I'm going to take a moment to talk about normal food here. Yes, normal food, as in the kind of thing that I'm used to eating, and not the decadent repast that I wrote about two posts ago.
Fruits and veggies are pretty much the same in France. However, there are a few differences: tomatoes here are so far tastier here than they are in the U.S., and according to Bruno, Coeur de Boeuf tomatoes, which I haven't yet tried, are even better. A very common dish here (I've had it multiple times here) is sliced tomato in vinaigrette. Green beans, likewise; both common and excellent when served fresh, with just a little bit of sauce. On the other hand, the apples I am used to, cultivated in the Cornell Orchards, are much, much better than the apples I've eaten here, which are fairly boring. I miss the massive quantities of onions that I am used to consuming at home. Peaches and nectarines, while they are in season, are very, very common, whereas blueberries are exotic. I had only once eaten fresh figs before, and they might have been the tastiest fruit I had ever eaten -- but French figs, grown, I think, in the south of French, are less interesting than the tomatoes. The close proximity to North Africa and the Middle East makes the transport of such produce, such as dates (1.99 a kilo, from Libya) and so-called Barbary figs, which I had never seen before, much easier. Mangoes are a euro apiece, but I've barely seen any watermelon. Although OJ is common here, I don't think it's quite as ubiquitous as is in the states; and as I mentioned earlier, French people don't know what to do with their ripe bananas.
Oh, how the bread is good here! See an earlier entry for details. Sadly, no bagels. Interestingly, one buys just about all one's bread here fresh, and from a real boulangerie -- except sandwich bread. Even stranger, one of the biggest sandwich bread brands (the Avertins ate it every morning) is called "Harry's" and advertises itself as an "American Sandwich Loaf." According to the packaging, however, it's a German company...
Everybody in France eats Nutella.
Milk is more or less the same, although I had to learn that here, "skim" milk is called "creamed" (ecreme). This makes sense, when considering that "pitted" dates lack pits, "peeled" onions lack peels, and "cored" pears lack cores; however, it's very confusing, during one's first trip to the grocery store. Another confusing item at the grocery store is so-called fromage blanc (white cheese) which looks like, tastes like, and is situated next to yogurt (although yogurt is a little bit firmer). I'm still not 100% certain of the difference in production. According to a dairy vendor, yogurt undergoes boiling, while fromage blanc doesn't. According to a quick internet search, however, yogurt is fermented, while fromage blanc is curdled, and moreover, yaourt is an EU-controlled name, (just like champagne). Cheese ranges from the cheap to the gourmet; however, what I'll call the "workingman's cheese" is not cheddar (which, when you think about it, has to be imported from the UK), but Camembert. I had an amazing cheese the other day, Reblochon, made in Savoie, which is in the East, near the Italian border.
There's a student cafeteria, at which I receive a limited number of free meals, guaranteeing me a hot dinner four times a week. Not a bad deal, considering that I'm not living with a host family, a choice I am every day regretting (I choose to live in the dorms because I thought I would have a French roommate). In the U.S., every corridor in the dorm becomes a small community; here the Residence Lucien Paye, there is almost no contact with the others, though they are perfectly friendly (if somewhat distant) when I meet them.
One last interesting point; there are street vendors here who sell fruit at extremely low prices, who create small stall out of fruit crates, which one can find near or inside of metro stations. These vendors all appear to be of the same non-Francophone nationality. According to Bruno (who thinks they might be Afghan), they used to sell posters.
Next post, I will vent about French academics.
~JD
"Si le roi avait ete temoin de ce spectacle, il aurait lui-meme eteint les flammes. Il signa, du fond de son palais de Versailles et au milieu des plaisirs, la destruction de tout un pays, parce qu'il ne voyait dans cet ordre que son pouvoir et le malheureux droit de la guerre; mais de plus pres, il n'en eut vu que l'horreur" [If the king had witnessed this spectacle, he would have himself extinguished the flames. He signed, from the background of his Palace of Versailles and amidst its pleasures, the destruction of a whole country, because in this order he saw only his power and the wretched law of war; but had he been closer, he would have seen only the horror] (Voltaire, Le Siecle de Louis XIV p. 371).
Showing posts with label Bread. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bread. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Une Tranche d'Histoire
"Tranche" is word in French in English, although its use in English is more limited: I don't think I heard about "tranches" until all the talk cropped up about mortgage-backed securities. But in French, the word "trancher" simply means "to slice;" when you buy a loaf of bread at a boulangerie, the boulangere will ask you "tranche," or "sliced?"
In case you haven't noticed, my bread consumption has considerably increased since I arrived in France. A common sign to see outside of a boulangerie is "Artisan;" these people are experts, and are proud of it. Moreover, boulangeries often specify their specialty: I have seen briocheries, patisseries, viennoiseries, sandwicheries, etc. I interviewed a boulangere for an oral project at the Institute of Touraine, and she told me that she had gone to a two-year professional school in order to learn how to bake. Throughout French history, the standards for bread and bakeries have been high: during the Revolution, one the most common reason for urban mobs forming was the lack of bread, or, in some cases, simply low-quality bread! As I have mentioned before, the starving mob of women who besieged Louis XVI at Versailles referred to him as a "boulangere." To quote Professor Kaplan for just a moment, "when the king became a grain-merchant, that is to say, a monopolist, he was no longer a baker: that, then, was the beginning of a double desecration," both of the royalty, and of the people's daily bread. As Prof. Kaplan has also pointed out, one assignment of the police during the Revolution early years of the 1st Republic was the regulation of bread quality. One of the grievances of the Paris Commune, in fact, was the overwork of workers in boulangeries; in the list of grievances presented in the Musee de Compagnonage, boulangeres are the only tradesmen mentioned specifically.
According to the Avertins, bread has not always been as high in quality as it is now (cessation of war rationing will have that effect), but the French are very proud of their bread. Moreover, when the French speak of "bread," without further specification, they are referring to baguettes: when we Americans speak of bread, we usually mean what the French call pain de mie, or "bread without much crust" (mie = the part of the bread that isn't the crust). "Baguette," in fact, originally referred to the shape of the bread, which was only invented in the early 19th century, circa 1830. "Baguette" describes a long, thin shape; Harry Potter, for instance, wields a baguette magique.
It was in the course of the 19th century that bread baked by professionals replaced home-baked loaves. There are three different theories of the invention of the baguette. The first is that the bakers in Napoleon's army invented the baguette as a means to make rations more transportable: soldiers could tuck a loaf in their pocket, and march with it. This theory, however, is somewhat untenable: thanks to some costume history (hooray!), scholars have realized that the Napoleonic uniforms were completely unfit for carrying bread: not only would the loaves have been awkward to carry, but they would have been completely spoiled by the end of a day's march. The second theory is that the baguette represents a French take on an Austrian invention: in the 1830s, when Viennese bread first arrived in France (it is still widely available today, although I find viennoises as interesting as Wonder Bread). French boulangeres eliminated the milk, ceased to use brewers' yeast, reduced the weight, and transformed the loaves into a real working-class food, which quickly went stale. I can attest to this last fact: I tried to eat a 36-hour-old baguette the other day, and found that it would serve better as a short-range projectile than as a repast! The third and final theory is that there was a great baking-contest in 1830, in which the baguette won first prize. You can find this and more information on Wikipedia.
I'm beginning to learn just a few of the boulangeries around Tours, and I would certainly recommend some over others. There is one boulangerie in particular, which closes at 7:00, that bakes a final batch just around 6:00. Twice, I have been lucky enough to buy a loaf still hot from the oven: delicious with a bit of Camembert!
The chateaux are going to have to wait until Saturday, when I've booked my ticket. Until then, I'll try to keep myself occupied. I just finished the third book in a series of French history which covers the period from the 1789 Revolution to the Fifth Republic (the current government, FYI). It's November, 1799, and General Bonaparte has just seized power from the Directory. We all know what happens next!
~JD
"A mon retour a Paris, j'ai trouve la division dans toutes les autorites et l'accord etabli sur cette seule verite que la Constitution etait a moitie detruit et ne pourait sauver la liberte. Tous les partis sont venus a moi, m'ont confie leurs desseins, devoile leurs secrets et m'ont demande mon appui: j'ai refuse d'etre l'homme d'un parti" [Upon returning to Paris, I found division among all authority, and agreement established only on the truth that the Constitution was half destroyed, and could no longer preserve liberty. All the parties have come to me, have confieded their designs, unveiled their secrets, and have asked my support: I have refused to be the man of any party] ~General Bonaparte, 19 Brumaire, Year VII.
In case you haven't noticed, my bread consumption has considerably increased since I arrived in France. A common sign to see outside of a boulangerie is "Artisan;" these people are experts, and are proud of it. Moreover, boulangeries often specify their specialty: I have seen briocheries, patisseries, viennoiseries, sandwicheries, etc. I interviewed a boulangere for an oral project at the Institute of Touraine, and she told me that she had gone to a two-year professional school in order to learn how to bake. Throughout French history, the standards for bread and bakeries have been high: during the Revolution, one the most common reason for urban mobs forming was the lack of bread, or, in some cases, simply low-quality bread! As I have mentioned before, the starving mob of women who besieged Louis XVI at Versailles referred to him as a "boulangere." To quote Professor Kaplan for just a moment, "when the king became a grain-merchant, that is to say, a monopolist, he was no longer a baker: that, then, was the beginning of a double desecration," both of the royalty, and of the people's daily bread. As Prof. Kaplan has also pointed out, one assignment of the police during the Revolution early years of the 1st Republic was the regulation of bread quality. One of the grievances of the Paris Commune, in fact, was the overwork of workers in boulangeries; in the list of grievances presented in the Musee de Compagnonage, boulangeres are the only tradesmen mentioned specifically.
According to the Avertins, bread has not always been as high in quality as it is now (cessation of war rationing will have that effect), but the French are very proud of their bread. Moreover, when the French speak of "bread," without further specification, they are referring to baguettes: when we Americans speak of bread, we usually mean what the French call pain de mie, or "bread without much crust" (mie = the part of the bread that isn't the crust). "Baguette," in fact, originally referred to the shape of the bread, which was only invented in the early 19th century, circa 1830. "Baguette" describes a long, thin shape; Harry Potter, for instance, wields a baguette magique.
It was in the course of the 19th century that bread baked by professionals replaced home-baked loaves. There are three different theories of the invention of the baguette. The first is that the bakers in Napoleon's army invented the baguette as a means to make rations more transportable: soldiers could tuck a loaf in their pocket, and march with it. This theory, however, is somewhat untenable: thanks to some costume history (hooray!), scholars have realized that the Napoleonic uniforms were completely unfit for carrying bread: not only would the loaves have been awkward to carry, but they would have been completely spoiled by the end of a day's march. The second theory is that the baguette represents a French take on an Austrian invention: in the 1830s, when Viennese bread first arrived in France (it is still widely available today, although I find viennoises as interesting as Wonder Bread). French boulangeres eliminated the milk, ceased to use brewers' yeast, reduced the weight, and transformed the loaves into a real working-class food, which quickly went stale. I can attest to this last fact: I tried to eat a 36-hour-old baguette the other day, and found that it would serve better as a short-range projectile than as a repast! The third and final theory is that there was a great baking-contest in 1830, in which the baguette won first prize. You can find this and more information on Wikipedia.
I'm beginning to learn just a few of the boulangeries around Tours, and I would certainly recommend some over others. There is one boulangerie in particular, which closes at 7:00, that bakes a final batch just around 6:00. Twice, I have been lucky enough to buy a loaf still hot from the oven: delicious with a bit of Camembert!
The chateaux are going to have to wait until Saturday, when I've booked my ticket. Until then, I'll try to keep myself occupied. I just finished the third book in a series of French history which covers the period from the 1789 Revolution to the Fifth Republic (the current government, FYI). It's November, 1799, and General Bonaparte has just seized power from the Directory. We all know what happens next!
~JD
"A mon retour a Paris, j'ai trouve la division dans toutes les autorites et l'accord etabli sur cette seule verite que la Constitution etait a moitie detruit et ne pourait sauver la liberte. Tous les partis sont venus a moi, m'ont confie leurs desseins, devoile leurs secrets et m'ont demande mon appui: j'ai refuse d'etre l'homme d'un parti" [Upon returning to Paris, I found division among all authority, and agreement established only on the truth that the Constitution was half destroyed, and could no longer preserve liberty. All the parties have come to me, have confieded their designs, unveiled their secrets, and have asked my support: I have refused to be the man of any party] ~General Bonaparte, 19 Brumaire, Year VII.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Qu'est-ce que c'est, en Anglais?
The following post is dedicated to my Father, the best amateur linguist and etymologist I know.
It's somewhat surprising to find that a foreign language cannot express an idea. From what I have heard secondhand, Latin, for all of its precision, is unable to express numerous ideas. However, it's even more surprising to learn that one's own language lacks a particular word or term, even a language with as heavy a vocabulary as preserved in the Oxford English Dictionary. Language can tell a great deal about the culture of its speakers. According to Professor Pucci (the amazing), Hindi has an enormously rich vocabulary to describe the human body, and musculature in particular, and dance occupies a very highly-regarded place in Indian culture. Ancient Greek is full of comparative particles (men, de, alla, etc.), and the Classical Greek worldview is full of contrasts (Greeks and barbarian, mortal and immortal, truth and falsehood, etc.). According to Simon Winchester, the average Anglophone knows only about 5% of the words in the OED; Shakespeare, by contrast, knew about 10%. It therefore comes as a surprise to learn that English lacks a fair amount of words which French, a very similar language, possesses. Here are a few French words which English lacks, in alphabetical order.
Accaparer: In a financial sense, accaparer means "to monopolize." However, it can also mean "to take, to the detriment of others." In the context of history of the French Revolution I am now reading, I understand accapareur to mean something along the lines of "profiteer."
Bougie: Yesterday, Daphne showed me a candlestick shaped like a turtle; I used the word chandelle to refer to it, and she used the word bougie to describe it. Bougie is the part of the candle that surrounds the wick, which serves as fuel, and is normally made of wax or paraffin; chandelle refers to the candlestick + wick + bougie.
Guinguette: A guinguette is an outdoors bar or restaurant with a stage, which features live or recorded music, dancing, and entertainment. Seating is free, and nobody will chase you away if you just sit down with your friends, unlike certain other bars in Tours. See my post on student life for a few details about one night at the guinguette on the banks of the Loire.
Mie: This is my favorite: mie is the part of the bread which is not the crust. What we call "bread," or maybe "sandwich bread" if we're being very specific, the French call "pain de mie," to distinguish it from a regular loaf of bread, i.e. baguettes. Crust is greatly appreciated in French gastronomy, and Arthur sometimes left bits of his mie unfinished, but loved his crusts, the opposite habit of American children! If I remember right, Peppermint Patty, of Peanuts, only ate the mie of her bread.
Mitron: Another unique word to describe the wonderful world of bread. A mitron is a baker's apprentice; no other trade, as far as I know, has a specific term to refer to its apprentices. Those of you who took Combined with Mrs. P-B might remember how she quoted the mob of starving women who invaded Versailles in order to carry off the royal family. They referred to their targets, as Mrs. P-B translated, as "The baker, the baker's wife, and the apprentice." The real quote was "Le boulanger, the boulangere, et le petit mitron."
Truquer: The most common meaning of this word is "to rig [a match]," but its scope is somewhat wider. The athletes who throw the match intentionally also truquent. Furthermore, the word can be used to describe deliberate perversion of anything. For instance, Bouloisea uses the past participle to refer to a "dossier truque," which I would translate as "distorted historical record" to refer to the primary sources surrounding the fall of the Jacobins and execution of the Robespierrists (p. 213).
French also posses a version of the past tense, known as the "passe simple," aka the literary tense, used only for historical and literary writing. I have never been taught to write in the passe simple, although I recognize and understand it when I read it. However, because it is only used for literary and historical writing, I only know how to form it in the third person! For some of those who are interested, here are some very basic examples:
"Il fit beau" = "Il faisait beau" = "The weather was beautiful."
"Elle prit la cle" = "Elle a pris la cle" = "She took the key."
"Ils furent tres heureux" = "Ils etaient tres heureux" = "They were very happy."
Two quick anecdotes about making an ass out of oneself when trying to speak a foreign language (please see English As She Is Spoke for more details).
A week and a half ago, I entered a patisserie, and saw behind the counter a display of absolutely delicious-looking freshly-baked raisin rolls. I asked the boulangere for "du pain aux raisins," or "some raisin bread," indicating with my finger what I meant, in case my accent was too strong for her to understand. As she placed my prize in a waxed-paper bag, I delved in my wallet for the coins to pay her. I handed over what I believed to be the correct change, but she kept the money in her hand, and looked at me expectantly, as if I hadn't payed enough. I handed over a few more centimes, thinking that I must have misread the sign. She then told me I needed to pay a euro more! I handed over another one-euro coin, and was really amazed by the price: I regretted having wasted so much money on such small a pastry. As I walked out of the patisserie, I peeked into the waxed-paper bag, I realized my mistake -- I thought that I had asked for "du pain aux raisins," but she had heard "deux pains aux raisins," meaning "two raisin rolls!" I had bought twice as much as I had intended!
Two nights ago, there was company over when I returned to the Avertins' home (the table was packed with plates and utensils, enough for ten, I think), on account of Mme. Avertin's birthday. Daphne began to explain to me the master plan of how and when she and Arthur were going to present their grandmother with her birthday present (it was a red golf bag). She told me that with the before-dinner drinks, there would be cacahuetes. Although the word sounded vaguely familiar, I couldn't remember what it was. Misaki had no idea as to the word's meaning, so we asked Daphne to try to explain. The following is an abridged version of the conversation.
Daphne: You know, cacahuetes, like you serve for a kid's party or a birthday party.
JD: I don't understand. Are they a sort of fruit?
Daphne: No.
JD: A sort of nut?
Daphne: No.
JD: A kind of vegetable?
Daphne: No.
JD: A kind of meat?
Daphne: No, there's no meat. This is what they look like:
[Daphne sketches for Misaki and me three shapes: a rounded hourglass, a circle, and a triangle, on a slip of pink paper. We both remain stumped].
Daphne: They're, they're... they're like chips! You know, chips! At a party.
JD: Ah, so they're made out of potatoes.
Daphne: No, they're like chips, but not made out potatoes!
JD: But made of what Daphne, made of what?
Daphne [running to the kitched]: Grampa! How do you say cacahuetes in Spanish? I mean, English?
[muted conversation]
Daphne [running back]: Peanuts!
Misaki: Oh! It's "peanuts" in Japanese, too!
[JD & Misaki laugh very, very hard for several minutes. Divers alarums and excursions].
~JD
"'En divisant les biens d'emigres, on cherchait a eteindra la misere...', rappelait Couthon le 1er floreal. Le pauvre n'en profita guere" ["By dividing up emigrants' property, we intended to put an end to misery," recalled Couthon on April 10th, 1794. The poor scarcely received any benefit] (Marc Bouloisea, La Republique jacobine, p. 206).
It's somewhat surprising to find that a foreign language cannot express an idea. From what I have heard secondhand, Latin, for all of its precision, is unable to express numerous ideas. However, it's even more surprising to learn that one's own language lacks a particular word or term, even a language with as heavy a vocabulary as preserved in the Oxford English Dictionary. Language can tell a great deal about the culture of its speakers. According to Professor Pucci (the amazing), Hindi has an enormously rich vocabulary to describe the human body, and musculature in particular, and dance occupies a very highly-regarded place in Indian culture. Ancient Greek is full of comparative particles (men, de, alla, etc.), and the Classical Greek worldview is full of contrasts (Greeks and barbarian, mortal and immortal, truth and falsehood, etc.). According to Simon Winchester, the average Anglophone knows only about 5% of the words in the OED; Shakespeare, by contrast, knew about 10%. It therefore comes as a surprise to learn that English lacks a fair amount of words which French, a very similar language, possesses. Here are a few French words which English lacks, in alphabetical order.
Accaparer: In a financial sense, accaparer means "to monopolize." However, it can also mean "to take, to the detriment of others." In the context of history of the French Revolution I am now reading, I understand accapareur to mean something along the lines of "profiteer."
Bougie: Yesterday, Daphne showed me a candlestick shaped like a turtle; I used the word chandelle to refer to it, and she used the word bougie to describe it. Bougie is the part of the candle that surrounds the wick, which serves as fuel, and is normally made of wax or paraffin; chandelle refers to the candlestick + wick + bougie.
Guinguette: A guinguette is an outdoors bar or restaurant with a stage, which features live or recorded music, dancing, and entertainment. Seating is free, and nobody will chase you away if you just sit down with your friends, unlike certain other bars in Tours. See my post on student life for a few details about one night at the guinguette on the banks of the Loire.
Mie: This is my favorite: mie is the part of the bread which is not the crust. What we call "bread," or maybe "sandwich bread" if we're being very specific, the French call "pain de mie," to distinguish it from a regular loaf of bread, i.e. baguettes. Crust is greatly appreciated in French gastronomy, and Arthur sometimes left bits of his mie unfinished, but loved his crusts, the opposite habit of American children! If I remember right, Peppermint Patty, of Peanuts, only ate the mie of her bread.
Mitron: Another unique word to describe the wonderful world of bread. A mitron is a baker's apprentice; no other trade, as far as I know, has a specific term to refer to its apprentices. Those of you who took Combined with Mrs. P-B might remember how she quoted the mob of starving women who invaded Versailles in order to carry off the royal family. They referred to their targets, as Mrs. P-B translated, as "The baker, the baker's wife, and the apprentice." The real quote was "Le boulanger, the boulangere, et le petit mitron."
Truquer: The most common meaning of this word is "to rig [a match]," but its scope is somewhat wider. The athletes who throw the match intentionally also truquent. Furthermore, the word can be used to describe deliberate perversion of anything. For instance, Bouloisea uses the past participle to refer to a "dossier truque," which I would translate as "distorted historical record" to refer to the primary sources surrounding the fall of the Jacobins and execution of the Robespierrists (p. 213).
French also posses a version of the past tense, known as the "passe simple," aka the literary tense, used only for historical and literary writing. I have never been taught to write in the passe simple, although I recognize and understand it when I read it. However, because it is only used for literary and historical writing, I only know how to form it in the third person! For some of those who are interested, here are some very basic examples:
"Il fit beau" = "Il faisait beau" = "The weather was beautiful."
"Elle prit la cle" = "Elle a pris la cle" = "She took the key."
"Ils furent tres heureux" = "Ils etaient tres heureux" = "They were very happy."
Two quick anecdotes about making an ass out of oneself when trying to speak a foreign language (please see English As She Is Spoke for more details).
A week and a half ago, I entered a patisserie, and saw behind the counter a display of absolutely delicious-looking freshly-baked raisin rolls. I asked the boulangere for "du pain aux raisins," or "some raisin bread," indicating with my finger what I meant, in case my accent was too strong for her to understand. As she placed my prize in a waxed-paper bag, I delved in my wallet for the coins to pay her. I handed over what I believed to be the correct change, but she kept the money in her hand, and looked at me expectantly, as if I hadn't payed enough. I handed over a few more centimes, thinking that I must have misread the sign. She then told me I needed to pay a euro more! I handed over another one-euro coin, and was really amazed by the price: I regretted having wasted so much money on such small a pastry. As I walked out of the patisserie, I peeked into the waxed-paper bag, I realized my mistake -- I thought that I had asked for "du pain aux raisins," but she had heard "deux pains aux raisins," meaning "two raisin rolls!" I had bought twice as much as I had intended!
Two nights ago, there was company over when I returned to the Avertins' home (the table was packed with plates and utensils, enough for ten, I think), on account of Mme. Avertin's birthday. Daphne began to explain to me the master plan of how and when she and Arthur were going to present their grandmother with her birthday present (it was a red golf bag). She told me that with the before-dinner drinks, there would be cacahuetes. Although the word sounded vaguely familiar, I couldn't remember what it was. Misaki had no idea as to the word's meaning, so we asked Daphne to try to explain. The following is an abridged version of the conversation.
Daphne: You know, cacahuetes, like you serve for a kid's party or a birthday party.
JD: I don't understand. Are they a sort of fruit?
Daphne: No.
JD: A sort of nut?
Daphne: No.
JD: A kind of vegetable?
Daphne: No.
JD: A kind of meat?
Daphne: No, there's no meat. This is what they look like:
[Daphne sketches for Misaki and me three shapes: a rounded hourglass, a circle, and a triangle, on a slip of pink paper. We both remain stumped].
Daphne: They're, they're... they're like chips! You know, chips! At a party.
JD: Ah, so they're made out of potatoes.
Daphne: No, they're like chips, but not made out potatoes!
JD: But made of what Daphne, made of what?
Daphne [running to the kitched]: Grampa! How do you say cacahuetes in Spanish? I mean, English?
[muted conversation]
Daphne [running back]: Peanuts!
Misaki: Oh! It's "peanuts" in Japanese, too!
[JD & Misaki laugh very, very hard for several minutes. Divers alarums and excursions].
~JD
"'En divisant les biens d'emigres, on cherchait a eteindra la misere...', rappelait Couthon le 1er floreal. Le pauvre n'en profita guere" ["By dividing up emigrants' property, we intended to put an end to misery," recalled Couthon on April 10th, 1794. The poor scarcely received any benefit] (Marc Bouloisea, La Republique jacobine, p. 206).
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Ca me gene...
Contrary to my earlier promise, I'm going to postpone my entry on the museums and monuments Tours. Rather, I'm going to take a moment to launch a few darts at the French who have been kind enough to allow me to live among them.
The French have several verbs that indicate irritation or annoyance: gener, ennuyer, emmerder, irriter, inquieter, and agacer, to name a few. Several aspects of French culture make me think "ca me gene," or "that annoys me," and I have compiled a top-ten list.
10) French books fall apart before you can even finish reading them for the first time. I've never seen a book's signatures drop out of its spine so quickly.
9) I've already mentioned the practice of bicycling on the sidewalk: it still feels unsafe.
8) Here in Tours, if you seem to hesitate at the first few words flung at you, the speaker is likely to revert to English, because (s)he assumes you are a stupid American unable to speak any French. Although I am ready to admit that my French is mediocre, I prefer to retain, at the very least, the right to try to communicate in French, even if I make mistakes, and require correction.
7) Contrary to the popular stereotype, the French language is not more beautiful and mellifluous than English in all respects. In comparison, one realizes the elegance of Germanic English words, especially those describing nature. I prefer "rainbow" to "arc-en-ciel," "moonlight" to "clair de lune," "lamb" to "agneau," "carnation" to "oeillet," "waterfall" to "chute d'eau," and "rain" to "pluit" and "pleuvoir." This last word in particular strikes me as dreary: when I read "pleuvoir" (the verb) or "pluit" (the noun), I can only think of dreary skies, ruined picnics, and damp chillness. "Rain," however, brings to mind healing water falling on a parched field, raindrops racing down windowpanes, colorful umbrellas, and, yes, singing in the rain.
6) The French are evasive about their government's decisions to expel the Romani, and to ban the headscarf. When I brought this up in a situation in which negative stereotypes of the French were being discussed, I received the reply that I ought not to mistake the politically-motivated actions of the French government for the genuine feelings of the French people. To the credit of the latter, I have seen women in headscarves, unmolested. Still, the response seems like a cop-out, at least from my perspective, as a foreigner: why would the government make such an obviously intolerant law in such a public manner, in order to improve its reputation with its people? I know (or rather, suspect) that if Maurice Hinchey voted to enact a similar law in the United States, he would thereby forfeit my vote in the next election.
5) Although the bread here is excellent, I made the mistake yesterday of experimenting with a new variety. The cursive handwritten label had two words, "compte," which means "county," and another word, which I couldn't read. I asked about the contents of the bread, and the boulangere replied to me that "compte" is a kind of cheese. Suspecting that the bread was the specialty of a particular French county, which produced the eponymous cheese, I bought the roll, and left satisfied. As I munched my way through, I began to notice a salty, greasy flavor, and found what looked like tiny pieces of meat in the bread. I have never seen anyone bake bread with meat in it before. I stopped eating, and returned to the boulangere: the second word was "lardons," which is cognate with English "lard." Well, now, at least, I know that I'm not missing anything by not eating pork! I had the salty taste in my mouth all day long, and it even seemed to resist my toothpaste.
4) Everything here is exorbitantly expensive. Yesterday, I had to leave a cafe where I had sat down with a group of my friends, because the waiter insisted that I order something, and I didn't want to pay four euros for a drink. Also, cf. #1. However, this nickel-and-diming attitude began to irritate me on an ideological level when I needed to shell out for a library card. Payment for use of a library seems to send exactly the wrong message, that access to knowledge is a privilege, rather than a right.
3) By no means is Tours any more environmentally sustainable than Ithaca. In Ithaca, you can take a run, early on a Monday morning, and see the bins of recycling outside everyone's house; in Tours, everything seems to be thrown to the landfill. In Ithaca, vegetarianism is very common; in Tours, I alone do not (intentionally, at least) consume meat. There is neither evidence of greater use of public transportation, nor of any other quotidian habits adopted in order to conserve energy. The mean automobile size I would say is slightly smaller, but the Tourrangeux do not seem to drive any less than the Ithacans: a large percentage of the pedestrians I see are tourists, who don't have cars in the first place. These observations would not bother me in the least if the United States did not have a statistically-founded reputation as the world's worst per-capita polluter, whereas France, from my point of view, has always posed as being particularly progressive in environmental matters (Kyoto Protocol, anybody?). My observations are not facts, and I suspect that I am missing a great deal, but the culture and spirit of sustainability seems to belong no more to the French than it does to the Americans.
2) Beggars; cf. post from August 3rd.
1) France contains the filthiest public bathrooms that I have ever, ever used. One of them didn't even have soap; another looked as if the last occupant had urinated in the corner rather than in the toilet. And did I mention? The bathrooms here cost .30 to .50 Euros to use, gas mask not included.
That's enough bellyaching for now. Tomorrow, I visit the Chateau de Chenonceau: you'll be the first to read about it.
~JD
"Par surcroit, Ivan incarne le refus d'etre sauve seul. Il se solidarise avec les damnes et, a cause d'eux, refuse le ciel" [Moreover, Ivan {Karamazov} embodies the refusal to be saved alone. He stands with the condemned, and, on their account, rejects heaven] (Camus, L'homme revolte, p. 81).
The French have several verbs that indicate irritation or annoyance: gener, ennuyer, emmerder, irriter, inquieter, and agacer, to name a few. Several aspects of French culture make me think "ca me gene," or "that annoys me," and I have compiled a top-ten list.
10) French books fall apart before you can even finish reading them for the first time. I've never seen a book's signatures drop out of its spine so quickly.
9) I've already mentioned the practice of bicycling on the sidewalk: it still feels unsafe.
8) Here in Tours, if you seem to hesitate at the first few words flung at you, the speaker is likely to revert to English, because (s)he assumes you are a stupid American unable to speak any French. Although I am ready to admit that my French is mediocre, I prefer to retain, at the very least, the right to try to communicate in French, even if I make mistakes, and require correction.
7) Contrary to the popular stereotype, the French language is not more beautiful and mellifluous than English in all respects. In comparison, one realizes the elegance of Germanic English words, especially those describing nature. I prefer "rainbow" to "arc-en-ciel," "moonlight" to "clair de lune," "lamb" to "agneau," "carnation" to "oeillet," "waterfall" to "chute d'eau," and "rain" to "pluit" and "pleuvoir." This last word in particular strikes me as dreary: when I read "pleuvoir" (the verb) or "pluit" (the noun), I can only think of dreary skies, ruined picnics, and damp chillness. "Rain," however, brings to mind healing water falling on a parched field, raindrops racing down windowpanes, colorful umbrellas, and, yes, singing in the rain.
6) The French are evasive about their government's decisions to expel the Romani, and to ban the headscarf. When I brought this up in a situation in which negative stereotypes of the French were being discussed, I received the reply that I ought not to mistake the politically-motivated actions of the French government for the genuine feelings of the French people. To the credit of the latter, I have seen women in headscarves, unmolested. Still, the response seems like a cop-out, at least from my perspective, as a foreigner: why would the government make such an obviously intolerant law in such a public manner, in order to improve its reputation with its people? I know (or rather, suspect) that if Maurice Hinchey voted to enact a similar law in the United States, he would thereby forfeit my vote in the next election.
5) Although the bread here is excellent, I made the mistake yesterday of experimenting with a new variety. The cursive handwritten label had two words, "compte," which means "county," and another word, which I couldn't read. I asked about the contents of the bread, and the boulangere replied to me that "compte" is a kind of cheese. Suspecting that the bread was the specialty of a particular French county, which produced the eponymous cheese, I bought the roll, and left satisfied. As I munched my way through, I began to notice a salty, greasy flavor, and found what looked like tiny pieces of meat in the bread. I have never seen anyone bake bread with meat in it before. I stopped eating, and returned to the boulangere: the second word was "lardons," which is cognate with English "lard." Well, now, at least, I know that I'm not missing anything by not eating pork! I had the salty taste in my mouth all day long, and it even seemed to resist my toothpaste.
4) Everything here is exorbitantly expensive. Yesterday, I had to leave a cafe where I had sat down with a group of my friends, because the waiter insisted that I order something, and I didn't want to pay four euros for a drink. Also, cf. #1. However, this nickel-and-diming attitude began to irritate me on an ideological level when I needed to shell out for a library card. Payment for use of a library seems to send exactly the wrong message, that access to knowledge is a privilege, rather than a right.
3) By no means is Tours any more environmentally sustainable than Ithaca. In Ithaca, you can take a run, early on a Monday morning, and see the bins of recycling outside everyone's house; in Tours, everything seems to be thrown to the landfill. In Ithaca, vegetarianism is very common; in Tours, I alone do not (intentionally, at least) consume meat. There is neither evidence of greater use of public transportation, nor of any other quotidian habits adopted in order to conserve energy. The mean automobile size I would say is slightly smaller, but the Tourrangeux do not seem to drive any less than the Ithacans: a large percentage of the pedestrians I see are tourists, who don't have cars in the first place. These observations would not bother me in the least if the United States did not have a statistically-founded reputation as the world's worst per-capita polluter, whereas France, from my point of view, has always posed as being particularly progressive in environmental matters (Kyoto Protocol, anybody?). My observations are not facts, and I suspect that I am missing a great deal, but the culture and spirit of sustainability seems to belong no more to the French than it does to the Americans.
2) Beggars; cf. post from August 3rd.
1) France contains the filthiest public bathrooms that I have ever, ever used. One of them didn't even have soap; another looked as if the last occupant had urinated in the corner rather than in the toilet. And did I mention? The bathrooms here cost .30 to .50 Euros to use, gas mask not included.
That's enough bellyaching for now. Tomorrow, I visit the Chateau de Chenonceau: you'll be the first to read about it.
~JD
"Par surcroit, Ivan incarne le refus d'etre sauve seul. Il se solidarise avec les damnes et, a cause d'eux, refuse le ciel" [Moreover, Ivan {Karamazov} embodies the refusal to be saved alone. He stands with the condemned, and, on their account, rejects heaven] (Camus, L'homme revolte, p. 81).
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The City of Tours
Tours is a small city in France; Ithaca is a large town in New York. Every day, I notice new differences between my hometown and my current living-space. Obviously, the greatest difference is in language, but France is not America in code: real cultural differences exist. In the following post, I will try to paint a thumbnail portrait of my temporary home.
Tours is in central France, an hour's drive south of Paris, in the Loire Valley. It is the hometown of Honore de Balzac, the 19th-century French novelist. Balzac is Tours's favorite son, and scattered across town are notices indicating his places of residence, and the various locales that inspired, or appeared in, his works. Tours, in fact, seems to be in love with all writers, philosophes, artists, artisans, and politicians, French and otherwise: Rabelais, De Gaulle, Da Vinci, Zola, Descartes, George Sand, Voltaire, Anatole France, Victor Hugo, Marechal Foch, various Saints, and even a 15th-century carpet-maker are all have the honor of having streets bearing their names. Gregory of Tours, and St. Martin, both very active bishops in their adopted home (and the former also a highly-regarded medieval chronicler), are Tours's other high-profile historical figures.
Tours attracts hundreds of tourists to its various historic churches and chapels, its art and cultural museums, and (presumably) its beautiful view of the Loire. However, even as a tourist, I feel comfortably outnumbered by the Tourangeaux: none of the culture in the city feels artificial, although the central hub of restaurants and bars do employ at least a few anglophones. Today, I visited the Cathedral of St. Gatien, seat of the archbishop of Tours (whose palace has been converted into an art museum), and there were fewer than twenty people who might have been tourists, inside and out. The visit of one tourist in particular garners a great deal of attention: in 1996, Pope Jean-Paul II visited the basilica of St. Martin. Needless to say, the local historic churches have highly capitalized upon his pilgrimage.
Tours is full of restaurants and bars, cafes and bookstores, and museums and monuments. It is also full of bakeries, which often double as sandwich-shops or patisseries. There is no American equivalent to a French boulangerie: the Ithaca Bakery and CTB are really delicatessens. The bread here has crust; it has flavor; it has texture. It comes in all different shapes, although only a few different sizes (typically 350g). It can be filled with figs, raisins, olives, hazelnuts, or herbs. Artisans proudly advertise that they bake their loaves in wood-burning ovens. At mealtimes, a basket of a sliced baguette is the only dish kept on the table throughout all courses, and one's bread is placed on the table rather than on one's plate. It is considered polite to mop up the remains of one's meal with one's slice of baguette. Now I understand how Professor Kaplan can spend a lifetime studying the the culture and history of bread in France: the French have a true love affair with their bread.
There is no Wegmans in Tours. Nor do there seem to seem to be many large chains: rather, one buys one's groceries from a variety of locally-owned small businesses. Although there are a few signs of American market intrusion (a Domino's Pizzeria and a Pizza Hut), I have not even seen a McDonald's. There is only one business that is questionably a supermarket, but it is much more of a glorified convenience store, smaller than Greenstar Oasis in downtown Ithaca. A single shop does not meet all of a family's needs: for bread, one visits a bakery; for meat, one visits a butcher; for fish, one visits a fishmonger; etc.
The people here are quite sympathetic to foreigners they meet. Once, a young woman saw me peering at a map, and immediately stopped in order to offer me directions. On the second day of courses, my class visited a local flower market, which gathers every Wednesday and Saturday, and interviewed the Tourangeux about the market and the city. Most of the people whom we addressed responded politely, and gladly told us how much they loved Tours, every respondent choosing the adjective "belle" to describe it. (I suspect, however, that my having a pretty Russian girl for a partner probably increased my chances of of a polite reception).
There are a surprisingly large number of beggars in Tours. I would like to think that this is because it is a city (albeit a small one), and not an endemic problem of France; still, I seem to see more beggars per-capita than I do in New York City. Many of them sit and smile and wave, murmuring requests for passers-by to drop coins into their dishes. Others move about, calling out to passers-by. Church-steps seem to be a popular site for begging, and on two different days, I have seen the same woman wearing the same skirt begging at the same church stoop. Today, a man spoke to me for several minutes about Tours before he finally got to the point, told me he was diabetic, and asked me for 6 Euros to buy lunch. I've turned every entreaty down, and it's made me uncomfortable: I don't like to refuse people, especially if I need to lie in order to do it, but I know (or, at least, I've been taught) that paying beggars is like scratching a scab. I don't think a single day has passed in which I have not needed to turn down a beggar who has personally addressed me. I politely asked the Avertins about it, and they told me that the beggars are central or eastern Europeans who have fled their countries in order to escape persecution, and although granted asylum in France, cannot obtain working papers. I have no additional data with which to support or refute this claim, except that the beggar with whom I spoke today said that he was "ne en France."
While I am on the topic of beggars, I would like to say that the North Africans are not among them. France's relationship with the North African immigrants is, as far as I can tell, somewhat similar to the US's relationship with Latino immigrants. From what I have observed, the North Africans seem to be moving in peacefully, and making their way economically: I have seen several businesses which seem to be owned and managed by North Africans, and there are at least two halal eateries in town (according to my map, there is also a mosque). Today, I saw a young woman wearing a headscarf and carrying an iPod. I know that my positive judgment is based upon a very American capitalist rubric, but I know no other.
The streets here are narrower, the cars are slightly smaller, the license plates are more legible, and the frequency of motorcycles, especially for food delivery, seems to be higher. Bicycles ride on the sidewalk, and motorcycles (and their marginally smaller cousins) have access to pedestrian walkways. Walking along the Loire, I have twice come uncomfortably close to a motored 2-wheeled vehicle.
I have taken photographs of the various monuments in Tours, which I plan to post on Facebook, but I am having some difficulty uploading them onto my computer. Please, be patient: I have a lot to do!
Love to you all,
~JD
"Au niveau de l'administration locale, la monarchie absolue de l'age classique a reussi, par une evolution menee sur plus d'une siecle, a placer son homme: non pas un officier, mais un commissaire, agent direct du roi et revocable par lui" [The absolute monarchy of the classical age succeeded, after an evolution lasting over a century, to post its own man at the level of local administration: and not an officer, but a superintendent, direct agent of the king, and revocable by him] (Vovelle, La Chute de la monarchie, p. 38).
Tours is in central France, an hour's drive south of Paris, in the Loire Valley. It is the hometown of Honore de Balzac, the 19th-century French novelist. Balzac is Tours's favorite son, and scattered across town are notices indicating his places of residence, and the various locales that inspired, or appeared in, his works. Tours, in fact, seems to be in love with all writers, philosophes, artists, artisans, and politicians, French and otherwise: Rabelais, De Gaulle, Da Vinci, Zola, Descartes, George Sand, Voltaire, Anatole France, Victor Hugo, Marechal Foch, various Saints, and even a 15th-century carpet-maker are all have the honor of having streets bearing their names. Gregory of Tours, and St. Martin, both very active bishops in their adopted home (and the former also a highly-regarded medieval chronicler), are Tours's other high-profile historical figures.
Tours attracts hundreds of tourists to its various historic churches and chapels, its art and cultural museums, and (presumably) its beautiful view of the Loire. However, even as a tourist, I feel comfortably outnumbered by the Tourangeaux: none of the culture in the city feels artificial, although the central hub of restaurants and bars do employ at least a few anglophones. Today, I visited the Cathedral of St. Gatien, seat of the archbishop of Tours (whose palace has been converted into an art museum), and there were fewer than twenty people who might have been tourists, inside and out. The visit of one tourist in particular garners a great deal of attention: in 1996, Pope Jean-Paul II visited the basilica of St. Martin. Needless to say, the local historic churches have highly capitalized upon his pilgrimage.
Tours is full of restaurants and bars, cafes and bookstores, and museums and monuments. It is also full of bakeries, which often double as sandwich-shops or patisseries. There is no American equivalent to a French boulangerie: the Ithaca Bakery and CTB are really delicatessens. The bread here has crust; it has flavor; it has texture. It comes in all different shapes, although only a few different sizes (typically 350g). It can be filled with figs, raisins, olives, hazelnuts, or herbs. Artisans proudly advertise that they bake their loaves in wood-burning ovens. At mealtimes, a basket of a sliced baguette is the only dish kept on the table throughout all courses, and one's bread is placed on the table rather than on one's plate. It is considered polite to mop up the remains of one's meal with one's slice of baguette. Now I understand how Professor Kaplan can spend a lifetime studying the the culture and history of bread in France: the French have a true love affair with their bread.
There is no Wegmans in Tours. Nor do there seem to seem to be many large chains: rather, one buys one's groceries from a variety of locally-owned small businesses. Although there are a few signs of American market intrusion (a Domino's Pizzeria and a Pizza Hut), I have not even seen a McDonald's. There is only one business that is questionably a supermarket, but it is much more of a glorified convenience store, smaller than Greenstar Oasis in downtown Ithaca. A single shop does not meet all of a family's needs: for bread, one visits a bakery; for meat, one visits a butcher; for fish, one visits a fishmonger; etc.
The people here are quite sympathetic to foreigners they meet. Once, a young woman saw me peering at a map, and immediately stopped in order to offer me directions. On the second day of courses, my class visited a local flower market, which gathers every Wednesday and Saturday, and interviewed the Tourangeux about the market and the city. Most of the people whom we addressed responded politely, and gladly told us how much they loved Tours, every respondent choosing the adjective "belle" to describe it. (I suspect, however, that my having a pretty Russian girl for a partner probably increased my chances of of a polite reception).
There are a surprisingly large number of beggars in Tours. I would like to think that this is because it is a city (albeit a small one), and not an endemic problem of France; still, I seem to see more beggars per-capita than I do in New York City. Many of them sit and smile and wave, murmuring requests for passers-by to drop coins into their dishes. Others move about, calling out to passers-by. Church-steps seem to be a popular site for begging, and on two different days, I have seen the same woman wearing the same skirt begging at the same church stoop. Today, a man spoke to me for several minutes about Tours before he finally got to the point, told me he was diabetic, and asked me for 6 Euros to buy lunch. I've turned every entreaty down, and it's made me uncomfortable: I don't like to refuse people, especially if I need to lie in order to do it, but I know (or, at least, I've been taught) that paying beggars is like scratching a scab. I don't think a single day has passed in which I have not needed to turn down a beggar who has personally addressed me. I politely asked the Avertins about it, and they told me that the beggars are central or eastern Europeans who have fled their countries in order to escape persecution, and although granted asylum in France, cannot obtain working papers. I have no additional data with which to support or refute this claim, except that the beggar with whom I spoke today said that he was "ne en France."
While I am on the topic of beggars, I would like to say that the North Africans are not among them. France's relationship with the North African immigrants is, as far as I can tell, somewhat similar to the US's relationship with Latino immigrants. From what I have observed, the North Africans seem to be moving in peacefully, and making their way economically: I have seen several businesses which seem to be owned and managed by North Africans, and there are at least two halal eateries in town (according to my map, there is also a mosque). Today, I saw a young woman wearing a headscarf and carrying an iPod. I know that my positive judgment is based upon a very American capitalist rubric, but I know no other.
The streets here are narrower, the cars are slightly smaller, the license plates are more legible, and the frequency of motorcycles, especially for food delivery, seems to be higher. Bicycles ride on the sidewalk, and motorcycles (and their marginally smaller cousins) have access to pedestrian walkways. Walking along the Loire, I have twice come uncomfortably close to a motored 2-wheeled vehicle.
I have taken photographs of the various monuments in Tours, which I plan to post on Facebook, but I am having some difficulty uploading them onto my computer. Please, be patient: I have a lot to do!
Love to you all,
~JD
"Au niveau de l'administration locale, la monarchie absolue de l'age classique a reussi, par une evolution menee sur plus d'une siecle, a placer son homme: non pas un officier, mais un commissaire, agent direct du roi et revocable par lui" [The absolute monarchy of the classical age succeeded, after an evolution lasting over a century, to post its own man at the level of local administration: and not an officer, but a superintendent, direct agent of the king, and revocable by him] (Vovelle, La Chute de la monarchie, p. 38).
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