Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! On this national holiday, I thought it would be fitting to write (or at least begin to write) a post on national identity.
Seventy years ago, in his essay on English patriotism, George Orwell, wrote that "national characteristics are not easy to pin down, and when pinned down they often turn out to be trivialities or seem to have no connexion with one another." This is a simple fact that all who try either make any but the most superficial observations, or to draw any but the most trite inferences, on sociology and anthropology, should acknowledge, be they tourists or academics. I offer it as a disclaimer as well as a general precaution to the following comments. I will recount a few anecdotes and impressions, and try to make some sense out of them.
On Monday, I had the misfortune to trip when taking my run through the quad of the Cité Universitaire; I tumbled and fell on my right side, grazing my right shoulder, my right elbow, my right knee, and both hands. I fell only about 20-30 meters away from a group of three people walking their dogs. I stood up, brushed myself off, and continued on my run, but, perhaps significantly, perhaps not, not one of them had stopped in order to ask me if I had hurt myself. This struck me as unusual; in Ithaca, when I take a tumble, those nearby who witness my fall usually express concern, by asking me if I am OK, etc. This applies even to drivers; once, a driver who saw me in his rear-view mirror even backed up to ask me if I was alright. I am not certain that the three dog-walkers saw me; but I am also not certain that they did not.
The dynamics in the park may not differ, in some respects, from those in the classroom. I gave exposé #3 on Medieval Travel; the same day, as I mentioned in my post about that exposé, that one of my classmates, Roman, had the same subject, and that after the Cours Magistral that day, I told him that I had been impressed with his presentation. I began speaking with him and with two of his friends, and after several minutes, I introduced myself, feeling that it was an opportune moment. None of them offered their names in return; I had to ask them: it wasn't exactly pulling teeth, but most of the time, when I give my name, I receive my interlocutors' in return. Likewise, trading cell phone numbers is very common back in the U.S., even among ephemeral acquaintances (how many numbers do I have of people I met a few times freshman year, and have rarely, or never, seen again?) -- not so, here.
This brings me to one of the most important aspects of life here: the near-impossibility of making French friends. I say "near" because I, and several others, have each managed to meet 1-5 French students with whom we have achieved at least some rapport. I would like to add here that I am very grateful to all of my French friends who have been kind and considerate enough to offer me their friendship. That being said, I estimate that maybe half of the other EDUCO students to whom I have spoken simply have no French friends. Zero. This is, naturally, partially due to the language barrier, and also due to the fact that the French students in our classes are well into their University careers, and thus already have constructed a nucleus of friends (my classes are all categorized as "License-3," meaning that students are in their third years, unless they are MASTER students). But where this ties together with the incident in the park, is in the social distance at which strangers are held. I am fully confident that, if I had called for help, the three people out walking their dogs would have stopped to help me without hesitation. However, I did not call for help; and they therefore had no reason to divert any attention toward me. I attribute this to a heightened sense of professionalism; that is, a greater distance between public life and private life. Both the park and the classroom are "public" spaces, where interactions involve a certain level of formality.
Formality is understandable in a park, almost the epitome of a "public" space, but in the U.S., classrooms are absolutely private nexuses. Think about the last time you were in class: unless you're my Dad, who actually is a professor, you're referred to consistently by your first name, and likewise address the other students and the TA by each one's first name (Prof. Pucci's class is kind of an exception to this, but his class is extraordinary, in more ways than one, but, Matt, I have always referred to you by your first name): only the Professor is referred to by his or her last name. In France, by contrast, the instructors all call me Monsieur Davis (pronounced day-VEES), and address me as vous, which makes me feel just a little bit stranger than if they referred to me as the less formal tu. The other students use tu, outside of class; I would mention their in-class interactions, but there are almost none to speak of: I don't think I've ever spoken to any of my peers while class is in session, except in a whisper, to ask them what was just said, etc. (I really miss discussion sections, in case it isn't evident.) This brings me to a curious observation Guillaume has made: American students (and JD in particular) will raise their hands to answer questions, even if they are only 40-50% certain that the know the answer; French students, even abroad at international schools, will not answer questions.
In an unusual, opposite reversal (which just goes to show that all binary us-and-them conceptual bifurcations are artificial), in the U.S., one's grades and evaluations are strictly between the individual student and the instructor. Although I had been told, before I left, that French professors have no qualms about telling students, to their faces and in front of the class, that their work is not good, it still surprised me the first time I witnessed it (and it still does). Everyone is criticized for some aspect of his or her presentation, even if the instructor praises the piece as a whole; and this is as true for exposés as it is for papers.
There is more professionalism in the classroom, and I think it is explained by a fundamentally different approach to university-level academics. In the U.S., being a student is one's life; here, it is more like one's job. At home, one never stops being a student, and one's entire schedule of classes, studying, sports, clubs, and even part-time jobs, is wholly within the framework of student life. When and where one studies is one's business: some people do it in the morning, some in the evening, some at the library, some at home. Here, studying is done at the library, during regular work hours (the Bibliotheque de la Sorbonne is open from 10:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m.). Uris Library is open 24 hours, and some students bring blankets and pillows. Studying never stops, and all-nighters are known among even the most responsible. In France, nuits blanches (literally "white nights," the term used for all-nighters) are generally just not done. There is a time to study, and a time not to study; the decision is less nice back home. I may be overgeneralizing by taking Ivy-League standards as the norm, but La Sorbonne is a very prestigious school here, and has, from what I can tell, relatively high academic standards.
One more note on academic standards, before I move on. In the U.S., educators, from high school teachers to college professors, consistently repeat, almost tautologically, that they don't care what students argue, as long as they support their arguments. Here, the refrain is on the structure and methodology: as long as all seven components of an introduction are in place, that introduction is of passing quality, even if the quality of the writing and the level of research are shoddy (not to say, these aspects are unimportant; I have seen a professor call out a student for treating a masculine noun as feminine in his in-class essay).
Academic standards are not the only standards encountered in student life. Veronique, one of the members of the (awesome) EDUCO team, has berated me before about the lack of attention I pay to my body, because I consistently sleep under eight hours a night (completely true) and don't consume a balanced diet (debatable). As she puts it, "les etudiants francais respectent leurs corps" [French students respect their bodies]. From what I have gathered from conversations with my other French friends, French students do tend to sleep more than their American counterparts, who, let's face it, barely sleep, ever. However, as far as I can tell, American students (or, at least, Cornell students), 1) Smoke less, and 2) Exercise more. By my standards, smoking and a lack of exercise are both key characteristics of an unhealthy lifestyle, in a way that sleep deprivation and poor diet are not. I wonder what doctors think of the matter...
There are a few other cultural observations, related, somewhat indirectly, to what I have been saying.
Drinking coffee (or eating croissants) while walking seems to be less common, as is speaking on the cellphone while walking. If you want to drink coffee, you sit down in a cafe to do it; when you eat lunch, you sit down on a park bench to do it.
In France, it's impolite to post others' photographs on Facebook.
The French have achieved a level of secularism in society that they have a word for it, laïcité, which they readily admit cannot be easily translated into other languages. For instance, in my Contemporary Arab World class, the professor, describing the politico-religious climate of the late Ottoman Empire, said it was "seculier, mais pas laïc" [secular, but not laïc]. If your 16th (and early 17th) century were mostly filled with gruesome religious wars and massacres, you, too, would want to prevent people from making public display of their religion (note: the ban on religious paraphernalia, better known in the U.S. as the ban on headscarves, is unenforced). However, I don't know if Ithaca is just already such a secular place, or whether the rising French xenophobia against North Africans and Romany, but there do seem to be some open displays of religion.
To name just one example, I was once handed a pamphlet containing 2 books from the New Testament, the Gospel of John and Paul's Letter to the Romans. It is on the desk in front of me now; it is conspicuously covered, on the cover, with French patriotic symbols: the blue, white, and red; the familiar hexagonal shape of France (plus Corsica) which we all know from the Mercator projection; a Parisian skyline; the Eiffel Tower; on the cover, the title alone is the only indication that this is a religious text. By contrast, there is nothing particularly "French" about the contents of the book (which could just as easily have been printed in any other Francophone country). My analysis? Just as in the U.S., with the influx of non-Christian immigrants (or, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, non-Protestant immigrants), somebody has made a connection between Christianity and patriotism: both represent traditional values placed in jeopardy by the newcomers. I have spoken with Bruno about the immigration issue, and he thinks that there is a strong parallel between North Africans in France and Latin Americans in the United States, with the very, very important exception that Latin Americans are typically Christian, whereas North Africans are not typically Catholic.
One last comment, just to remind you to keep a measure of Orwellian skepticism about trying to discover national "essences": public urination is rather common, and people do not consistently clean up after their dogs. The Mayor's Office has even posted sign up around Paris, alerting polluters, and those who urinate in particular, that they will be fined!
I would like to thank Valérie, Guillaume, Bruno, Joe, Sharon, David, Nick, Madeline, Jamie, Aday, Sarah, and everyone else with whom I have discussed Franco-American cultural differences: you all had a hand in this post also: mad props to Madeline for cutting my hair, and for Jamie for lending us her bathroom to do it!
~JD
"In 1475, Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy, gave the herald who had just defied him in the name of Duke Rene of Lorraine a cup of gild silver filled with 500 pieces of gold and the robe of gold cloth which he, Charles, had worn at the ceremony of defiance" (Pierre Chaplais, English Diplomatic Practice in the Middle Ages, p. 243-244).
Showing posts with label North Africans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label North Africans. Show all posts
Thursday, November 24, 2011
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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