Ole!

Obviously, Thanksgiving is an American holiday. Also obviously, we now live in Europe. A fact less obvious: we went to Spain to celebrate turkey day.

I mean the choice is not that odd. After all, it is conceivable that when the pilgrims and the Native Americans sat down to feast in 1621, they looked around and, after giving thanks for the bounty before them, wondered where on earth the paella was.

Well, that is at least as conceivable as the fact that an amicable dinner even occurred between the two groups (in my, admittedly cynical, opinion). And, really, Madrid is as good a place as any to celebrate Thanksgiving. A lifelong tradition of turkey dinner, pumpkin pie, and TV football gave way to a jug of sangria and a flamenco show. Why not?


Life certainly is a mutable entity, isn't it?

I don't speak Spanish, so my vocabulary was limited to "Hola" "Adios" "Ciao" et "Yo no hablo espagnol." I kept trying to tell people that I was sorry that I could not speak Spanish but as they responded with a look that seemed to say, "I am offended by your words," thus I do not think I had the phrasing and/or pronunciation down correctly. In fact, I had asked someone I spoke to in a store there to help me with how to say the aforementioned and it could have been that I was purposefully misinformed as a sort of juvenile practical joke. Maybe I was taught to say, "You are big dumb jerk" instead of "I am sorry, I cannot speak your language."


If I had any technological aptitude I might have been tempted to use the translate "app" on my IPOD, but that is about 12 years away from being something that I feel I could grasp. I am just beginning to understand the Apple IIgs.

Where in the world is Carmen San Diego anyway?

Anyway, I may have inadvertently offended the Spanish and perpetuated the stereotype that Americans are rude and ignorant. It seems I owe all my American blog readers an apology for that: Sorry, readers. And yes, I extend that sentiment to all three of you.

So Spain was fun. The Flamenco show was a hoot in that it was an exemplary example of juxtapostion. The costumes were flamboyant and the dance seemed light-hearted and merry at times, and then the person stomping and whipping and flinging and undulating suddenly took on a visage that suggested that he or she was reading from the pages of a tragic novel. War and Peace, maybe. Obviously, I could not follow the emotional journey of the dancer as it confused me to no end.

However, I loved those twirly skirts and spent a good part of the show trying to picture myself wearing a similar get-up at some juncture. My hunch, in retrospect, is that it is one of those outfits that is really context-centric. Luckily, the theater was approximately 112 degrees so my husband steered me outside immediately post-show...an important fact to note because it did not permit me sufficient time to drop 100 euros on a Flamenco outfit that would definitely not be appropriate to wear anywhere I would ever go. Ever.

The Prado Museum was AMAZING. Manageable in size, and I think this feature is important. At least living in Paris, I have to say that the Louvre scares me because of its gargantuanity. (I made that word up. But the Louvre is so big it exceeds description using "normal" English vocabulary words and thus I breached protocol out of necessity). The permanent collection is incredible (Durer, Botticelli, Raphael, Goya, Goya, and more Goya), and we were lucky enough to see a special Renoir exhibit.

The Renoir exhibit was comprised primarily of the collection of a Mr. Clarke whose art is housed normally in Williamstown, Massachusetts. I have been to Williamstown several times, and I am from Massachusetts. Good thing, then, that I decided to spend Thanksgiving 2010 in Spain and see the Bay State's treasures in Madrid.

Oh irony, there you are again!

We ate some yummo cheese and ham fritters, had some delicious pastry, but we did not eat anything TOO spectacular. All in all, we decided that the food in Paris may have spoiled us forever. C'est la vie. However, I will say that the Sangria was fabulous and we toasted my husband with a small pitcher of it on his birthday. Fruit and wine--looks innocent, is actually quite potent.

In fact, I think that if the legend of the Thansgiving dinner between the Native Americans and the Pilgrims had included generous portions of Sangria, then an amicable dinner would be more conceivable--to this bird anyway.

Adios amigos.

Fears

We all have things we are afraid of in life. For example, my friend Christopher, is frightened of spiders. I have witnessed my normally-impervious-to-all-fear brother become rather shrill in the presence of bats. My husband is afraid of large-winged insects and ABBA songs.

It seems my catalogue of fears is a bit thicker than the usual one or two items. While I am sure the following list is not exhaustive, I am afraid of heights, crowded elevators, rodents, groups of loitering adolescents, chicken salad, and the people who work the market stalls in France.

This last item is a relatively new addition.

In Paris, each arrondissement has outdoor markets that are set up on the sidewalks once or twice a week. In each stall, a vendor displays his/her offerings, and the array of wares for sale ranges from fur coats to fresh fish to hosiery to cheese to Bollywood DVDs. It is a veritibale amalgam of goods, and a "one-stop shop" in the truest sense of the term; you can scoop up some delicious olives right after you buy leather gloves right before you sample an omelette. And le cerise on top is that all can be had at a reasonable price.

It is a lovely tradition. People wheel around their grocery carts and barter over the price of socks as other people have their boeuf and lardons chopped up on the spot by the butcher for tonight's dinner. I love wandering through and looking at the variety of foods, the habits of the shoppers, and marveling at this experience that is so different from anything in the states. It all makes me feel sort of wistful and nostalgic, although I have no idea why or for what, really.

Maybe the whole affair just makes me wish for a return to simpler times. You know the ones I never experienced, making nostalgia seem both inappropriate and hypocritical. But who doesn't love indulging in a Laura Ingalls Wilder moment here and there?

Anyway, all would be hunky-dory with regards to Maggie and the market, there is only one minor snafu with the situation: the whole shabang also gives me a minor anxiety attack. These vendors are "turn 'em and burn 'em" in a way, and they have little patience for a timid Minnie-mouse-voiced foreigner who cannot properly pronounce the name of the frommage she would like and has absolutely no idea how many grammes of hariciots verts are appropriate for deux personnes.

No one is unkind, I am not saying that at all. It is just a situation where these vendors are trying to make a profit during the few hours the market exists and they need people to make their decisions chop, chop, tout suite and move on.

I am not the chop,chop, tout suite type, particularly when it comes to making decisions on food, and especially when I am feeling undue pressure because I have suddenly forgotten how to say eggplant in French (aubergine, but I remembered after that fact). I become really nervous, and instead of walking away with the tomatoes, eggplant, and mushrooms I set out for at the vegetable stand one day, I wound up with tomatoes, a kiwi, and 2 bunches of endive.

Something overtakes me in the moment, I feel immense pressure and I just start pointing at things. It is not graceful, not productive, and somewhat demoralizing.

No offense to the kiwi.

My point is that I am working on my fears. Proof: I climbed a bell tower a couple of weeks ago with my husband in Bordeaux. Frankly, it seemed rather unsteady, yet up I went. The fact that it has been standing without incident for four centuries, is beside the point in my opinion. The real victory was that I did not cry--whether or not I almost cried is also beside the point, thank you very much. So I am tackling the height thing with a little method I like to call "baby steps."

And, this morning, I went to the market and I bought tomatoes, green beans, and apples--exactly what I set out for. Yes, I did have a crimson-faced moment and may have developed a temporary stutter when asking for the beans and subsequently being shouted at that my words were incomprehenisible, but I persevered. I then went to the frommage stand and managed to not only purchase the cheese I wanted, but to engage in a dialogue with the frommager that lasted about deux minutes and even ended with us both smiling. Success!

Of course I ran away from the fish stand when I became nervous trying to figure out how to order something and said nervousness reached over-load as I watched the fishman bark at the customer in front of me. Rather than risk tears and mini-meltdown, I headed home, chop, chop, tout suite.

So no fish for me, and the market-fear still exists, but I feel optimistic that it can be conquered. At least it feels more in the realm of possibility than playing "Dancing Queen" in our apartment anytime soon, and that says something.

The Group Tour: Friend or Foe?

We visited Bordeaux last weekend, which is a really beautiful city on the coast in the south west of France. because we do not have a car and we have not yet worked up the courage to rent one in France, we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. The vineyards, where the grapes are harvested to create the famed Bordeaux wines are, obviously, not located in the city center. We had read about the vast fields, small charming villages and gorgeous chateaux (castles) that comprise the wine country in the surrounding vicinity. Without a car and not wanting to spend an exorbitant (and, at the moment, imaginary) sum of money on a private tour, we opted for a group tour via bus.

A word on group tours: I hate them.

A second word on group tours: My husband feels less affinity for them than do I.

Yet, in our particular case, such a course of action seemed to be the only viable way to accomplish our mission of seeing wine country.

Our tour was called "Bordeaux: Secrets of Great Wines." A small digression: you may remember that last month we took a cooking class called "Chef's Secrets," and I would just like to clear up the fact that we are not people who are soley interested in broadening our cultural horizons through the acquisition of "secrets"; these two events are merely a coincidence (for those of you who believe in the word, anyway). Back to Bordeaux: it was a full day affair, this secret-revealing tour, and was delivered in both French and English.

It actually proved to be an exemplary French lesson for me, so I really feel the value was top-notch.

In the morning we visited one of the original wine merchant's homes, and learned the history and evolution of the Bordeaux wine industry. We then kicked things off with a couple of tastings in this home at 11 am. It was possibly the earliest that I have ever imbibed alcohol, unless you count the "champagne"/apple juice concoction I drank with my roomates the morning we finished our final undergraduate college classes. That was a bad idea, by the way.

As far as the continutation of the tour, in the late morning we were given a walking history lesson on Bordeaux, which was amazingly informative. After the walk, we had lunch ensemble at a wine and cheese cave in the city center. The cheese had its own room. It was sort of like a greenhouse, but for cheese. The smell was rather potent in that little frommage hot-house, and the array of cheeses was impressive. There were probably 75 varieties of cheese from which we could sample. The only trouble with the arrangement was that it was impossible to remember the names of all the cheeses so there is little chance of being able to locate them again. The lunch also included a hot goat cheese "soup" as a starter, roasted duck in red wine and crispy potatoes as the main course, followed by the cheese exponanza. We wrapped things up with an apple cake and the requisite cafe.

One word on lunch: Yummers.

After lunch/Cheese-Gorge 2010, we boarded the bus and visited the Medoc region of Bordeaux wine country. The scenery was incredible. Breathtaking, actually. All the vines were changing colors and the vast fields awash in different hues led up to impressive chateaux. We must have seeen 15 castles on the drive. We had two more tastings, one at an "old school" vineyard which seemed fresh out of a fairy-tale, yet boasted surprisingly up-to-date technology. In fact, they developed their own grape sortring machine and are the only vineyard in the region to have such an apparatus. We also visited a super modern-type vineyard, and sampled wine straight from an oak barrell that has yet to be bottled for consumers.

All the wine was aged in French Oak barrels, by the way. They were very clear about American Oak being sub par. Those French, they never miss an opportunity to flaunt their superiority over us miscreant Americans.

All in all, it was a lovely day.

However, group tours remain low on my list. I recognize that they often provide information and accessibility that would be otherwise unavailable, and I am always wholly impressed when a guide is passionate and engaging, as ours on this excursion truly was. So, educationally, tours have their high points. It is the whole being-sandwiched-amidst-a-group-of-people-wearing-cameras-around-their-necks-and-looking-for-lasting-friendships-while-laughing-at-the-guide's-corny-jokes that turns me off. I used to think I disliked them due to my own social anxiety. Then I transitioned from that stance and wondered if my distaste stemmed from the fact that I can be overly judgemental and somewhat anti-social.

But I think it is a little simpler than that: I just don't like forced fun and/or forced intimacy. Fake, smiley, small chat with strangers? Ugh, who needs it.

How very French of me, n'est-ce pas?

Integration: Mission Possible?

Integration is an interesting question. As in, is it possible when one is not “native”? The jury is certainly out for me as I have only been here two months. But I have been wondering if it is ever really possible at all?

While I never had the expectation of moving here and feeling fully at ease in every situation, there certainly have been some situations that I presumed to be cross cultural "norms," and then they have surprised me with regards to how they have differed from that to which I was accustomed (from buying groceries to setting up a bank account—see previous posts for more information ). There are just many discrepancies that keep popping up over here that I never really considered.

For one thing, I always thought that friendliness was a good quality. Turns out it that in France it largely is not. The French, though warm and welcoming in their own way, do not have any tolerance for smiles on the streets and/or for phatic conversation (i.e.: “Hello, how are you?” “How was your weekend?,” etc.). My impression is that they don’t have room in their lives for non-meaningful interactions. And, I mean, they have a point.

Although, and in defense of my own learned way of being, there is also something to be said for a smile from a passer-by on the street, or a quick “How are you?” with your boss or a colleague. At the very least, such interactions enable you to connect with people on some level, and to perhaps open the door for a more meaningful friendship to develop over time.

While not an avid fan of “fluff” chatter, I have realized that the fluff is what I have long relied on to set a foundation for further interactions (I recognize that “fluff “is difficult to perceive as suitable foundation material. Use your imagination, please). I mean how else do you make friends, establish work contacts, or even talk to anyone, if you can’t smile and say “How are you?” without seeming like a bubble-headed noodle brain?

You see the kinds of challenges I am facing here? Life is not all croissants and wine over here, people.

I also, ignorantly and erroneously, thought sarcasm was a universal language. Nope, I definitely scored a resounding: “wrong answer” on that one. When I try to make jokes, people look at me like I am either crazy or have just deeply offended them. Or, on a particularly special day: both.

I know I am not Tina Fey or anything, but I can usually at least participate (albeit with mixed results) in a bit of dry-wit banter. Not here, I can’t.

The language and communication style here, especially as it translates to someone learning the language, tends towards the literal. Mind you, this may be my interpretation, and it may be erroneous, but it has fit the bill thus far. The blank, confused stares I ellicit in conversation on an hourly basis are proof of my conviction. By contrast, my communication style has always tended towards the figurative, and often the abstract. So that along with five euro will get me a nice cup of coffee around here. But, c'est tout.

It is just an interesting/humbling/frightening social experiment to take two of the most basic characteristics that define your personality and have them be wiped off the board of translatable or acceptable attributes.

Because the only way I have ever made friends is through friendliness and shared humor. Without the two as options, one might wonder how new relationships could be possible.

At least, that is what this one is wondering.

So this circuitous thought process is what brings me back to the idea of integration. I have met people here--mainly through friends of friends and work. We can go out to eat with new people or couples and we can have a good time. But can we forge lasting relationships with people who are native French? I hope so, yet I wonder who they are really meeting, in a way.

Not to get too abstract, but who am I if I am not connected to smiles and humor? It is a rhetorical question, as I haven't the slightest idea, really. So, if we do meet people here, I wonder if they will be meeting us under false pretenses, of sorts. Because the question then becomes: if we do manage a lasting friendship, will these people come to see us in the states and wonder what happened to us? Will I even be able to regain my former language of analogies and exaggeration peppered with sarcasm and cynicism? Am I having a premature and public identity crisis right now?

Sorry.

Anyway, just some food for thought. So is integration really possible? The jury is definitely still out.

Gym Attire

It is no secret that many Americans are obsessed with gyms, working out, and being fit. Because I have often found myself at the front of the line to ingest whatever the media is doling out, I have certainly bought into the whole fitness phenomenon as being an "essential" aspect of human survival in this day and age of type 2 diabetes and clogged arteries. In fact, when considering my best friends, I very well might count my elliptical trainer back home as one of them.

So, since I am highly attuned to American fitness trends (further credence to my status as an "expert" comes from the fact that my brother was a personal trainer, a model for Reebok, and he appeared in Men's Health magazine several times--see, I have "insider" knowledge), I tend to notice workout gear and habits.

Even before this trip, I have long been fascinated by what people in Europe wear to work out. My interest was spawned the day I walked through the Englisher Garten in Munich and saw two men running in pressed khaki pants with their leather belts still on. And they are hardly the only people I have observed sweating it out in "normal" clothes. At least, it is not unusual to see someone jogging in France wearing loafers and a collared shirt. Yesterday, my husband and I passed a runner in the park wearing a black pea coat and ballet flats. She actually had workout pants on, but ballet flats? Someone better tell her ankles that they are in for a rude awakening very soon.

Because, as you now know, I am an elliptical-addict (don't tell my bestie back in the states that I am cheating on her here with a different machine), and because I like butter more than I like most things in the world, I decided that joining a gym while I am in France would be in my best interest. The woman who signed me up at my new Frenchie gym was lovely.

She was wearing a black, gym-like, top, and she had her hair swept away from her face in a ponytail; very "gym-like". She also wore three-inch heels and black leggings, the kind with the slashes up each leg that begin mid-calf and go all the way up the hip, that seem to be quite en vogue here. Not that this blog is R-rated or anything, but I am unsure she had the correct underpinnings on. Or any pinnings of the under variety.

Aside from the sort of "half-workout-half-hooker" look of the sales rep, there were other people wearing what I would categorize as "non-gym" attire. For example, one guy was wearing a button-down shirt on the recumbent bike. What?

People also drink tea and coffee at my gym. This socializing area of beverage consumption is, for all intents and purposes, located in the cardio area. So someone will be sweating it out on the rowing machine and then he will stop, sort of blot his forehead, and walk twenty feet to meet a chum for an espresso.

These sorts of shenanigans would never go down in an American gym. Cappucino next to the treadmills? For shame!

What I do (selfishly) like is that people are not really heavy into exertion at this gym either--at least not what I was used to at good old U.S. gyms where the guy next to me on the elliptical always seemed to be trying to outdo me (or was that in my "non-competitive" imagination?). Other than for a very select few people, most seem to be strolling through their cardio they way they might window shop on a lazy Sunday.

I tell you, my ego is feeling mighty fine. Level 4 on the elliptical and I feel practically olympic-bound over here.

I cannot wait to bring my brother to this gym--I feel like people might take a gander at his biceps and start asking for his autograph. I guess I will just sip an espresso in my disco-wear as I watch it all go down.

Somethings are Always a Faux Pas

Living in a foreign country is obviously a really interesting intercultural experiment. It is not just that the language, the food, the style, and the habits of people differ from what is my "norm," but there are also so many other ways my being "different" permeates my life here.

For example, yesterday, I went to the grocery store. My husband and I go to this store fairly regularly so we sort of “know” the employees, and there happened to be a new cashier there. After he rang up my purchases, I handed him my money. Whilst doing so, he sort of grabbed my hand and held it for a few seconds.

Ummm, right. So my “normal”/Maggie-in-America reaction would have been to glare at him in admonishment, yank my hand away, and possibly give him a good old-fashioned finger-wagging. I mean hand-holding in this setting is just wholly inappropriate.

Maggie-in-France, however, is a gal I am just getting to know. She just sort of stared at the situation until it ended. Flashing through my head while this was happening: “I do not want to be a rude American, and with my every move I am representing my country, so pulling away would be wrong,” “Maybe this is a normal French thing, like the kissing?” “He is new, maybe this was SOP at his old grocery store cashier job?”and finally, “Why is this creep-o holding my hand, for Pete’s sake?”

In some ways, I feel as though I have turned off my instinctual reactions because I have been trying to be so open-minded and vigilant about embracing my new environs. This approach, obviously, has its benefits, but it also has its drawbacks. I mean, there is no need to be holding hands with stranger cashiers. Ever, anywhere, anyplace.

Life lesson #612. And that one, my friends, was a freebie.

I think it is all about finding the balance between embracing the new and not forgetting the old.

Balance, the squirrely little guy, he seems to pop up everywhere in life and he sure is hard to keep a hold on.