This week it finally worked out to meet two groups of French people with whom I've been making arrangements for awhile. One was the family of a four-year-old girl, who want me to teach English to her, and the other, a French student who the university here set me up with (as I'm an exchange student.) They call him my parain (godfather.)
I'll start with the English lesson.
This family was very nice. They've just moved from Paris and they have three kids with almost ridiculously old-fashioned first names, Mahaut, Arnaud, and the baby, Baptiste. The first time I went to eat them, they served me coke, potato chips, and local, seasonal radishes. The girl I'm teaching, Mahaut, was very shy, but she opened up as I asked her if she's a good student in Kindergarten. When I asked her to compare her school this year to the year before, she paused for a second and then said, "Let me reflect." When I returned two days later for the first lesson, she was very excited to start. I taught her a song I wrote called, "Hello. How are you? I am good." (These happen to be the lyrics too, but I think I'll add different vocabulary each week if she does well at remembering.) It hadn't occurred to me before how difficult it is to pronounce a phrase such as "How are you" if you speak a language without diphthongs. Often, I would introduce a new word, and she, catching on quickly that I wanted her to repeat it but not wanting to make an effort, would simply say, "Oui, c'est ça. Exactement." One time I got her to repeat a phrase perfectly and after congratulating her on her hard work, she said, "C'est presque paraît" (It's almost identical.) Furthermore, I was very impressed when I used a situation in a story I was reading to teach the phrase "I am lost." She said, slowly, "I...am...GOOD." It's doubtful that this is evidence of a conscious connection between this phrase and the very similar sentence she had sung earlier, but it does show me that she had processed these sounds enough to recall them with automaticity. Next time, I hope to use activities which will help her see the meaning of English, that it can actually be useful to communicate. I'm open to any suggestions you may have.
And my day with my parain.
It was ended up being really fun. We met near my house (in fact, in front of a bar where filled with disappointed rugby fans) and he drove me to his nearby village, where we had lunch with 10 members of his family (Dad, brother and sister, dad's girlfriend, her three kids, grandma, uncle and his daughter.) Because my host family this semester is pretty much a household of international students, I told them I was happy to meet a true French family. They cut me off to say, "Well, we're not really a true family. Well, what we are is a modern family, a big modern family. C'est pas grave." And then we sat down and had another one of the best meals of my life. Raclette (cheese we melted individually--as if we were roasting marshmellows), with lots of deli meats and bread and wine. I learned the expression, "une main lourde" (a heavy hand) when the Grandma, who sat next to me, kept pouring me champagne without cease. It was like the biggest shock in the world if I told her I was fine with what I had. Needless to say, I often acquiesced to her heavy-handed heavy hand.
There was an interesting connection to my time in Normandy that came up while we were eating. The adults were reflecting on the number of Americans who know everything about WWII, who know more about the Normandy invasion that the French. They said that in French school, when that time period is taught, it's more about the conditions that give rise to Fascism. I offered that Americans might especially want to commemorate WWII because at least on the European front, it's relatively simple and without controversy (compared to Vietnam and Iraq), something truly to be proud of. They agreed. It's always a compliment when a French person agrees with you.
After lunch we played laser tag at a nearby arena (not something I would expect, but exactly the same as in America). And after returning, I took a long walk on the other side of the Loire as the sun set. I even discovered the entrance to an island park I've always wanted to find. It was a good day.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Thoughts and experiences in Normandy
I recently remarked on facebook that I feel like I came back from my excursion a little older. It was a heavy weekend, and through all my experiences and conversations and continuing reflection, I notice a particular deepening with regards to my views on peace, American identity, and cultural transmission of history.
(Also, I apologize for the fact that I may have written this blog more for me than for readers, another step in reflecting on my experiences up North. Hope some of it's interesting.)
We started in the city of Saint-Milo (which, as a French guy reminded me today kind of snobbily, is technically in Brétagne). Even though the city feels old, with a medieval wall surrounded it, and fortresses on the ocean, most of it was reconstructed after heavy bombing in WWII. This was the case with many of the cities we visited, as they were either attacked by the Axis powers or they suffered during the American invasion. I noticed, for example, that the cathedral's stained glass windows were very modern. The cathedral still had the smell that only a really old church could have.
This is sort of an embarrassing story: There's a famous French writer, Chauteaubriand, who is buried on an island only reachable at low tide. When it was getting time to rejoin the group, the tide lowered enough to reveal the little path to his final resting place. I raced down the beach and across, and, as I had to pee, I ran up the hill before all the other people crossing over to do my business on the other side of the island. After having done so, I turned a corner to see his grave, marked by a sign which read, "Here lies a great French writer. He wanted only to hear the sound of the wind and the waves. Please respect his wishes." Oops. When I returned to the bus a little late, my professor said, "Well, visiting the tomb of Cauteaubriand is a good excuse for being late." I didn't tell him how exactly I paid my respects.
The next day, we went to the "plages de débarquement." As I decended onto the beach at Arromanches (where the Allied forces built their artificial port), I instinctively picked up handfuls of sand and scattered it as if it were grain all the way to the ocean (a ritual I would repeat on the Utah landing beach.) I hastily wrote in my notebook:
It's just a little beach
and now I have the sand of Normandy
plastered on my jeans
after I sank my hands into the cool earth
and sprinkled it back in the sun,
the shadow, and toward the waves.
in the same way, several children beside me
stick their shovels into the sand.
In a museum, we read the quote of Private Henry Parker, who described his touching down onto Omaha beach, saying, "As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell."
I added to my journal: "I didn't feel like a visitor to hell. I didn't even feel like a visitor. I hope that's the point." Echoing these sentiments was a French poem in ridiculous rhyming quatrains that said, "See the laughing children / Playing in the sea / Today's sun / Dries Yesterday's tears." I don't know if this is true.
But I had a long to to reflect on this that day as I ran along the marine terrace outside of the town. From the highest point of the cliff I could see miles of green coastline in both directions. I asked these questions: Why is it necessary in every museum to juxtapose the horror of battlefield photography with the serene beauty of Normandy today? What does war do to a region's culture? Is Normandy still grieving? How could D-Day and its deaths have been avoided? What does this mean for violence and intervention today?
I kept thinking and talking with others as we visited the American and German graveyards, walked along the beaches and cliffs marked with bomb craters, and returned that night to Caen, another city utterly destroyed as France was saved. I felt at the same time proud to be an American and disturbed by the footage from the 40s, where political and military leaders used the same language in describing WWII intervention that Americans use today when they speak of military action around the world. However, after our visit to the Museum of Peace (which situated well the D-Day invasion in its context of war and totalitarianism, French cooperation and resistance, genocide and poverty) my thoughts sunk a little further into place. In the end, D-Day seemed to me to be simpler than all the debate and questioning. It requires grieving and thanks for the sacrifice of the soldiers.
And so I returned Sunday afternoon with the weight of a deepened understanding of just how devastating war is and how widespread violence is in our world. But I also carried with me a new appreciation for the value of human culture and its power to create and preserve, to look back in order to move forward, and even to save.
(Also, I apologize for the fact that I may have written this blog more for me than for readers, another step in reflecting on my experiences up North. Hope some of it's interesting.)
We started in the city of Saint-Milo (which, as a French guy reminded me today kind of snobbily, is technically in Brétagne). Even though the city feels old, with a medieval wall surrounded it, and fortresses on the ocean, most of it was reconstructed after heavy bombing in WWII. This was the case with many of the cities we visited, as they were either attacked by the Axis powers or they suffered during the American invasion. I noticed, for example, that the cathedral's stained glass windows were very modern. The cathedral still had the smell that only a really old church could have.
This is sort of an embarrassing story: There's a famous French writer, Chauteaubriand, who is buried on an island only reachable at low tide. When it was getting time to rejoin the group, the tide lowered enough to reveal the little path to his final resting place. I raced down the beach and across, and, as I had to pee, I ran up the hill before all the other people crossing over to do my business on the other side of the island. After having done so, I turned a corner to see his grave, marked by a sign which read, "Here lies a great French writer. He wanted only to hear the sound of the wind and the waves. Please respect his wishes." Oops. When I returned to the bus a little late, my professor said, "Well, visiting the tomb of Cauteaubriand is a good excuse for being late." I didn't tell him how exactly I paid my respects.
The next day, we went to the "plages de débarquement." As I decended onto the beach at Arromanches (where the Allied forces built their artificial port), I instinctively picked up handfuls of sand and scattered it as if it were grain all the way to the ocean (a ritual I would repeat on the Utah landing beach.) I hastily wrote in my notebook:
It's just a little beach
and now I have the sand of Normandy
plastered on my jeans
after I sank my hands into the cool earth
and sprinkled it back in the sun,
the shadow, and toward the waves.
in the same way, several children beside me
stick their shovels into the sand.
In a museum, we read the quote of Private Henry Parker, who described his touching down onto Omaha beach, saying, "As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell."
I added to my journal: "I didn't feel like a visitor to hell. I didn't even feel like a visitor. I hope that's the point." Echoing these sentiments was a French poem in ridiculous rhyming quatrains that said, "See the laughing children / Playing in the sea / Today's sun / Dries Yesterday's tears." I don't know if this is true.
But I had a long to to reflect on this that day as I ran along the marine terrace outside of the town. From the highest point of the cliff I could see miles of green coastline in both directions. I asked these questions: Why is it necessary in every museum to juxtapose the horror of battlefield photography with the serene beauty of Normandy today? What does war do to a region's culture? Is Normandy still grieving? How could D-Day and its deaths have been avoided? What does this mean for violence and intervention today?
I kept thinking and talking with others as we visited the American and German graveyards, walked along the beaches and cliffs marked with bomb craters, and returned that night to Caen, another city utterly destroyed as France was saved. I felt at the same time proud to be an American and disturbed by the footage from the 40s, where political and military leaders used the same language in describing WWII intervention that Americans use today when they speak of military action around the world. However, after our visit to the Museum of Peace (which situated well the D-Day invasion in its context of war and totalitarianism, French cooperation and resistance, genocide and poverty) my thoughts sunk a little further into place. In the end, D-Day seemed to me to be simpler than all the debate and questioning. It requires grieving and thanks for the sacrifice of the soldiers.
And so I returned Sunday afternoon with the weight of a deepened understanding of just how devastating war is and how widespread violence is in our world. But I also carried with me a new appreciation for the value of human culture and its power to create and preserve, to look back in order to move forward, and even to save.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
German history
I have a class each Thursday from 4:30 to 7:30, straight lectures, by a German professor on Franco-German relations in the 20th century. It's often not that bad, however. Apparently they won't have tests till January (after I'm gone), so I guess I keep going for the pleasure of it. It makes me reminisce about being a high school student in AP European History.
And things even got a interactive for a moment (and just a moment). In his discussion of the Dawes Plan, the professor paused, wondering if there were any anglophones in the room who could verify the pronunciation.
"I think it's DOS," he said (like two in Spanish), "le plan dos--"
"DAWWWS!" I thundered from the back of the classroom. Everyone sort of giggled.
The French students in general have trouble understanding his accent, and they are very kind in asking me how I'm doing in that class. "In fact," I tell them, "a foreign accent is easier than a French accent." "Mais non," they reply, "This is central France. No one here has an accent!"
I'm sure, in a way, we're both right.
But while the girls around me continued to snicker at poor Monsieur Beck's accent and write down every word he said (French students are a little crazy when it comes to note-taking), I kept looking out the window to my left across the river. And I started to write some poetry (translation will follow):
la forêt de l'autre côté est ravissante
dans le vieux soleil, cette fin d'après-midi.
les feuilles se colorent dans cette heure tranquille
grâce à la colère du nouveau automne
et bientôt, l'eau de la Loire devient cendre
de ce feu peu feroce qui souffle dans
le vint du soir.
Pourtant, pendant que les oiseaux
rentrent aux nids, les braises respirent en haut dans les arbres,
les dernières feuilles de feu contre le soir.
(okay, this isn't the best translation)
the forest on the other side is ravishing
in the aging sun, at the end of this afternoon.
the leaves color in this peaceful time
because of the anger of new fall
and soon, the water of the Loire becomes the ashes
of this small, weak fire that blows
in the evening wind.
But still, while the birds
return to nests, the embers breathe high in the trees
the last leaves of fire against the evening.
Good night :)
And things even got a interactive for a moment (and just a moment). In his discussion of the Dawes Plan, the professor paused, wondering if there were any anglophones in the room who could verify the pronunciation.
"I think it's DOS," he said (like two in Spanish), "le plan dos--"
"DAWWWS!" I thundered from the back of the classroom. Everyone sort of giggled.
The French students in general have trouble understanding his accent, and they are very kind in asking me how I'm doing in that class. "In fact," I tell them, "a foreign accent is easier than a French accent." "Mais non," they reply, "This is central France. No one here has an accent!"
I'm sure, in a way, we're both right.
But while the girls around me continued to snicker at poor Monsieur Beck's accent and write down every word he said (French students are a little crazy when it comes to note-taking), I kept looking out the window to my left across the river. And I started to write some poetry (translation will follow):
la forêt de l'autre côté est ravissante
dans le vieux soleil, cette fin d'après-midi.
les feuilles se colorent dans cette heure tranquille
grâce à la colère du nouveau automne
et bientôt, l'eau de la Loire devient cendre
de ce feu peu feroce qui souffle dans
le vint du soir.
Pourtant, pendant que les oiseaux
rentrent aux nids, les braises respirent en haut dans les arbres,
les dernières feuilles de feu contre le soir.
(okay, this isn't the best translation)
the forest on the other side is ravishing
in the aging sun, at the end of this afternoon.
the leaves color in this peaceful time
because of the anger of new fall
and soon, the water of the Loire becomes the ashes
of this small, weak fire that blows
in the evening wind.
But still, while the birds
return to nests, the embers breathe high in the trees
the last leaves of fire against the evening.
Good night :)
Saturday, October 8, 2011
afternoon at l'Opéra
This afternoon the Tours Opera opened its theatre doors to the public. Since I have this weekend unexpectedly free (long story), I decided to go for the dress rehearsal of the staging of their season-opener, Thaïs. I wasn't familiar with this opera, but here's what I gathered today in terms of synopsis:
Thaïs tells the story of a young woman who, while mourning the loss of a beloved friend at a cocktail party, decides to become a nun. In fact, she is persuaded to do so by a quick-tempered monk, and to the great chagrin of her wild, party-going, flamboyantly dressed compatriots, she walks off with him to the monastery. Although the woman bids him adieu (literally) as she begins her life of celibacy, the monk falls so tumultuously in love with her that he seeks her out at the garbage dump where the nuns worship. (She had warned him personally of her impending death in a sexy dream sequence.) He arrives just in time for a richly layered duet before the woman, claiming to glimpse heaven, dies in his arms on a pile of trash.
And that was only Act II, and there's still another act left!
Other things made it an enjoyable experience. As it was a rehearsal, the "metteur-en-scène" would stop the steadily-mounting action quite abruptly to fix things here or there. At the end uproarious end of the first song, the main character yanked down a curtain of strings that hung across the stage. While she was untangling the strings from her costume, the director shouted out from the house, "In the silence, Thaïs, don't pull it down during the music." The soloist apologized: "I beg your pardon, I just always get taken by the rhythm."
The curtain of strings was in fact a very beautiful touch to the scenery at the beginning of the second act. While the light white cords allowed a projection of a recently deceased character, with a mourner grieving just behind, they also moved me to reflect on the transient nature of life and the thin veil that separates our world from the next. Rich, tender chords from an unseen chorus complemented this concept in a touching way. Yes, the acting was awful (it's opera), but I am stunned by the design concepts that the opera has at its disposal.
After the rehearsal, there was an échange, a Q & A session. I was pleased to see even the diva soloist stayed to answer audience questions. And everyone on the staff had a very charming sense of humor. They all seemed to really believe in their craft. The staging director said something funny when talking about the authoritarian nature of her job. She explained that they don't have the luxury of time that theatre possesses, so they can't explore alternatives. She just gives blocking, "and if a soloist opposes me, it will cost them dearly." I don't know what she means by that, but the audience applauded her comment.
So my new ambition in life is to do vocal training and enter the world opera. It won't be the last time I change vocation.
Thaïs tells the story of a young woman who, while mourning the loss of a beloved friend at a cocktail party, decides to become a nun. In fact, she is persuaded to do so by a quick-tempered monk, and to the great chagrin of her wild, party-going, flamboyantly dressed compatriots, she walks off with him to the monastery. Although the woman bids him adieu (literally) as she begins her life of celibacy, the monk falls so tumultuously in love with her that he seeks her out at the garbage dump where the nuns worship. (She had warned him personally of her impending death in a sexy dream sequence.) He arrives just in time for a richly layered duet before the woman, claiming to glimpse heaven, dies in his arms on a pile of trash.
And that was only Act II, and there's still another act left!
Other things made it an enjoyable experience. As it was a rehearsal, the "metteur-en-scène" would stop the steadily-mounting action quite abruptly to fix things here or there. At the end uproarious end of the first song, the main character yanked down a curtain of strings that hung across the stage. While she was untangling the strings from her costume, the director shouted out from the house, "In the silence, Thaïs, don't pull it down during the music." The soloist apologized: "I beg your pardon, I just always get taken by the rhythm."
The curtain of strings was in fact a very beautiful touch to the scenery at the beginning of the second act. While the light white cords allowed a projection of a recently deceased character, with a mourner grieving just behind, they also moved me to reflect on the transient nature of life and the thin veil that separates our world from the next. Rich, tender chords from an unseen chorus complemented this concept in a touching way. Yes, the acting was awful (it's opera), but I am stunned by the design concepts that the opera has at its disposal.
After the rehearsal, there was an échange, a Q & A session. I was pleased to see even the diva soloist stayed to answer audience questions. And everyone on the staff had a very charming sense of humor. They all seemed to really believe in their craft. The staging director said something funny when talking about the authoritarian nature of her job. She explained that they don't have the luxury of time that theatre possesses, so they can't explore alternatives. She just gives blocking, "and if a soloist opposes me, it will cost them dearly." I don't know what she means by that, but the audience applauded her comment.
So my new ambition in life is to do vocal training and enter the world opera. It won't be the last time I change vocation.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
from goat cheese to van gogh and back again
I just told my sister that I had the time of my life in Provence. I don't think that's an exaggeration. Unfortunately, I've been too busy to blog about it, but as life keeps happening (i'm going to Normandy this weekend, for example), I need to get some of the word out before it's too late.
Some highlights of our excursion to Provence:
- The Roman theatre in Arles. It was amazing to see the ruins of Roman pillars and the stadium where the audience sat right in the center of town. We spent a good time here, climbing the stage, taking pictures on the steps. When I visit old theatres, I like to pretend I'm an actor. Although, I'm not too familiar with Roman comedy, I did my best. I wish our society still made space for the whole town to physically gather and watch political satire for entertainment. There were many others painting or making sketches, taking advantage of the hot, sunny day to let this ancient art inspire their own art.
- Again, in Arles, we turned around a corner, and there in front of me was the yellow café that Van Gogh famously painted: Café Terrace at Night I was like, "Ouaaaais" (which isn't a very French thing to do.) Throughout Provence, they have signs marking the subjects of his paintings by showing his work right in the midst of the actual thing. Wow.
- We visited two cities, Gordes and Beaux-de-Provence, which, situated on the tops of yellow, rocky hills, offered expansive views of the region. I would spend minutes taking it all in, the olive trees, the vineyards, the mountains, the red-tiled roofs.
- For those who understand French, you'll appreciate my accomplishment in instinctively using the phrase "ce dont" in a sentence, to which a French guy remarqued, "You're practically French." My sentence was, "C'est exactement ce dont j'ai besoin." (That is exactly that for which I had need.)
- I wrote a poem, inspired no doubt by the smell of olive trees in the late afternoon. The last two lines, I think, isn't have bad: "Car j'ai des ombres, et des lumières / en danse dans mon cœur." ("For I have shadows and lights / dancing in my heart"...it's better, of course, in French.)
- And for something more heavy: I had a terrible time at the Popes Palace in Avignon. It was too hard to imagine and see before me the extravagant political power and wealth of the popes at the end of the Middle Ages, or if you like, the beginning of the Renaissance. It's not just the popes, of course. The experienced touched me in part because of the shadow it cast over today's church in many places, and the luxury and privilege I myself maintain. When I was praying about these things over Vietnamese food before the high-speed train back to Tours, I asked God where he was when the church was amassing power and wealth, and he seemed to answer, "I was dying for it." As I told one of my professors here in a nice conversation about faith and belief, we agreed that God has lots of patience with us.
- I got home late (train delays) but as I told my host mom, it was worth it to have the opportunity to sit back down at the kitchen table in Tours and help myself to a cool slice of chèvre. She was like, "Tout effet. C'est sûr," one of those things that French people say after every other statement. Fresh goat cheese = home.
Some highlights of our excursion to Provence:
- The Roman theatre in Arles. It was amazing to see the ruins of Roman pillars and the stadium where the audience sat right in the center of town. We spent a good time here, climbing the stage, taking pictures on the steps. When I visit old theatres, I like to pretend I'm an actor. Although, I'm not too familiar with Roman comedy, I did my best. I wish our society still made space for the whole town to physically gather and watch political satire for entertainment. There were many others painting or making sketches, taking advantage of the hot, sunny day to let this ancient art inspire their own art.
- Again, in Arles, we turned around a corner, and there in front of me was the yellow café that Van Gogh famously painted: Café Terrace at Night I was like, "Ouaaaais" (which isn't a very French thing to do.) Throughout Provence, they have signs marking the subjects of his paintings by showing his work right in the midst of the actual thing. Wow.
- We visited two cities, Gordes and Beaux-de-Provence, which, situated on the tops of yellow, rocky hills, offered expansive views of the region. I would spend minutes taking it all in, the olive trees, the vineyards, the mountains, the red-tiled roofs.
- For those who understand French, you'll appreciate my accomplishment in instinctively using the phrase "ce dont" in a sentence, to which a French guy remarqued, "You're practically French." My sentence was, "C'est exactement ce dont j'ai besoin." (That is exactly that for which I had need.)
- I wrote a poem, inspired no doubt by the smell of olive trees in the late afternoon. The last two lines, I think, isn't have bad: "Car j'ai des ombres, et des lumières / en danse dans mon cœur." ("For I have shadows and lights / dancing in my heart"...it's better, of course, in French.)
- And for something more heavy: I had a terrible time at the Popes Palace in Avignon. It was too hard to imagine and see before me the extravagant political power and wealth of the popes at the end of the Middle Ages, or if you like, the beginning of the Renaissance. It's not just the popes, of course. The experienced touched me in part because of the shadow it cast over today's church in many places, and the luxury and privilege I myself maintain. When I was praying about these things over Vietnamese food before the high-speed train back to Tours, I asked God where he was when the church was amassing power and wealth, and he seemed to answer, "I was dying for it." As I told one of my professors here in a nice conversation about faith and belief, we agreed that God has lots of patience with us.
- I got home late (train delays) but as I told my host mom, it was worth it to have the opportunity to sit back down at the kitchen table in Tours and help myself to a cool slice of chèvre. She was like, "Tout effet. C'est sûr," one of those things that French people say after every other statement. Fresh goat cheese = home.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Groupe Biblique
Tonight I went to a Bible study with Groupe Biblique Universitaires at the university here in Tours. People were more friendly than they were last week (i.e. they actually talked to me this time). I keep having to remind myself that French people aren't accustomed to thinking of engaging people they don't yet know in conversation. However, they are accustomed to greeting them with kisses on the cheeks (two times in Tours...it changes by region) even if they hardly know them.
Many have heard me say (pettily) that when it comes to getting to know churches or people, I give out extra points for their affinity for 2 Corinthians. God seems to honor this. The first time I went to a knew church in Lancaster this summer, the pastor preached from 2 Corinthians. I nearly fell in love with a girl freshman year because she indicated that she liked the epistle. I once had quite a spiritual experience in a forest in Massachusetts while reading 2 Corinthians. I could go on and on.
Well, tonight we studied 2 Corinthians 5:12-21. We met in a the back of an Irish bar, and with the music and the fish tank (?) and the football match on the TV, I struggled to understand everything that was said. I did speak a few times, at the encouragement of a girl named Marie who always seemed to notice when I had a thought.
Some anecdotes:
- They expressly asked me to explain where Corinth was...TWICE because people walked in late...was this just the easiest question or did I give off l'air d'une grande connaissance géographique? I told them it was in the middle of Greece, by the sea.
- Someone asked what a Pharisee was, and the guy next to me concluded: So, Pharisees are just like the French. There's a law for everything. "En effet," I said under my breath.
- French people like argumentation. In fact, the way you say, "Okay" in French is "I agree with you." Well, one of the times I spoke, two people commented on the clarity of my argument (I suggested that vs. 13 is linked to vs. 12, that Paul's sanity or lack of sanity are "appearances," and that the Corinthian church and his devotion to God are where his "heart" is. Verse 12 ends by distinguishing between those who concern themselves with appearances and those who care about the heart.) The guy next to me said, "That is very nice." The French may be Pharisaic with regard to their administrative prowess, but they are equally vigilant to test and approve what a good argument is.
- To conclude the Bible study, they talked about people they loved (family, friends, etc.) who they wanted to know how good God is. This conversation reminded me greatly of what Christian students say in the States. It was a good to be there tonight.
Well, I leave tomorrow at dark fifteen for Provence in the South of France. They whether has been so exceptionally warm that my host brother averred that it was like California. (He's never been to California). I'll be there till Sunday night. I'll update when I get back.
Many have heard me say (pettily) that when it comes to getting to know churches or people, I give out extra points for their affinity for 2 Corinthians. God seems to honor this. The first time I went to a knew church in Lancaster this summer, the pastor preached from 2 Corinthians. I nearly fell in love with a girl freshman year because she indicated that she liked the epistle. I once had quite a spiritual experience in a forest in Massachusetts while reading 2 Corinthians. I could go on and on.
Well, tonight we studied 2 Corinthians 5:12-21. We met in a the back of an Irish bar, and with the music and the fish tank (?) and the football match on the TV, I struggled to understand everything that was said. I did speak a few times, at the encouragement of a girl named Marie who always seemed to notice when I had a thought.
Some anecdotes:
- They expressly asked me to explain where Corinth was...TWICE because people walked in late...was this just the easiest question or did I give off l'air d'une grande connaissance géographique? I told them it was in the middle of Greece, by the sea.
- Someone asked what a Pharisee was, and the guy next to me concluded: So, Pharisees are just like the French. There's a law for everything. "En effet," I said under my breath.
- French people like argumentation. In fact, the way you say, "Okay" in French is "I agree with you." Well, one of the times I spoke, two people commented on the clarity of my argument (I suggested that vs. 13 is linked to vs. 12, that Paul's sanity or lack of sanity are "appearances," and that the Corinthian church and his devotion to God are where his "heart" is. Verse 12 ends by distinguishing between those who concern themselves with appearances and those who care about the heart.) The guy next to me said, "That is very nice." The French may be Pharisaic with regard to their administrative prowess, but they are equally vigilant to test and approve what a good argument is.
- To conclude the Bible study, they talked about people they loved (family, friends, etc.) who they wanted to know how good God is. This conversation reminded me greatly of what Christian students say in the States. It was a good to be there tonight.
Well, I leave tomorrow at dark fifteen for Provence in the South of France. They whether has been so exceptionally warm that my host brother averred that it was like California. (He's never been to California). I'll be there till Sunday night. I'll update when I get back.
Monday, September 26, 2011
French sauerkraut
I just had possibly my favorite meal so far in France, cabbage, four kinds of sausage, and pork (i think), of course with a course of cheese, and a gateau de riz rice pudding. My host mom is in Florida right now, and her good friend came to cook for me. Apparently its a specialty of the Alsace region, which is probably why it struck me as being Germain.
What made this meal so special was the conversation. We talked about the food, about the recent victory of the Left in the French Sénat, about the elections of next year in France and the U.S., and about the corrupt nature of many politicians. But slowly, and cautiously, she began to incorporate here and there her beliefs in "physique-chemie." I went with it, and we had an unexpected and sincere discussion of spirituality and change in the world. Although I may not adhere completely to her New Age beliefs (at first I thought she said, "New Edge" ... the most trouble I have understanding French is when they use English words), we were in agreement about many things, and she was very interested in my own spiritual beliefs and faith. I could tell being able to talk about these things was meaningful for her too. She described our conversation, and any such thinking about these things as an offering to God. I thought that was a nice way to put it.
It was equally refreshing for me to have such success speaking French. It's often hit and miss for me. Apparently tonight was an "on" night. It's like left pirouettes in dance. However, despite my ability to engage in more sophisticated conversation, I had trouble understanding her when she told me to put the plates in the cupboard. I still have a lot to learn.
What made this meal so special was the conversation. We talked about the food, about the recent victory of the Left in the French Sénat, about the elections of next year in France and the U.S., and about the corrupt nature of many politicians. But slowly, and cautiously, she began to incorporate here and there her beliefs in "physique-chemie." I went with it, and we had an unexpected and sincere discussion of spirituality and change in the world. Although I may not adhere completely to her New Age beliefs (at first I thought she said, "New Edge" ... the most trouble I have understanding French is when they use English words), we were in agreement about many things, and she was very interested in my own spiritual beliefs and faith. I could tell being able to talk about these things was meaningful for her too. She described our conversation, and any such thinking about these things as an offering to God. I thought that was a nice way to put it.
It was equally refreshing for me to have such success speaking French. It's often hit and miss for me. Apparently tonight was an "on" night. It's like left pirouettes in dance. However, despite my ability to engage in more sophisticated conversation, I had trouble understanding her when she told me to put the plates in the cupboard. I still have a lot to learn.
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