The Fruits of the Sea...the Mediterranean Sea

The beginning of this is mainly for Heather and Chelsea.

A few days ago, I was struck by the thought that I was living much, much closer to Brad & Angelina than I ever had before. Some may scoff, turn up their noses and point at their "Team Aniston" T-shirts, but I, I, was quite tickled at the flirtatious thought. The news this morning, while mentioning Friday night's Presidential debate, Paul Newman's untimely passing (an article on his life, and another, of course, on the fate of his food line), and continued stories about Washington Mutual (excuse me, I mean JP Morgan) and Chinese babies sick from tainted milk, also contained another piece of news--this concerning the celebrity couple's relocation. Move over, important national and global events! Brangelina wants back in the news again. Alas! As soon as I move closer, Brangelina moves further away! To Germany, no less. They leave the French countryside, the provencal region (a prime location--close to the sea, close to the vineyards, etc. etc. etc.) for a drafty castle in Germany. No longer can I comfort my homesickness by reminders that Brad & Angelina, at least (if not my boyfriend, my friends, and my family) are nearby. My last remaining solace, gone.

I have begun my attempts to comfort myself through nesting, even though I am not in my new apartment yet. I move in Tuesday evening, but I went to the store with Celine today to purchase things I would need for living: broom, dustpan, laundry detergent, frying pan, other dishes etc. It really is what I do best, and it's been awful for me having to live out of suitcases for a week and a half. I do much better in a home, in my own home that I have made. It's comforting to start amassing the things I will need to make my home, to start cooking again! I can't wait to cook again. What I can wait for is my absolute lack of connectivity in my flat. I took my laptop up to the room yesterday to search for an unsecured connection, but found nada. There were several really strong connections, leading me to believe that my neighbors have wireless internet, but all of them were locked. I am hoping to ask my next-door neighbor if one of those signals is hers, and if she would be willing to give me the password for the month of October. I am banking on this, so everyone keep their fingers crossed! If this doesn't work out, I can look forward to a month of no internet or phones, save for the painfully slow connection at my school, Mondays through Fridays between the hours of 8am and 5pm. Which effectively rules out any sort of Skype or online chatting capabilties, as none of my acquaintances back home are vampiric. That is approximately 20 days in France, pretending like I am visiting in the 1970s, rather than this digitally connected modern age. Well, except for the fact that I will be able to email on the weekdays....At any rate, if this hole in communication does end up happening, God forbid, it just gives all of you back at home a month-long chance to order that mic and webcam set-up you've all been dreaming about off of amazon.com, so I can see your mugs again. So get moving! Shipping generally takes 10 business days.



Celine and her husband, Jacques, have been preparing me the most amazing food for lunch and dinner every day since I have arrived. I guess it's French cuisine, but in reality it's not much different from what we eat back home. I mean, it's different, but not as different as one might expect. It's kind of hard to explain the differences, actually. I mean, we eat the same sorts of things, but a little differently. There is always, always bread though. The family usually has at least three loaves of bread in the house at a time, whereas in the States we would always have to make a special trip to buy a loaf of bread to go with a meal (and oftentimes we would forget). And the bread, here. Oh la la, it's going to take me a while before I can eat the cardboard that passes for a loaf of French bread in the states. They also have a "dessert" after both lunch and dinner. It's usually something small and light; a yoghurt might pass for a dessert, or something else similar but slightly more sweet. While the kids will often opt for the chocolate mousse pudding, Celine and Jacques and I have had bread, cheese, and grapes for dessert several times. The cheese has been amazing. I have tried several kinds that I can't remember the name for, but I do remember the Roquefort and the Brie. I have finally tasted real Brie...unpasteurized, real brie. It's amazing. Simply amazing. Last night during and after dinner we got on the subject of food, and Celine and Jacques made fun of American, English and Dutch cheeses. You know those little rounds of Babybel cheese? They hate them. No flavor, they say. Gouda? The same goes. They claim much of the flavor is lost in the pasteurization process required by many countries, and I have to agree with them after tasting real French cheese (although I do love gouda, still). Apparently the European Union is trying to put through legislation that would require all members to pasteurize all cheese. The French are having fits. I don't think it will ever go through, just because of one country's insistence on good food.

They told me about an "American Sandwich" that people can buy in French, and I couldn't stop laughing. It's sold in stores with a sign that says, "sandwich americain". Want to know what's in it? It's a French baguette, sliced open. Inside is a huge pile of steak, topped with far too much mayonnaise and ketchup. The real kicker, though, is what they put inside that French baguette. They cook french fries into the bread. Into the bread! Some of the sandwiches just have the fries on top, though. It's no wonder French people think Americans are disgusting! They think we eat the grossest things. Celine and Jacques actually asked me if anyone ate that in America--they said it was frightening. I assured them that french fries in bread is no more American than french fries are French. I'm still laughing about that one...We also talked about holiday cuisine, and what is eaten in France and the United States around Christmas and Thanksgiving (well, Thanksgiving in the US anyway). I find these kinds of conversations the hardest in French, because there was never any need for me to know the French word for "sweet potatoes" before now. So there is a lot of explaining before we can find the right words (in English and in French). It really helps that Celine is pretty much fluent in English, although there are just some words that we don't know. I told them about pumpkin pie, about mashed potatoes, ham, turkey, and they told me about foie gras, buches de noel, and fruits de mer. Foie gras is basically duck liver, and is a traditional Christmas food. I left the US saying I wouldn't try it (the duck aren't treated too well....) but I think I might have to, out of respect for Heather. I have to try everything at least twice! They were surprised that I knew what a buche de noel was (literally a Christmas log...It's a really delicious Christmas cake), and even more surprised that I had made several before, in high school French classes (thanks, Madame!). In high school, I was taught that fruits de mer meant shellfish. The other day, they asked if I had ever had fruits de mer before, and were astonished when I said that I had, and that I liked them. I love shellfish! It turns out that fruits de mer is not merely shellfish. It's raw shellfish. And it's a very, very special meal in France, usually reserved for Christmas and other special occasions. It's also very, very expensive. The idea of raw oysters, eaten in the States, too, has always disgusted me, let alone the idea of raw sea snails, raw mussels, raw clams, etc. I told them I would try it, though. And I did.

They bought fruits de mer for dinner last night. It comes in this giant styrofoam boat filled with ice, topped with raw oysters on the half-shell, raw mussels, raw sea snails, some decorative lemons, several types and sizes of raw clams, and some cooked shrimp and lobster. Here are some pictures that I took of the boat:
The kids are Celine and Jacques' two youngest, Hugo and Pierre. They are great, although it is incredibly weird to talk to children in a foreign language, and embarassing that the 5 year old is more articulate than I am. I tried everything on the platter, and found fruits de la mer to be quite good. I wasn't a big fan of the clams, but the sea snails were excellent, and so were the mussels. I tried not to think about all the organs I was eating, and that made it easier! The oysters were great, although I do still prefer them barbecued. Celine and Jacques said that I would have to order a platter at Christmas, to show my boyfriend, and my sister and her husband a traditional French Christmas meal, but I think Ian and Carl might kill me if Scarlet and I drag them to France and then make them eat raw shellfish! We'll stick to ham sandwiches and baguettes, I think....

To top off my sea-filled weekend, we went to the seashore today...the Mediterranean seashore. The day before I left home, I went to Lake Padden in Bellingham with my roommate Justin. Stepping into the lake, I realized that the next time I would go swimming, or see water, it would be the Mediterranean. It sounded so exotic, then! We went to a town called Canet, which is accessible by bus from Perpignan. I am sure I will be going back there a lot, especially because the weather usually stays this way through October--it's only like a ten minute drive away. I have included some pictures here, but I also added some from today, and from a while ago to the Google page. Here's the link, again: http://picasaweb.google.com/ashley.j.benson
Those are the Pyrenees in the first photo, in the background.

I will try to write again before I move in, or the day I move in, if anything totally awesome happens. Keep your fingers crossed for the kind-heartedness of my neighbor, because otherwise I won't see you until I make it to the other side of the internet-less abyss.

My ability to turn the banalities of my existence in France into long-winded blog posts has not ceased to amaze me. It's too bad I haven't done anything amazing to regale you with, but there is still time for that, I suppose.

I have contacted the internet company, and due to the French's laissez-faire (can you even say that if it's actually about the French?) concerning work, it is going to take about 25 days to get the connection set up. I move in 6 days from now, leaving 19 or so sans connectivity. I am keeping my fingers crossed for a stray unsecured network near my flat, as the other option is a public internet cafe. And really, the French don't need to see me crying while using Skype at 6a.m.

Speaking of that healthy French work ethic, Amanda pointed out to me in an email that perhaps all of these delays in service are due to the 30 hour work weeks, the month-long vacations, and the constant striking that goes on here. Perhaps if people worked longer and went on strike less it wouldn't take a month to give a girl a little bit of internet. I was thinking of this today as I waited to apply for my temporary French residency card at the Prefecture de Police. The Prefecture is open Monday and Tuesday from 9 am until 3 pm (but they take a lunch from 1:30 to 2), and on Wednesday and Thurday from 9 am until 12 pm. To be seen at the Prefecture, Celine and I had to arrive at 8 am to stand in a line outside the locked doors. At 9, they let 30 people in--no more, no less. More are let in as those inside finish, of course. Once inside, you must take a ticket and sit down to wait your turn. People with children with them get priority, even if they didn't arrive at 8 am. I am fairly certain that I saw a woman discover this and then leave to call her husband. He arrived shortly after with a small child, and they were seen immediately afterward. I was seen at 11:30 am, one half hour before the doors closed, and only because the two people who had been ahead of me left before their numbers were called. After meeting with the woman at the window (who replied to me in English when I spoke to her in French...hmpf...), I was given a sheet of paper (unavailable online) listing the items I will need the next time I come back...to repeat the same process again.

Now this could be due to understaffing at the Prefecture, or due to the few hours the employees are required and allowed to work. It could be due to the French work ethic. But while sitting in a hard plastic chair, glancing up from my book every few minutes to see those red numbers taunting me with "304" (so very, very far away from 312), I was reminded of an experience distinctly American, in my mind. Just as terrible, just as much waiting, and just as few employees. All I could think of, sitting in this beautiful building in the heart of Perpignan's historic district, surrounded by the French language, steps away from a bakery selling loaves upon loaves of crusty bread, was the Washington state Department of Licensing office. When it comes down to it, when it comes down to the bureaucracy and the waiting, and the offices, and the red tape, France is not much different from the States afterall.



After leaving the Prefecture with my list of required documents, I went out to one of the city squares to wait for Celine (she had left to teach a class). I sat on a bench in the sun, enjoying the 70 some degrees of weather that those in the Pacific Northwest just are not having right now. It was lunchtime, and stereotypically enough, I was passed by several people carrying loaves of French bread wrapped in paper. I had my camera with me, and was tempted to take pictures (encouraged and given strength by the tourists nearby snapping photos...But I didn't. I will, I will, I promise that I will, but just not yet. Anyway, in the square is this really cool structure that Celine says is the only monument in Perpignan (although I expect she is comparing Perpignan to Paris, and not to, say, monument-less Bellingham). It is from the 14th century, and is called Le Castillet. A portion of the building was destroyed during a seige by Louis XIII in 1642. Here is a picture that I didn't take of Le Castillet:






It was really cool to see such an old building, and to see the city center of Perpignan. Seeing the city center, and the outdoor cafes, and the narrow street walkways, and the bread, and the cool little shops, actually made me kind of excited to be here again...I am hoping to go exploring soon, once I get into my studio and out of Cabestany.

Troubles in Paradise

I have filled out more paperwork , and signed more forms, in the past two days than I have ever before in my whole life. Cutting through French red tape is rather like pulling oneself out of lightning sand without a Wesley. That might be stretching a bit much for the metaphor, but you get the idea. I have applied for renters' insurance (obligatory), general health insurance (obligatory), supplemental health insurance (not obligatory, but highly recommended and about 16 Euros a month for 100% reimbursement), a French bank account, direct deposit....The list goes on and on. Soon I get to apply for my temporary French residency card, the excitement for which is wearing a little thin. Now that I'm here, and so far away from everyone I know, I am reconsidering my fervent wish to be French. There may be some problems with applying for this, however, because apparently I am here illegally. My visa requires that I get my passport stamped by the French police upon arrival, but there was no one in the airport doing such a thing. Eh, if 37 million can do it in the US, I can certainly do it here.

I was supposed to move into my studio apartment yesterday, but when I arrived, it turns out that there was no an internet or telephone hook-up. Even though the studio is in the high school, which clearly has internet access and telephones, I have to set up a private account. You would think they could just include the studio apartments within their coverage area, and charge more for rent, but no. Which means I would have been entirely without means of connecting to anyone I know back at home if I had moved in. Rather than hole up alone in an empty, disconnected studio with no kitchenware, I am staying with Celine's family until internet and telephone access is set up. Which means I am still living out of suitcases. On a positive note, I did get my address in France, and I am living on a street called Avenue Albert Camus. Ahh, France.

While out and about with Celine yesterday, I visited the College Albert Camus, one of the two middle schools that I will be teaching at, and the one that is next door to my future domicile. While people can praise France's social system, their health care system, their fashion, their wine, their bread, and their cheese all they want, their education system seems to a be a little lacking. During my visit, I was given a tour of the school, sat in on a geometry class, used a computer in the staff lounge, and ate lunch in the school cafeteria. While the school is old and in need of renovation, it seemed that there were more problems than just that. The library is one small room, about the size of an office. The classroom that I visited did not have a computer in it, a projector, a clock, or white boards--just chalk boards and weirdly bare walls. The computer in the staff lounge was the slowest computer that I have been on since 1996, I think. And it was not dial-up, just old. Looking at Albert Camus, it seems that more money should be allocated to education, and not just that amazing health coverage. It's possible that this is not universal for French schools. It turns out that both of the schools that I am teaching at are in poorer areas in the city. Albert Camus is next door to several HLMs--habitations a loyer moderes, or low-income housing, i.e. the Projects--that are mostly populated by Northern African immigrant families. These people are, unfortunately, not the French government's top priority.

There has always been some level of tension between the "French" French, and the immigrant French, just like in any other country where immigration is considered a problem, and not just a fact of life. It is interesting how quickly I encountered racism and discrimination of this sort in France. It is perhaps the area that I am living in (in the south of France and in Paris, there are more immigrants, and thus the tensions are more apparent), or it is possible that the French are just much more open about their (racist) views. I have heard the teachers at my school speak disparagingly already of the students' work ethic, indicating that it is directly related to the fact that they are immigrants, or that they are gypsies. Most respectful families apparently don't send their students to the schools that I am employed at. While I could fall to sleep at night with dreams of changing the students' lives through inspiration and encouragement, mostly it just means that I will be in a more diverse area than I have ever been in during the course of my white-bred, Bothell-suburban, Pacific Northwest life. Indeed, the math class that I sat in on was arguably the most racially diverse classroom I have ever been in (aside from the Intensive English Program at Western), and the playground during break was even more so. But I don't intend on changing the work ethic of these students, or their lives. While I do not harbor any pre-formed, socially instilled prejudice against these students like my French colleagues might, I do not have idealistic ideas about changing them, either. Take the Lead was just a thin disguise to watch Antonio Banderas dance, and the diversified classrooms in which I will teach are just classrooms with students to whom I am supposed to teach English. It doesn't matter if they are Northern African or from the wealthy French countryside. They still have to learn English on my watch.

Oh, and Heather, I tried some Roquefort. Delicious, sharp, and unavailable in the United States. Yumm!

Une Petite Promenade (A little walk)...and photos for you

I took a little walk around Cabestany today. I had planned on going to a movie, but I didn't wake up until noon (after not sleeping between the hours of 3 and 7), and didn't feel like rushing. It is really beautiful here, and it seems to be always sunny. The weather forecast predicts rain for the next few days, but we'll see.

The walk was uneventful, except for the man I saw sitting in his window wearing what looked to be a pink dress, and the two teenage boys on bikes who asked me the time, quite politely. I don't know if it was American or French to ignore them, but I did. I am uploading pictures to Google, so here is the link: http://picasaweb.google.com/ashley.j.benson

Enjoy, Chelsea. There's your bread! I am always overly cautious about being "touristy" in places I do not live, which means that I absolutely hate taking pictures of things when on vacation or in a new place. It's kind of weird, because I will take pictures of things in the city I live in, but it changes once I am new to an area. I suppose I will have to get over this, for your sakes. Also, I should realize that I live here now. I am not a tourist. Nevertheless, I tried painstakingly to only take pictures when there was no one around to witness it. Hence the obvious lack of French people in my pictures.

La France

After hours and hours of traveling, I am finally in Perpignan. I still haven't gotten over the whole jet lag thing (I slept for 9 hours last night, and then was up for three hours before I took a seven hour nap). Hopefully that will pass soon. After my last post, I took the flight from Copenhagen to Paris--much shorter and much less packed, thankfully. I had a window seat this time, rather than a middle-of-the-row aisle seat like my flight to Copenhagen. While I mostly slept on this plane ride, too, I did wake up as we were getting ready to land. This was probably the first time in a few weeks that I was actually excited about being here...mostly I have just been sad about leaving. Flying lower down, we were able to see the little French towns and villages from the plane. There would be fields and fields, and then a little cluster of houses, all centered around an old castle or church. It seemed so very European.

I was on the wrong side of the plane to see any of the city of Paris when we flew into the Charles de Gaulle airport, unfortunately, but I feel like my sixteen hours spent waiting alone in the airport are enough of Paris for now anyway. I managed to get a few hours of sleep in the early, early morning, in a little alcove with at least five other people clearly in my same situation. It was awful, but at least I wasn't attacked and my belongings weren't stolen.

The Charles de Gaulle airport brought with it several opportunities to speak French, but it was mostly simple things like buying a sandwich. I felt like they knew, of course, that I was not French, but my language was good enough to get by. I think I gave myself away by following "Bonjour" with "how are you?"--apparently not a very French thing to ask the woman choosing your croissant.

After waiting for hours, I finally boarded my train at around 9:15am. The TGV, or Train de Grande Vitesse (which translates as the train of great speed) surely isn't the Hogwarts Express, but it was really cool as my first train ride. The train really does travel at a great speed---it shortened the trip from Paris to Perignan (430 miles as the crow flies) to about 4 hours, including several stops. Traveling through the middle of France felt rather like driving through eastern Washington. There were agricultural fields, bordered by leafy trees, and then there would be a house in the center. The architecture of the houses was of course different, but that seemed to be the only difference. Once I was shocked to see a European license plate instead of one that had Mount Rainier on it. I slept for most of the train ride, waking before my transfer in Montpellier and before some of the other stops. I was sad to miss the French countryside, but I was just far too tired to stay awake. At one point--it must have been in some higher elevations--the scenery cahnged slightly. There were some evergreen trees and rolling hills covered with fog. When I next woke up, we were in the south of France, which looks much like southern California, with the exception of the architecture again. The houses in the south of France mostly look the same--an adobe look with red tiled roof. Again, every once in a while we would pass by a really old-looking building, some ruins, an ancient cathedral, et cetera. It is very beautiful here.

I was picked up by M. Ferrandez, the vice principal of my school, and Celine, the English department chair and the woman whose house I am staying in for the weekend. I was so glad to have someone to meet me at the station--I absolutely could not have done it alone. They took me through a brief tour of the city of Perpignan, warning me to stay away from certain areas, showing me favorite pizza places and cafes, and then we stopped at the College Albert Camus, the middle school where I will be teaching. It is an old school with about 320 students, and Celine says that most of them are from the low-income housing district nearby, and come from North African immigrant families. She says that the students are nice, but often don't get a lot of support at home. From what she, the other teachers, and the principal all say, the students seem excited to meet their teaching assistant.

On a side note, while I was speaking to Mr. Ferrandez at the middle school, one of the other teachers walked by, and the principal mentioned to her that I was the new English teaching assistant. I am fairly certain that I heard the woman mutter under her breath in French that the students would have to have a good level of English. I guess my French needs some work.

Celine and her family are returning late tomorrow night, so I have the next day or so to myself. I don't feel much like exploring Perpignan on my own (Celine lives a ways outside the city anyway), so I will probably stay here for most of it. One of Celine's friends is taking me to see Tennessee Williams' play The Glass Menagerie (in French!) tonight at 8:30, so at least I will get out of the house then. On Monday, I move into my apartment, and I will be able to get settled in and meet some of the other assistants. I think I will feel better about this whole thing once I actually know some people where I am living. Right now I feel very isolated.

I still want to come home. I know that I will have a wonderful time eventually, but right now I miss my boyfriend, my friends, my family. I am counting down the days already. On a happier note, I have eaten two delicious croissants, and half of possibly the best sandwich ever since arriving. Ahhh, the bread. It has already blown my mind.

Once I actually start taking pictures, I will post some.

Sitting in the Copenhagen Airport

I am, I guess, in Europe, although the only difference between the Copenhagen airport and the Seattle airport were the Heineken cans in people's hands in the lobbies/lounges, and the immediate improvement in fashion. My Old Navy sweater has got nothing on these international girls. I passed by a Gucci store. A Versace store. Countless others. And there were actually people in them. Buying things. I feel so out of place. Already.

Leaving on a jet plane

I do not know how to blog. The blogs that I have read in the past are either extremely eloquent and polished, or incredibly inane. Mine will most likely fall somewhere in between. It's weird enough, anyway, that I am doing this. It's like an eight month-long invitation for my friends, family, and total strangers to read my diary.

Today is my last day of work in the US, and I have a week and a half before my flight to Paris. I alternate between being calm, cool, and collected--calculating everything perfectly, making lists of the things I need to do and purchase before I leave--and positively freaking out. I do not know how to move across the world for almost a year. I do not even know how to check baggage on my own. Aside from these polarities of emotion, I am also experiencing a nonchalance often exhibited by my hippy/ski bum friends--a nonchalance characterized by them as the "shit'll buff attitude". No need to make hostel reservations for when I arrive in Perpignan--shit'll buff. Have to spend the night in the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, totally alone? Shit'll buff. Not have any idea what I am doing or how to go about doing it? Shit'll buff. Normally, I am positively infuriated by this attitude (particularly the "no reservations needed" bit), but strangely I think that it is beneficial for me at this point. There is only so much worrying that I can do, and it doesn't seem that any of it actually helps. As those ski bums say, shit will buff. Because it has to.

Until Paris, then, I will still be plodding along.