!

~JD

"La misere fut le sort du plus grand nombre au long du terrible hiver 1794-1795... Les oliviers gelaient dans le Midi, les loups rodaient aux portes de Paris" [The misery was the fate of the majority throughout the terrible winter of 1794-1795. The olive trees froze in Southern France, and wolves prowled about the gates of Paris] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p. 22).

Que, c'est exotique!

I'm an adventurer in a strange land, trying to befriend the natives, as well as my fellow-travelers.

Still, it's unusual to be a foreigner; un etrangere. I'm the strange one who provokes funny looks when I make comments or observations which to me are perfectly ordinary.

For instance, the other day, I had my first crepe, from a stand at the Tours flower market. The man who made my crepe noticed my Anglophone accent (who doesn't?), and we had a good quick conversation. He reminded my of Mr. Anderson, but a French crepe-vendor instead of an American teacher, although it isn't too hard to imagine Mr. Anderson deciding to spend a year or two making crepes in France. He asked me about American pancakes; I told him that they were really only for petit dejeuner. I had ordered une crepe au Nutella, and I explained that Nutella, also, was not common back home. Here in France, everybody eats Nutella; it's more common here than maple syrup is in the U.S. and Canada. He told me that maybe he would go to New York, and make himself a fortune selling crepes. Pourquoi pas?, he asked me.

We were discussing job applications and interviews the other day in class. For homework, we were to formulate additional questions that might crop up in an interview. I thought of one that Andrew once told me was used so frequently at job interviews, that it was retired: how many leaves are in Central Park (Combien de feuilles y a-t-il a Central Park)? I brought this question up in class, and even once the literal meaning had sunk in, I still received looks of confusion. In France, in Russia, in Korea, in Italy, and in Australia, it seems, recruiters do not ask this kind of psychological question. The only person in the room who recognized the kind of question I was describing was Tadashi, the Japanese bonhomme who sits to my left. He said that it was the very kind of question which interviewers for the American corporations in Japan habitually asked.

I recently gave the Avertin grandchildren a few American coins, as souvenirs (I am now 52 cents poorer). Their uncle Jerome (Andrew's age) noticed, and asked "Ah, des dollars?" I replied that I was only giving away a few pennies. How to explain that the U.S. Federal government is unable to manufacture practical coins of a value greater than 25 cents, that dollar coins are few and far between, except on the New York Metro? Here, 1- and 2-euro coins are extremely practical, and very handy: I far prefer them to bills. Coins also last longer than bills, and are more cost-effective for the minter. In the US, coins are not "dollars," they are not real money; they are just spare change. Ironically, when paper money became gradually more popular in the 18th centuries in the US, nobody treated it seriously; it earned such epithets as "rag money," and such derisive comments as "money is money, paper is paper." Now, I want our old coins back!

I've been mildly harassed about the U.S.'s lenient gun laws, as well as its lack of free tertiary education. My Australian companion had only heard of Walmart in the context of "Bowling for Columbine," and told me that in Australia, the Constitution could be changed, and asked me why we couldn't just have a referendum in order to pass stricter gun laws. I explained to her, very politely, that, 1) we can change some parts of our Constitution, but not the 2nd Amendment, and 2) national referendums do not exist in the U.S. I didn't even bother to explain to her that, actually, many Americans don't want tighter gun laws, and would see such laws as infringements on fundamental human liberties. One professor told me that if there were an attempt to fully privatize French tertiary education, there would be another French Revolution. As it is, the French resent the measures of financial autonomy imposed by the Sarcozi regime in imitation of American policy

My class has planned a potluck breakfast for tomorrow morning, and guess who offered to bring a real American delicacy to class? Unfortunately, I needed two very exotic ingredients to whip up my favorite banana bread recipe. The Avertins told me that the best place to search for the first one was the epicerie at Les Halles, a local market. Epicerie is a bit difficult to translate into English: "grocery store" is one attempt, but the epiceries are not greengrocers; the word is cognate with our word "spice," but spices make up only a small portion of an epicerie's stock. Epiceries sell honey, jam, pepper, vinegar, olives, etc. "Gourmet shop" is probably the best definition, in this context. I visited the epicerie, and the shopkeeper didn't even recognize the word that I used; I described it, and for a moment, he thought that I was referring to maple syrup, but quickly realized that, in fact, I was not mis-pronouncing "erable" (French for "maple), and told me that they did not carry such exotica. He referred me to a somewhat larger epicerie. I asked the woman there; she gave me a stare as blank as a fresh Word document. At first, I thought that she could not understand my accent, and began to explain, but she told me that she understood, but that her store did not sell such that particular item, in the same manner that she might have explained that her washing machines were not for sale.

What rare item was I looking for? Molasses!

The same story for oatmeal: I visited four stores looking for rolled oats, and none were available. At what quick mart in the U.S. is it impossible to find a can of Quaker Oats? Later, I told M. Avertin the story about Prof. Kaplan and the Quaker Oats.

I did whip up some banana bread that smells absolutely delcisioso, and its smell attracted both Avertins (Stephanie is away) and Misaki all to the kitchen. What we call bread, the French call cake: in France it's only bread if you spread butter, jam, or Nutella on it. Mme. Avertin didn't know of that particular trick to use overripe bananas, and three different people have already asked for the recipe: the librarian, the Avertins, and Misaki. It makes sense that banana bread is an American recipe: we're close to South America, and wealthy enough to afford bananas. Around 100 years ago, specially-cooled "banana boats" began to transport the tropical fruit vast quantities to American shores, and so we probably have had more ripe bananas on our hands than the Europeans.

I hope that the bread is well-received tomorrow in class. Tadashi is excited to be bringing wine to our breakfast-picnic: I'll let you know if anything funny happens. Oh, and this afternoon, another American student, Katherine of the state of Massachusetts, moved in with the Avertins.

~JD

"Les paysans desertaient les marches et vendaient clandestinement leurs recoltes aux prix fort, parfois contre numeraire" [The peasants deserted the markets and discretely sold their harvests at full price, sometimes for specie] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p. 19).