Farewell to Tours

It is difficult to believe that I have been here for four weeks now. I only have two more days of classes and then on Wednesday I take the train to Paris for the next phase of my stay here. I have no idea how convenient (or potentially costly) my internet access will be in Paris. As a result my blog entries may be limited.

Tours has certainly been a friendly city to me...a "France on training wheels," perhaps. It is large enough, some 400,000 people, to have a critical urban mass that I like. And, the people here have been friendly, even helpful, contrary to so many opinions of France. Of course, Paris can be different and difficult, but so can NYC to the average American. My only complaint about Tours is trying to cross the streets...all streets have crosswalks but the right of way is certainly negotiable as nearly every other car will try to cut one off at the knees (while other cars patiently sit and nicely wave one through an intersection). It certainly helps to be nimble.

This week-end the Puissant family brought us students to their "country house" near the wine village of Bourgueil, some thirty miles west of Tours. Their house was part of a larger complex of buildings for a nineteenth-century factory owner who had a stable, barn, hay loft, etcetera. Over the last twelve years the family, with the help of students at times, remodeled and totally redid the some 150-year old two-story building into a lovely weekend home--it is not uncommon for the French middle class to have a second home in the country. Not only do Madame and Monsieur Puissant have a home there but so do their daughter and son-in-law in the same complex of buildings.

What is most impressive about the house are the huge oaken beams that hold up the second floor--two of them measure 18x18 inches and are twenty feet in length. Smaller beams are latticed atop the larger ones and at one point all of the smaller beams had been taken down, sanded, scraped, and refinished. Too bad nearly all the work was done by the time of my arrival! Madame Puissant has a large, open-air kitchen with a huge island where she makes her magic happen.

What made the week-end more memorable was a four-inch snowfall on Saturday. It is often cold enough in Tours for snow but usually there is not a mass of moist air to accomodate it...this was the most snow they had seen in several years. I took advantage of the occasion by a long walk through the mostly-empty village. If one took away the wires and telephone poles the village certainly would still fit in the nineteenth century. In the center of the village I found the church (foundations dating to the 12th century), the city hall, and the library. A few random cars rolled by on the icy streets and on more than one occasion I nearly took a nasty spill due to the slick roads. I certainly was not dressed for a stroll in the snow as I had either my dress shoes or my running shoes and I chose the latter. After about ten minutes of walking I may as well have been wearing sandals with socks for my feet became damp and incredibly numb, cutting off my foray. I took a lot of photos and maybe, someday, I'll be able to post them. As a result of the weather we spent a good deal of time indoors eating and drinking. I can think of worse ways to spend a cold winter's day...

Monday was back to the reality of school and the need to start packing and making preparations for Paris. I'll post my address when I've confirmed my apartment...

School Daze

After three weeks in school I have made some strides. I can now walk up with confidence to the coffee machine in our cafetaria and select between "café sucre" and "café non-sucre" and know what I am getting. In my "labo" I no longer sound like someone speaking an African "click" language and Madame Y has not hit her head upon the desk in quite some time.

However, all is not well. Yesterday in class Madame "X" finally had enough with the "Heathers" girls. It was more of the same that morning with the group of six: the passing back and forth of notes, the snickering, the talking, the cellphone beepings, and the insincere "desolé" (I'm sorry) being offered to the instructor after each of their various infractions.

For thirty minutes Madame went off an impressive tirade. She did not raise her voice but she made it emphatically clear that this type of behaviour was juvenile, infantile in fact, and that she would not stand for it any longer. And then she managed to repeat this same message about four different times, sometimes pausing and speaking in English to make sure that she was understood. By the fourth time I think I got all of the French. During the first two repetitions two of the "Heathers" began talking to each other again as if nothing was going on...it was quite a show of total disrespect or total obliviousness.

But then Madame X turned to me and began to refer to me as her colleague, something that she has done in class before. However, now, as her "colleague," she wanted my opinion on the situation and also if this sort of behavior problem takes place in American universities. Ouch! Talk about being put on the spot. It was clear that she wanted me to voice some criticism toward the "Heathers." It is not that I had any sort of "allegiance" to the Heathers but on the other hand I was a fellow student as well and I did not feel that it was my position to also start scolding them as well.

Conveniently, my bad French came to the rescue for as I began to mutter something about how when I taught in Alabama the situation was different and then my voice reverted back to making various clicks and grunts. Madame became impatient with both my ability to make a simple declarative sentence and also my reluctance to become her classroom ally. She then turned to other students in the class (the non-Heathers) asking them what they felt about the situation, putting them on the spot. I found refuge in my notebook and my artistic doodles. Perhaps this is what inspired Leonardo.

The put-upon students also hemmed and hawed as well as they did not want to be on the spot and have the "Heathers" see them as traitors. Madame then repeated her litany a couple of more times for measure, turned to me once more and asked me for my comment (I was right in the middle of perfecting my perpetual motion machine and had no idea what she asked me) and I just nodded, "Oui." That seemed to satisfy her as she resumed her scolding but I did notice the "Heathers" began to scowl at me as a result.

Unexpectedly, one of the other "Heathers" began to defend the offending "Heather" (sorry if this is confusing) with the amazing defense that it was Madame's fault by saying that the instructor has "... established a class atmosphere that..." when she cut off by an even more angry (justifiably so) Madame who said that impolite behavior is never justified. Even if the student was wrong I was impressed by her temerity (or maybe unconsciousness) in starting such a commentary that it was the instructor's fault.

Madame's last tirade finally had an effect. The "Heather" in question began to well up with tears and started sniffling. Madame noticed this and then went on another assault saying how sad it was to cry over this situation. "One cries over love, death, hate," etcetera, "but one does not cry in class because of a scolding." My stomach began growling for lunch.

Either Madame heard my stomach or she lost steam. It was just after twelve so she decided to end class a few minutes early. That was a good thing for I cannot imagine that we would have a very spirited discussion in the minutes remaining.

Of course, I did agree with about everything that Madame said. The problem was is that her explosion was about three weeks too late. As my fellow instructors reading the blog all know that one establishes the classroom culture with the students in the first few days and that it is nearly impossible to try to change it well into the course. Especially since we have two remaining days of class...

None of this was in the school brochure!

The Glass of Wine...

It was probably my fourth night in Tours. I had gone out for my first run, around the lake a few laps, and had recently returned home, Chez Puissant, to clean up before dinner. As I had only been there a few bleary days I was still becoming accustomed to the rhythms and workings of the household (and the dreaded jetlag). I walked down from my room and joined the the Puissants, and my fellow students, Mary and Camillo, for dinner.

Before dinner was ready we sat and chatted. Monsieur Puissant, smiling as usual, discussed the ongoing French radio broadcast and I threw in an occasional child-like observation as Madame puttered about the kitchen beside the dinner table. I had not eaten since lunch and after my run I was starving. In my normal life I tend to eat something nearly every two hours and I was still not yet accustomed to eating three major meals with basically nothing in between (now, I have hidden a cache of nuts in my room so I can eat, squirrel-like, when the need takes me). The room smelled heavenly with layers of various flavors wafting about, so thick one could almost taste the air. Madame opened a pot on the stove and ladled into a heavy serving bowl a thick puréed vegetable potage. She placed it on the middle of the table and announced for us to serve ourselves. I greedily filled up my crockery to the top for after a chilly run it acted as a glorious restorative. As usual, we had pieces of a golden brown baguette to accompany the soup. I felt a couple of more years melt off of me as I finished my bowl. If it got any better than that I'd soon be wearing diapers. I silently praised my French colleague, Anne, for recommending Tours.

As usual, our conversation continued with anecdotes about our various backgrounds, the Puissant's experience with other students, our days at school, and so on. Once we finished the soup we cleared the table for the main course. Madame Puissant returned from the stove with another, larger, cauldron-like pot and brought to the table her beef bourguignon. Talk about glorious (sorry, vegetarians). Again, she placed this on the middle of the table and she gave us the unneeded commanded for us to start serving. As I ladled a spoon about the size of Rhode Island onto my plate Monsieur Puissant realized something was missing...he disappeared from the table and we could hear the sound of glass clinking and he returned with an unlabeled bottle of red wine--the bottle without the label is the sign of a local vintage, a vin ordinaire or a vin du table.

This is what I had been waiting for...I had been in France for days and had not yet had any wine at their household. Yes, that is true. I thought perhaps that either the Puissant family did not drink or that since one of my fellow students was under age (17) that we would not see any wine at the table. We already had small water tumblers on the table and it soon became obvious that we should finish off our water so Monsieur Puissant could refill our glasses. I obeyed the unspoken command and soon had a four-ounce glass of a dark cabernet in front of me...after the somewhat salty soup, the run, and the pairing of the wine with the main meal I was very thirsty and what better way to quench one's thirst than with a gusty swig of a local French wine?

My palate was satisfied. The wine perfectly balanced the bourguignon, the formidable chunks of succulent beef, the glorious local mushrooms sautéed in butter, and the tender pearl onions . I took another drink and continued to eat. Conversation was a bit more muted during the main course but it scarcely mattered as the food filled our thoughts instead. I looked up from my plate and noticed that my "wine" glass was two-thirds empty (always the pessimist). I looked askance at the other glasses and saw that the others had scarcely touched theirs. And, then searching further around the table I noticed that the unlabeled bottle had mysteriously departed for some place of refuge. Monsieur Puissant had put the bottle away.

I've rarely been so sad. I ruefully looked at my thimble-size serving of wine that remained and realized that I had to make do with that. I tried a few tactics...holding up my glass to the light and swirling the half ounce remaining, commenting how tasty the wine was, and finally slurping the last few drops...all to no avail. As the meal continued and as I chewed on the glorious stew (and then the salad and then the dessert course of four different strong and zesty cheeses, including roquefort) it became apparent that the bottle of wine had made its guest appearance and had then returned to some hidden strongbox and would not return for the evening. Quel dommage!

Of course, the Puissants would not have minded if I had asked for another glass but just being there a few days and not yet knowing the family's norms and boundaries I did not want to look like the besotted American alcoholic.

But from now on I'll never drink wine that fast again. I promise.

School Postscript

One thing I neglected to mention is that the school gave us a couple of exercise workbooks in French. The school teaches a clientèle that is mostly young women who are in France for either their semester or year abroad. Hence, the workbooks tend to target a young, feminine audience. I have been learning helpful phrases such as "Where can I buy a dress" and "I have been on this diet for weeks and I have lost ten pounds" and "This makeup makes my face break out" and "I have the cutest boyfriend."

Paris here I come!

Back in School...

The last time I sat as a student in the classroom was in 1990. Quite a lot has changed since then but on the other hand there is something quite universal about sitting in class and absorbing knowledge from someone else.

I am at the Institut de Touraine, a private language school dedicated to teaching French. It was founded early in the last century and encompasses a few buildings with the main office dating to the French Renaissance and my classroom building being an urban 19th-century chateau. I would guess that there are some two hundred students attending this January. My purpose here is to shake the rust off of my French. Before coming I could read French decently well, certainly well enough for my research (in case my administrators are reading this!) but my listening and speaking abilities had degraded to a pitiable state. Upon the recommendation of a French colleague who had lived in Tours I came to the Institute for a one-month "refresher" course.

Structure: I have a variety of courses here. I have one instructor, Madame "X" (to protect her identity), for about fifteen 55-minute class room sessions a week where we cover grammar and general conversation. I have six classes a week with Madame "Y" where we sit in a lab with headsets and go over pronounciation. Three afternoons a week I have specialized classes (in French, obviously) that cover literature, civilization, and art history. In total, I have about five hours of class a day with a ninety-minute lunch.

First, Madame X. Madame X, a trim, late 50-something, has probably been teaching French a long time. Maybe too long. As an instructor myself I am loath to criticize other instructors (professional courtesy and all) but Madame X is a bit disorganized. We will cover some grammatical topic for a few minutes and then she will lose steam (before there is any closure or any sense of real comprehension of the topic at hand) and then we will move on to some aspect of French culture for some tortured discussion. And then back to some other unrealized grammatical point for a few minutes and so on...

I also had the misfortune of being in a class that is slightly too difficult for my aural abilities. As noted before, I can read French fairly well. What I cannot do well at times is hear it and actually understand what is being said. Even after three weeks here spoken French for me is still a rushing stream where I can get a spoonful here and there but by the time that spoonful of pablum is digested about a million gallons have gone by, unheard. Learning French grammar in French that is spoken a bit too quickly for my abilities is not the most pleasant thing I've ever done.

Of course, I cannot blame Madame X for everything, as teaching is a dialectic between the class and the instructor. As an instructor she faces a challenge as I did not land in the best of classes. In my class of 19 there is a bloc of 8 students from an American University who may be pleasant on the surface (Have you seen the film "Heathers"?) but as classmates they are not very accomodating (cellphones going off in class, endless petty conversations sotto voce while the teacher is talking, passing of notes back and forth, coming in late and leaving early). Madame X, unfortunately, has allowed this to happen and has "lost" the class. Some of my gentle readers know that once a class is lost it is hard to get back and it appears that Madame X, a rugged veteran of so many years of teaching pampered and privileged students, has other battles that she would rather face.

My final complaint is that the class also "grew." After the first week we only had twelve students--a good size for an intensive, short class. However, week two saw three students added and week three saw four more added, totally changing the classroom dynamic. Madame X had to try to weave in these extra students and as a result I felt a bit cheated out of contact time. I suddenly can relate to students in an overcrowded classroom (sorry, deans and chairpersons).

Of course, it is not all bad and I do not mean to be overly negative but it has been slightly disappointing. Perhaps I have not worked hard enough (most likely) and I can also blame my left-handedness at times for my inability to acquire language well. I've especially noticed this in "Labo."

Madame Y is made of sterner stuff than Madame X. Certainly the "Heathers" do not get away with as much in her lab. Our first day of labo began with Madame Y handing us a piece of paper and then writing a few incomprehensible instructions on a blackboard. We were all seated at desks with a console of various buttons and a headset. Madame Y barked out some instructions at us and all of us students had no idea what she said (as we looked at each other for affirmation). Should we be pushing buttons? Saying something? Reading the text? Having a glass of vin (my idea). Then she made a motion for us to put on our headsets which we all did like frightened rabbits. More instructions, incomprehensible, followed. Madame gave a disgusted shrub of her shoulders (she also has done this hundreds of times) and drew a diagram of the console of four buttons for us on the blackboard. Then she motioned for us to push the middle-left button. However, I had three buttons on my console. Which one should I push (maybe one was an eject button that would eject me to the nearest bistro). I could hear buttons clacking around me in the room as frightened students frantically began to follow orders. Rather than press the wrong button and face a tirade I raised my hand and Madame huffed over and I pointed at my console saying "Trois" in my finest French (and not remembering the French word for button, "bouton," in this moment of panic). "Oh, you have the different machine," she said in a French that even I could understand, but in a tone that also said that it was my fault and that I should know which button to push or that I should have sat at a different desk altogether (which was now impossible as the class was full). She indicated the middle button, a record button, and she returned to her desk and began to do a reading.

At first, it was pretty simple, just a repetition of phrases. Even I could handle that, especially as shre gave us the text and all we had to do was read along. However, as usual, things became progressively harder and faster, with more 'r's and 'l's and other sounds that I cannot produce particularly well at times, especially at speed (some of you may know that as a child I went to a speech therapist for about a year because of difficulties of pronouncing "sh" and "th").

But it got worse than just simple repetition...We were given texts (exercises) in which Madame Y would read a phrase and then we had to do various tasks...substitute words, use relative pronouns instead of nouns, put sentences into past tenses, redo word order in sentences...the like...all on the fly.

I simply froze at first...each sentence had to be completed in short time and suddenly to me all looked like gibberish...i honestly was not even recognizing simple words and i was just seeing letters. It truly was the infamous "I Love Lucy" scene in the chocolate factory. The only analogue I can think of is some sort of mental traffic jam where everything just stops and then starts to pile up. Then panic set in and it gets worse. I am sure if the instructor was listening in I sounded like a raving lunatic trying to put strange sounds together.

And, I am not exagerrating either for at one point I could see her shake her head and throw up her arms in despair. She was not looking at me at that time so it could have been some other student stumbling along equally as poorly as me.

The exercise ended. However, the next step was nearly as bad as we now had to "rewind" and listen to ourselves. If I ever had thought I could speak French at all that illusion was now shattered as I listened to myself. Then, after listening to ourselves, we had to repeat the exercise all over again...

On the brighter side, I enjoy quite a bit my three specialized courses in literature, civilization, and art history. My first literature class (every Tuesday afternoon) covered existentialism in Camus and Sartre and I was most pleased at understanding over two-thirds of the French and just as much of the content. It felt like a total (and much needed) victory. Of course, the instructor was speaking in a slow, child-like French, but, hey, I'll take what I could get.

Civilization class on Wednesday afternoon was even better in the sense that I already knew the material being covered (French government). As a result, I could sit back, not take notes, and just absorb the material.

Best of all is the late Friday afternoon (3:30-5:00!) History of Art class. While I can only comprehend about half of his French, his delivery, enthusiasm, and choice of slides make this class a real winner. A small, compact man with a Van Dyke beard, Monsieur "Z" glides around the class, emulates the painting with his body, waves his arms about, and generally transmits his enthusiasm to the class, something that is more than necessary late in the afternoon on Friday. Of course, I do not mind looking at Renaissance paintings but he shows more than just the usual "standard" paintings one sees in a Ren class and that makes it all the more interesting. Certainly, I wish that he would teach a grammar class!

In a long nutshell this is my life for my weekdays here...leaving for school at 8:30, classes until mid to late afternoon, a blog entry or a few emails, and then home by 4, 5, or 6 p.m. for an occasional run. Some of you have asked me if I have gone out to any good restaurants but I actually have only sat at one for lunch on my second day here...Madame Puissant's meals are so good I really don't want to miss out. And, starting next Wedesday, I have more than two months in Paris to eat out...

click below for school propaganda...

The Institut...

Je fait du jogging

"Le jogging" in France is not as popular as it is in the States but one certainly does see here runners grimly slogging along. From my knowledge of French society and culture "le jogging" is a bit too socially isolating. One tends to see the French doing physical activities more in groups, be it soccer, ice skating, or even walking and hiking. Of course the time of the year and the weather are factors in not seeing many other runners. Also, running in the town itself is not particularly convenient as the buildings sit right on the corners so one tends to run most of the block but once one nears the end of the block one has to slow down and peek around the corner to see if cars, bikes, and/or pedestrians are coming. It's a stacatto pace.

The first two weeks here I've gone on a few runs that have been quite nice. The Puissant family lives in the middle of Tours and a little over one mile south of their home, across the river Cher one can find a park with a sizeable lake, Lac de Bergeronnerie, that has a 1.5 mile path around it. Typically, I'll run to the lake, through the town of Tours, do two to three laps of the lake and then run home. The trail around the lake is very gently rolling and is mostly a crushed gravel path. I can think of worse ways to spend forty minutes to an hour. However, after doing that run several times (laps are not that thrilling after a while) I thought it might be better to see something else in the time I am here.

Sunday seemed to be an optimal day for a long run as my two housemates were gone and the family was out doing errands--and it turned out to be one of the most memorable runs in my life. Many of you have heard of my past marathon training where Sundays are reserved for my friends Keith, Ross, and I to do a long run of anywhere from twelve to twenty-two miles. Even though I am not in great long-distance shape being two months past my last marathon I thought Sunday would be a good day to restart the long-run tradition here in France. What also convinced me was that we finally saw the sun this weekend after literally having no sun for the first ten or so days here (and some of you may know that I do not care for that particularly). It warmed up to a balmy 45. With the forecast being a return to gloom the rest of the week I decided to take advantage of the day.

I checked the map in my room for possible options and decided to run to Vouvray, some seven miles away. I was familiair with Vouvray for the locality produces a delightful and affordable white wine with the Chenin Blanc grape that I heartily recommend (I'm being paid by the Office of Tourism, Vouvray for this product placement). After dressing in my strange running garb I left Chez Puissant at 1:30 and ran my first herky-jerky paced mile through the streets of Tours. So far, just about the usual. Then, I came to the bridge over France's second most famous river (as one has to rank the Seine first). The Loire is the Platte River of France: long, wide, full of sandbars, and, mostly, unnavigable. Of course the Platte River is not dotted with the odd Renaissance-era chateaux. For several miles I could run alongside the river on a sometimes-dirt, sometimes-grass path as I could either watch the river and some local wildlife on my right: ducks, swans, and some other various waterfowl. On the left I could see some small chateaux, built right upon or atop the ochre-colored cliffs, or small villages that dotted the landscape. It certainly was an idyllic scene and an easy run. But, moreover, it was free of the diesel exhaust one has to breathe in town.

They were a few other joggers and walkers on the path and I nodded a "bonjour" to them. Some of them looked at me as if I were a bit mad as I was just wearing my running shorts and a short-sleeved running shirt and bandana (other runners and walkers were bundled as if the ice age was coming--must be my Swedish heritage). After nearly an hour I made it to Vouvray, a "village" of several thousand. Many independent grape growers in the village environs had signs out for tastings (dégustations) but I miscalculated doing my run on a Sunday as all those I could see in town were closed. In fact, the town looked empty, which upon reflection was not such a surprise as it was off-season for tourists.

However, luck found me and I located a small combination "tabac" and bar near the center of town. Peering through the window I could see a bartender and two customers at the bar having a drink. By this time I looked even more disheveled than normal as I saw my reflection in the window. What I also saw in the window that convinced me to go in was their menu--one could get a glass of the local wine for 1.1 € (1.35 US). Dishevelment bedamned! I boldly strode in and stated in my finest French "un vin blanc, s'il vous plait."

The magic of going to a language school for two weeks finally paid off as I did receive my small glass of wine (with a quizzical look). I could lie now and say how the four of us at the bar began to talk and how I charmed them with my good humor and that after that hour we reached a general Franco-American rapprochement. Alas, no: the bartender went back to conversation with the two locals and I had my glass of wine in a few minutes and then decided to run home. Oh, in case you were wondering, the wine was delicious (get the '97).

The run home was little different than the run to Vouvray save for the gentle glow in my stomach. I did have the sight of the some 300-foot towers of the old cathedral of Tours in the distance to mark my way home. In a little less than an hour again I found myself back at Chez Puissant, a little weary and a little sore and ragged, but with a great story to tell.


p.s. by the way, I am doing more here than just eating cakes with ceramic figurines and running and drinking wine. At some point I'll make an entry on the school and my classes...

click on link below for map...

Map From Tours to Vouvray

La galette des rois

January 6. It was my third day at the Puissant household and we were having dinner, fabulous as usual. Besides the usual five of us (Madame and Monsieur Puissant, myself, and the two other students), the Puissant's son, Sylvan and his two children, Elliot, 8, and Victoire, 4, joined us. I, of course, enjoy having the children around as not only are they well behaved but I can actually speak to them and nearly converse on their level. Elliot especially likes to talk to me as he loves American basketball and since I seem tallish to him he imagines that I must be a pretty good player. I did impress him by explaining that I went out for my junior high school basketball team and was cut after the first week. Of course, he may have been impressed because of a miscommunication with my pronounciation of junior high being confused for the NBA.

As we cleared from the table the main course dishes we could smell something wafting in from the oven--some sort of cake was baking. Madame Puissant took it from the oven and placed a golden brown frangipane (you look it up) on the table. The children became very excited and Monsieur Puissant had an impish gleam in his eye and all the French present started speaking at once. I caught none of it. Clearly, something important was being explained to me but I had no idea what it was--perhaps a birthday? A celebration of my arrival? I smiled and nodded, hoping for the best (at some point, if I continue doing this I am going to end up having to wear a puffy shirt to school).

Madame Puissant cut the frangipane into eight slices and served us. While I am not that enamored of sweets I did gobble mine down. However, I noticed that Victoire became very excited--inside her slice of frangipane was a porcelain figurine of one of France's most beloved monarchs, Henri IV. Once she produced her figurine (about 3/4 inch high) Madame Puissant produced a paper crown and "crowned" Victoire to the applause of the others at the table...

"La galette de rois" is an old French tradition that began in Roman times, circa the Fourth Century. Originally, a baker placed a pea in a round, sun-shaped piece of bread that would be baked until golden. A group would share the bread or cake at the feast of the Saturnalia in winter. It was in honor of the god Saturn and the finder of the pea would have special peace and prosperity. This tradition continued over the years with the Christian church syncretically adopting this (as Christianity also grafted other traditions onto itself for legitimacy's sake) as their own, changing this into a Christian celebration of Epiphany during the early Middle Ages, celebrating the "Three Wise Men" as Kings and the pea representing Jesus. Later, probably during and after the Renaissance, the French monarchy comes to be celebrated instead with the pea (be it a piece of gold or enamel or porcelain) symbolizing the king (le roi) within the galette (the cake). Hence, the "crowning" after one finds the King, or some other royal symbol, in the cake. Great Royalist propaganda! January 6 is the day now celebrated by this tradition, though, to be sure, the cakes are still seen for the next couple of weeks.

Of course, this was what had been explained to me at dinner, in briefer terms, as I nodded like a simpleton. I was pretty fortunate that the Henri IV was not in my slice of galette as I had gobbled my down like a longshoreman. Two things could have happened if it had been in mine: a few cracked teeth and an emergency visit to a French dentist or a swallowing of it whole and a unpleasant wait the next few days.

Ten Things That Tell Me I'm Not In Kansas (Or Alabama) Anymore

1. Bread. The best in the world (sorry, Panera). And cheap, too.

2. Wine. The best in the world (sorry, Napa Valley). And cheap, too.

3. Food. Madame Puissant probably spends two hours every afternoon crafting a new dinner. One would describe it as "French country cooking," though that may sound a bit perjorative. Meals are very, very good, with I think the highlight being the soups. I better watch out or soon I'll end up looking like Bibenbum.

4. Transit. A great system of local busses here. And they are used! It is interesting though to see them, nearly American sized maneouvre in the medieval streets here.

5. The age of things here: a 700-year old cathedral, a medieval wall, Gallo-Roman ruins about 1700 years old, my 200+ year old classroom.

6. Cars that seem more human than our mammoth SUVs. Parking is certainly easier when you can lift your car up to the curb. Of course, one can go too far, or small, in size: every morning I walk past a parked Austin Mini (an original from the '60s) and I swear a hobbit would be cramped in one of those.

7. Ninety-minute lunches. They used to be two hours but the modern world is intruding on Tours. I certainly need the break from my morning classes.

8. Time. I have my waspy, uptight version of time, namely, being on time. Here time is a bit more fluid and relaxed. Of course, that drives me crazy.

9. Small beds. At six feet, one inch, I am scarcely a titan but at night I find that my feet are extended outside/over my mattress. I need an extension!

and last...

10. The school's "internet café." While I am glad to have this option at all since it is "free" it is often overcrowded (lines of 15 students waiting). And you may of read of the several signicant keyboard differences (a, q, w, z, m are in other places as is a "period mark" where one also has to shift in order to use it) that slow my already sluggish typing down. But the worst thing is that heat seems to be optional in the "cafe" and the option is usually to have the heat off. We are right on the street and people come in and out of the door producing a cold blast of air every few minutes. While some part of my body can take the cold very well, like my legs for running, my long, bony fingers just cannot take it at times as they become numb. As an experiment I did put on my gloves once to see if that would help but my fingers became as large as pickles as I ended up just mashing the keyboard. So, if some entries are short or emails do not abound, you know why.

Streets Full of Frenchmen. Please Advise

Sorry, Mr. Benchley.

Wednesday was my first day at L'Institut de Touraine. The Institut is a private school dedicated to the teaching of French. The school serves an international clientele with half the students from the US and the rest from Europe, Asia (Japan and Korea, mostly), and the Middle East. The students are noticeably from the middle classes and above. From what I can tell, I am the oldest and most non-traditional student here as I am by far the oldest of some 150. I should have brought that anti-wrinkle cream.

The school is scarcely a mile's walk from my home. Upon arrival at 830 we are separated into various rooms of the former 18th-Century chateau (physically not unlike the school in the French film "Diabolique") for a "diagnostic" exam that will place us in our eventual classes based on our ability in French. The test has an easy start as a teacher reads a dictation that we have to write down. After listening to French radio for three months before departure I am confident I can do this. Confidence is served well as the slowly read words seem quite easy. The next section covers grammar and while less confident it does not seem too difficult. The third section sees a teacher play a cassette tape of a speaker--while speaking we have to match the words to cartoons in our exam book. This is less easy as the voice speaks very quickly: "The goats go dressing in the river on Sunday months only three times in Switzerland"? Or so it sounded. I boldly guess which cartoon it matched. I look around at the other students and am pleased to see that they were similarly baffled. The fourth section sees a six-panel cartoon. We are supposed to make up a interesting and rich story based on that. Ah! I can finally let my creative juices flow! I crack my hands and get ready to show the Institut what I can do. However, as I stare at the cartoon that shows a woman going into a store to buy a lamp as a gift and then going to a cafe I can think of nothing (in French) that seems very rich. My finished story was probably: A woman goes in a store. She buys a lamp. She leaves the store. She has some coffee at a cafe.

My thoughts of having a good evaluation dwindled. Perhaps they have a class for the young children of foreign diplomats and executives. I could fit in there, I'd expect.

By now my morning breakfast had worn off. Our typical breakfast is very French: coffee and bread. For those of you who know me well you know what a disaster that is. While delicious, what happens is an initial burst of energy as the starch and caffeine and sugar do wonders. Soon after I am going to crash once those dissipate. The last section coincided with this crash: we had to analyze a literary paragraph chosen from a novel, "The Age of Man." I think my analysis rivaled that of my shopping story of above.

At just about this time our teacher told us we had reached our 90 minute limit. Blessed relief! I could at least go to the cafeteria for a break until our next scheduled "information meeting" in an hour. However, another teacher came in the room with an anouncement: the school was experimenting with a new type of computer-given diagnostic test and that we were "chosen" to take that very test immediately. I don't recall that we were asked but I suspect that we were chosen as convenient guinea pigs. We repaired to the next room, a computer lab, as I saw my two housemates walk off to the cafeteria to eat, no doubt.

As our test class sat in the new room much fumbling of two instructors transpired. Even I could tell what was going on...the software was not loading correctly. At least that was a universal problem I could understand even if their shouting was incomprehensible. With much waving of arms and some yelling, our test eventually started.

I was less than pleased to see that we had to answer 140 questions, all multiple choice with three choices per question. However, like the first test, it began easily enough with some basic grammar questions. I was able to ignore the growling stomach and the fuzzy brain to quickly answer the first 20 in a few minutes. Only 120 to go---soon I would be at the cafeteria. However, gradually the questions ramped up in difficulty and I was taking longer and longer for each one.

I manfully reached question 70--halfway done! The computer then instructed me to put on headphones...perhaps this was part of the experiment. Perhaps they were going to play a Mozart concerto for us and then test us on how classical music improved our test-taking skills! At least it would be soothing. Cruel disappointmont followed as a voice sounded in my ears instructing me that this was the "oral" part of the exam. What followed were incredibly bureaucratic questions (and answers) that sounded as if they came from an EU meeting in Brussels. "If Jean has to sign a contract with the butter-making syndicat in Normandy he would be best served if..." And so on. As I marked my answers, the alternating male/female voices mocked me, or so I thought, as my test-taking delirium increased. Why again had I chosen French history?

Questions 70-90 were bad. Questions 90-110 were worse. Random answers seemed best to me at this point. I was sure if the school had a mentally challenged section that I would be in the first row.

Questions 110-140 seemed to me to be like:

131: When fruit zoo time has rob various please?

and

136: Toad guppy yes no plants rgh yp) o&?

and

138: Frth thq qrtou help os rs sup ou?

and

139: zer é"'' èççéaz eu ùµ¤$£?

and, finally, blessedly, though confusedly,

140: xxxx xxx x xx xx xxxxxxxxx xx? !

Of course, by the time I finished, 90 minutes after starting, the caf was closed. Perhaps I could find an uneaten eclair in the garbage. I found out soon after that I had scored 50% on my computer test. While that may not sound totally terrible if one had just guessed randomly letter "A" one could have earned a 33%.

The next day I was assigned to the "Intermediate" level. I'd hate to see the beginners.



p.s. No computer access on weekends.

Jet-Lag Baby

Some of you know of my preparations before I left that I was trying to defeat the dreaded jetlag...getting up progressively earlier, etcetera. Well, it has not worked too well. I actually did sleep on the plane and that gave me some hope that I could start my first few days off well but this did little. I do get sleepy, in fact very sleepy at 10 p.m. but after going to bed I awaken at midnight but my body thinks it is naptime, i.e., 3 pm central. I then lie in bed awake until about 3-4 am and then go to sleep for about 3 hours. I am pretty groggy then as I get up for breakfast. Then, the non-stop French bombardment begins.

My French has turned out worse than thought. I can bleat out a few tortured phrases but when it comes to composing spontaneously a sentence I freeze and hem and haw and search for words. It is a bit comical, actually.

My family situation is excellent. La Famille Puissant has hosted students for 20 years. Madame Puissant, a sturdy and lively 63-year old is an old hand at taking care of students and has literally hosted hundreds over that time. She and her husband, Jean-Claude have a genuine liking for foreign students of all countries and as they are retired this is convenient supplement to their income. I have a great bedroom--a comfy single bed, high ceilings, a desk, table, lamp, and shelves for my few possessions. I am on the second floor, up a narrow winding staircase and conveniently located next to the bathroom (the other two students have smaller rooms on the third floor). The "house" is typically urban French: part of a long block of an unvariegated building. It appears to be 19th century but actually is not that old.

We have breakfast and dinner together, "en famille." Meals are simple and excellent. I'm not just lucky in a good family but the two other students that lodge there as well. They are friendly and companionable, most necessary when so far from home. One (Camillot) is a young Columbian student with excellent French. I am sure having a Spanish background helps a good deal. He does about half the talking of us three at the table. The other (Mary) is a student from Davidson College in N.C. She has not had much French as yet but bravely pipes in on occasion. I am somewhere in between but actually talk more than I would have thought. One certainly cannot be afraid to make mistakes as one of the house rules is always speak French. After dinner, c. 9 pm, we help do the dishes and then repair to the living room to watch a bit of television, en français, certainement. By that point my brain starts turning off (if it was not off before) and instead of really listening to the voices on the screen I begin to look at the background, think of directorial techniques, regard the automobiles as I lose focus. I'm sure it will get better as I gain an "ear."

Of course, all of this discomfort is good for me. Some of you readers have heard me philosophize before of one of the perils of aging. I've certainly noticed a "hardening of the arteries" in terms of activities over the years. It is too easy as one ages to make various diktats of "I won't do this anymore" or "I could never do that." To mix metaphors, it is too easy to paint oneself into a corner that one will never leave. That's not really living as it is just giving up.

More on the school in a later post.

Arrival

I did arrive here on Monday after some twenty hours of various modes of travel and the accompanying levels of indignity one must face when travelling...keyboards here are slightly different in layout hence my entries will be short for now (and also because my head hurts from the French) until I can type better. My host family is most pleasant and I share the house with them and two other students, one from North Carolina and the other from Columbia (SA). Weather is cold, damp, and clammy. A more interesting post at some later time.