It has been brought to my attention (by Quincy, lovingly) that some of the things I say in these postings may not be readily meaningful to all readers. You know, like when I riff, in French, on the opening lines of a Camus novel, or refer obliquely to some particular piece of ornate architecture, or make some obscure allusion to someone like T. S Eliot or Richie Brockelman. "Nobody's gonna get that reference," Quincy says, "Nobody's gonna know who that is." And when I assure her that there may be someone out there for whom those lines from Camus ring a distant but fondly-remembered bell, or who might actually recall that Richie Brockelman, Private Eye debuted on NBC in the spring of 1978 and ran for all of six episodes, she (Quincy) just looks and me and nods and says, "Uh-huh." And when I mention that it's all okay anyway because anybody reading this blog is just two mouse-clicks away from a full deciphering courtesy of websites like Wikipedia or IMDb or KnowYourMeme.com, she just closes her eyes and exhales slowly to show me how much it pains her when I insist on using words like "meme" [1] in ordinary household conversation.
"Maybe you need to add footnotes," she says. It's possible that is was a joke. I mean, I don't think Quincy really wants our blog to resemble some semiotics essay published in PMLA [2]. But still. Footnotes. Hmmm. Okay, I'll try it.
It turns out, though, that this Blogger interface doesn't make footnoting all that easy. Clearly, the software code wasn't written for T. S. Eliot [3]. So, okay, here's how I'm going to handle it. I'll indicate foonote numbers in square brackets like the ones you just ran into after "meme" and "PMLA" and "T.S. Eliot." The explanatory notes themselves will appear in separate post below. (That separate post will be titled, simply, "Footnotes," to distinguish it from the more prolix – but deceptively straightforward – title than this one has [4]). Got it? Okay, let's proceed.
But wait. There is one more issue that I'm struggling with here: The question of just what exactly needs a footnote. Does T. S Eliot really need a footnote? Does Camus? And if I worked in some timely allusion to Epic Beard Man [5], would I need a footnote there? And what about when I conclude this post with the words "Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih" – does that need a footnote too? Well, actually, that last one's easy. "Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih": That's pretty transparent stuff, isn't it; no explanation needed.
Whew, that's a long preamble. I'm exhausted. And I still have the footnotes to write. I'd better get the point of this post. The point is this: What, if anything, does any of this have to do with France? Why am I even posting this stuff here, on our blog about France, instead of on our blog about blogging about France? Well, smarty-pants, it's cross-posted. (See: Click here.) [6] So there.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih. [7]
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Footnotes
[1]. The word "meme" was coined by Dawkins (1976). But it's now in common parlance, at least in some circles. So there's really no need for Quincy to give me that pained look.
[2]. Proceedings of the Modern Language Association. (Again: pained look.)
[3]. The allusion here is to T. S Eliot's poem The Waste Land which is so famously abstruse that Eliot himself added footnotes. There was a time (back when I was a parody of a 19-year old University student, so please prepare to roll your eyes) when I fetishized T. S. Eliot's opaque oeuvre. I can always elicit a particularly pained expression from Quincy simply by bringing up the fact that, in 1982, I attended a Halloween party dressed as the title character in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. "I'm so glad I didn't know you then," she says.
[4]. The phrase "a practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and scraps in general" is not just an apt description of this particular post. It's also the exact phrase that another writer (H. P. Lovecraft, of all people) used to describe The Waste Land. It's true. And, yes, Quincy is making that face at me again. Oh, but you should've seen the original title I'd put on this post before I changed it to that H. P. Lovecraft line. The actual title may be footnote-worthy, but the original title – of which I was embarrassingly proud – is the verbal equivalent of me going out in public dressed up as J. Alfred Prufrock. When I read it out loud to Quincy she ... well, you can just imagine the pain behind her eyelids. [i] To spare you, I've buried it in a footnote. Or more exactly, it's in a footnote to this footnote. I'm signifying footnotes-to-foonotes with little italicized i's in square brackets -- like what you saw after "eyelids" a couple of sentences ago. These foonotes-to-footnotes themselves appear in the post immediately below this one. (You suggest footnotes to me, you get footnotes. In fact, you don't just get footnotes; you get an over-the-top exercise in self-refential silliness. You're welcome)
[5]. Oh yes, I've been going on and on about Epic Beard Man recently, waving my laptop at Quincy and blathering madly about video mash-ups and Amber Lamps and the whole weird cultural power of camera-phones and the Internet. It's entirely the fault of Epic Beard Man and all those millions of YouTube enthusiasts that I've been using the word "meme" a lot recently, and causing Quincy so much pain. (You don't know about Epic Beard Man? Well, look it up. I recommend KnowYourMeme.com.)
[6] Yep, I actually created an entirely new blog simply so that that I could take this ludicrous exercise to whole new level of hackneyed self-referential post-modern pain.
[7] Nope, sorry; I told you I wasn't going to offer an explanatory footnote for this. Besides, if I did, it'd just be painful. [ii]
[2]. Proceedings of the Modern Language Association. (Again: pained look.)
[3]. The allusion here is to T. S Eliot's poem The Waste Land which is so famously abstruse that Eliot himself added footnotes. There was a time (back when I was a parody of a 19-year old University student, so please prepare to roll your eyes) when I fetishized T. S. Eliot's opaque oeuvre. I can always elicit a particularly pained expression from Quincy simply by bringing up the fact that, in 1982, I attended a Halloween party dressed as the title character in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. "I'm so glad I didn't know you then," she says.
[4]. The phrase "a practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and scraps in general" is not just an apt description of this particular post. It's also the exact phrase that another writer (H. P. Lovecraft, of all people) used to describe The Waste Land. It's true. And, yes, Quincy is making that face at me again. Oh, but you should've seen the original title I'd put on this post before I changed it to that H. P. Lovecraft line. The actual title may be footnote-worthy, but the original title – of which I was embarrassingly proud – is the verbal equivalent of me going out in public dressed up as J. Alfred Prufrock. When I read it out loud to Quincy she ... well, you can just imagine the pain behind her eyelids. [i] To spare you, I've buried it in a footnote. Or more exactly, it's in a footnote to this footnote. I'm signifying footnotes-to-foonotes with little italicized i's in square brackets -- like what you saw after "eyelids" a couple of sentences ago. These foonotes-to-footnotes themselves appear in the post immediately below this one. (You suggest footnotes to me, you get footnotes. In fact, you don't just get footnotes; you get an over-the-top exercise in self-refential silliness. You're welcome)
[5]. Oh yes, I've been going on and on about Epic Beard Man recently, waving my laptop at Quincy and blathering madly about video mash-ups and Amber Lamps and the whole weird cultural power of camera-phones and the Internet. It's entirely the fault of Epic Beard Man and all those millions of YouTube enthusiasts that I've been using the word "meme" a lot recently, and causing Quincy so much pain. (You don't know about Epic Beard Man? Well, look it up. I recommend KnowYourMeme.com.)
[6] Yep, I actually created an entirely new blog simply so that that I could take this ludicrous exercise to whole new level of hackneyed self-referential post-modern pain.
[7] Nope, sorry; I told you I wasn't going to offer an explanatory footnote for this. Besides, if I did, it'd just be painful. [ii]
Footnotes to the footnotes
[i]. "He Do the Police in Different Voices." Yep, that was the working title of this particular post. Why? Do you really want to know? Really? Okay, you asked for it: It's because that exact title – "He Do the Police in Different Voices" – was T. S. Eliot's working title for The Waste Land. Hey, don't blame me for the intense pain you're experiencing behind your eyes. I warned you.
[ii] No. Absolutely not. I refuse to torture you any more. If you're that kind of masochist, you can just look it up for yourself. No more footnotes.
[ii] No. Absolutely not. I refuse to torture you any more. If you're that kind of masochist, you can just look it up for yourself. No more footnotes.
Monday, February 22, 2010
La Seculara Familia
As some of you know, I am (or, at least, insufferably pose as) an architecture buff. So let's play a game, shall we. Let's pretend for a moment that you're a brilliant modernist Catalonian architect, and that Quincy and I are your wealthy patrons, and we have charged you with the task of designing a feverishly detailed cathedral in Barcelona. But, at our behest, instead of embellishing its facades with lavish representations of the Nativity and the Passion, you have instead decorated it with a more mundane sort of iconography – a set of images that depict our five-day family holiday in Spain last week.
Just what tales do these tableaux tell? Ah, what tales indeed...
One facade of this mythical building might be adorned with a set of panoramic panels depicting the banal beauty of Our Home Away from Two Homes. "Our home away from two homes" is exactly the phrase that Jasper used as we returned to a plastic cabin in the southernmost section of a vast parc de vacances outside of the coastal town of Vilanova i la Geltrú. Ours was one of hundreds of prefab structures parked alongside hundreds of trailers and RVs, around which prowled dozens of mewling homeless housecats. The entire "camping" complex was like a weird pan-European mini-city comprised by linguistic ghettos of people speaking French and English and German and Dutch, all energetically pursuing a leisure lifestyle largely isolated from Spain itself. It addition to its playgrounds and swimming pools, the complex had its own supermarket and shops and restaurants, and even its own mini-zoo. We explored them all, and – because it was unseasonably cold and wet – we also occupied ourselves indoors a lot. A lot of mad-libs and art projects. (Maddox has largely abandoned abstract expressionism and is now producing representational art with surreal flourishes, such as his habit of drawing stick-figure people with unusually long feet that curl and swirl and circle around their entire bodies.) Also a lot of games of twenty-questions. Which could've become tiresome but never did, despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that Maddox's first question was invariably "Is it a goat?"
We also spent time in the indoor swimming pool. So much time, in fact, that some extravagant depiction of the swimming pool deserves to dominate an entire wall of the shrine that you, the eccentric architect, have designed to commemorate our Spanish holiday. But, in this sculptural masterpiece of yours, it's not the pool itself that grabs the eye; it's the people splashing within it. And, specifically, it's what they are all wearing on their heads: Swim caps. Everyone has a swim cap on. It's the law. Well, okay, it's not exactly etched into the Catalonian penal code, but the parc de vacances did have a strict policy requiring everyone to wear a swim cap in the swimming pool. Now, as many of you know, I just don't do headwear – because caps and hats always look ridiculous on my tiny head. But rules are rules, and so I was compelled to find a store that sold Speedo-style swim caps for all of us. I tried to be optimistic. I hoped that maybe it'd make me look like some angular Australian backstroke bronze-medallist or something, or at least not look completely laughable. No such luck. When I slipped that lycra cap over my nut-sized noggin, I looked less like an Olympian, and more like some pasty Russian cosmonaut in awkward orbit around the Earth.
The kids would've been happy to spend their entire holiday swimming in the pool and cuddling up to half-feral housecats, but we did venture occasionally outside the "camping" complex. So maybe a third and final facade of your ornate architectural masterwork should depict the highlights of these excursions. For instance, we spent some time on the beach in Vilanova i la Geltrú, where the kids took great delight in climbing onto a statue of muscular naked woman curled up inside an enormous bull, and took equal delight in watching a big bulldog take a crap on a miniature railway.
And we took a daytrip to Barcelona too. I've already forced you to recall that I am (or, irritatingly, pretend to be) an architecture enthusiast. So it won't surprise you to learn that Jasper and Maddox were forced to participate in a Barcelonian walking tour dictated almost entirely by my desire to see some of the modernist architectural marvels for which the city is so famous. It'll surprise you even less to learn that this was decidedly not the highlight of their holiday. My own lasting memory of Barcelona won't have anything to do with the intricate organic forms of the Casa Batlló or the hallucinatory magnificence of the Sagrada Familia. It'll probably be the half-hour we spent in a very ordinary playground directly in the shadows of the glorious soaring towers of Gaudí's famously-unfinished masterwork, watching Maddox happily slide on a slide, while Jasper sat on a bench with her nose buried in a book about a magic school-bus and butterflies.
Just what tales do these tableaux tell? Ah, what tales indeed...
One facade of this mythical building might be adorned with a set of panoramic panels depicting the banal beauty of Our Home Away from Two Homes. "Our home away from two homes" is exactly the phrase that Jasper used as we returned to a plastic cabin in the southernmost section of a vast parc de vacances outside of the coastal town of Vilanova i la Geltrú. Ours was one of hundreds of prefab structures parked alongside hundreds of trailers and RVs, around which prowled dozens of mewling homeless housecats. The entire "camping" complex was like a weird pan-European mini-city comprised by linguistic ghettos of people speaking French and English and German and Dutch, all energetically pursuing a leisure lifestyle largely isolated from Spain itself. It addition to its playgrounds and swimming pools, the complex had its own supermarket and shops and restaurants, and even its own mini-zoo. We explored them all, and – because it was unseasonably cold and wet – we also occupied ourselves indoors a lot. A lot of mad-libs and art projects. (Maddox has largely abandoned abstract expressionism and is now producing representational art with surreal flourishes, such as his habit of drawing stick-figure people with unusually long feet that curl and swirl and circle around their entire bodies.) Also a lot of games of twenty-questions. Which could've become tiresome but never did, despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that Maddox's first question was invariably "Is it a goat?"
We also spent time in the indoor swimming pool. So much time, in fact, that some extravagant depiction of the swimming pool deserves to dominate an entire wall of the shrine that you, the eccentric architect, have designed to commemorate our Spanish holiday. But, in this sculptural masterpiece of yours, it's not the pool itself that grabs the eye; it's the people splashing within it. And, specifically, it's what they are all wearing on their heads: Swim caps. Everyone has a swim cap on. It's the law. Well, okay, it's not exactly etched into the Catalonian penal code, but the parc de vacances did have a strict policy requiring everyone to wear a swim cap in the swimming pool. Now, as many of you know, I just don't do headwear – because caps and hats always look ridiculous on my tiny head. But rules are rules, and so I was compelled to find a store that sold Speedo-style swim caps for all of us. I tried to be optimistic. I hoped that maybe it'd make me look like some angular Australian backstroke bronze-medallist or something, or at least not look completely laughable. No such luck. When I slipped that lycra cap over my nut-sized noggin, I looked less like an Olympian, and more like some pasty Russian cosmonaut in awkward orbit around the Earth.
The kids would've been happy to spend their entire holiday swimming in the pool and cuddling up to half-feral housecats, but we did venture occasionally outside the "camping" complex. So maybe a third and final facade of your ornate architectural masterwork should depict the highlights of these excursions. For instance, we spent some time on the beach in Vilanova i la Geltrú, where the kids took great delight in climbing onto a statue of muscular naked woman curled up inside an enormous bull, and took equal delight in watching a big bulldog take a crap on a miniature railway.
And we took a daytrip to Barcelona too. I've already forced you to recall that I am (or, irritatingly, pretend to be) an architecture enthusiast. So it won't surprise you to learn that Jasper and Maddox were forced to participate in a Barcelonian walking tour dictated almost entirely by my desire to see some of the modernist architectural marvels for which the city is so famous. It'll surprise you even less to learn that this was decidedly not the highlight of their holiday. My own lasting memory of Barcelona won't have anything to do with the intricate organic forms of the Casa Batlló or the hallucinatory magnificence of the Sagrada Familia. It'll probably be the half-hour we spent in a very ordinary playground directly in the shadows of the glorious soaring towers of Gaudí's famously-unfinished masterwork, watching Maddox happily slide on a slide, while Jasper sat on a bench with her nose buried in a book about a magic school-bus and butterflies.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A new set of wheels
So, this is going to be a very short, and potentially boring blog, so dial back any expectations. I mostly want to get a message out there to those of you who cry in your Cheerios on those mornings where there is no post: save your tears for at least a week. We are going on our first trip as European residents. You got it….. Road Trip!!! Wahoo!
Now, you might sensibly be wondering what the hell we are thinking, with the notion to hit the road in the famously unreliable, ancient, and full-of-sticks-and-moss car we have been tooling around in for the last month. Well, getting stuck on the side (middle?) of a shoulder-less narrow road with the kids last month was eye opening for me (even though it did, thankfully, only last about 10 minutes). For Mark too, I think. I was actually quite pleasantly surprised at how easy it was for me to convince him that we needed to find a more alternative mode of transport while we are here.
So, after a fair amount of research, considering various options and doing some painful math, we pulled the trigger on a purchase-repurchase car here. It is an option that is rather like renting a car, but somewhat cheaper. You “buy” a new car for a set length of time (has to be less than 6 months, more than 3 weeks, and it is only offered to non-Europeans) and the company guarantees to re-purchase it from you at the end of the set term. It comes with FULL insurance, with no deductible and excellent road-side assistance (not that we would likely need it!) etc etc. This was ultimately much more attractive than the stress of buying-reselling-insuring etc.
Yesterday I went to Marseille to pick up our new Renault Grand Scenic. It is a (gasp) 7-seater, though does not look huge or handle huge. In fact, I don’t think its “foot print” is much bigger than our Prius. It’ll be great when we have folks visiting to be able to all pile in together. The trip to Marseille went without a hitch. Mark and the kids took me to the bus station in Brignoles (a 30 min drive from here) and dropped me off in the wee morning hours. I then bussed to Marseille via Aix train station. Anyhoo, it was shocking to me how blissfully easy it went. I even got an (undeserved I assure you) ego boost when the guy I got the car from complemented me on my French. It made me seriously wonder what sort of awful transactions he must have had in the past! I was just delighted I managed to get where I wanted to go, managed to leave with the car, and get home all without a hitch. Well, I did experience some embarrassment at the Petrol station, but I won’t pain you with those details.
So, tomorrow morning bright and early we will set off in our new car and put some much needed miles on it! I shudder a little bit at the thought of trying to pull some rusty Spanish out of my language drawer. Right now it is just too full of bad French to really contemplate. I hope that between English and French and a teeny tiny bit of Spanish we’ll get by. Rest assured we will come back with some stories and some blogs to amuse you when you tire of the relentless Olympics coverage.
Now, you might sensibly be wondering what the hell we are thinking, with the notion to hit the road in the famously unreliable, ancient, and full-of-sticks-and-moss car we have been tooling around in for the last month. Well, getting stuck on the side (middle?) of a shoulder-less narrow road with the kids last month was eye opening for me (even though it did, thankfully, only last about 10 minutes). For Mark too, I think. I was actually quite pleasantly surprised at how easy it was for me to convince him that we needed to find a more alternative mode of transport while we are here.
So, after a fair amount of research, considering various options and doing some painful math, we pulled the trigger on a purchase-repurchase car here. It is an option that is rather like renting a car, but somewhat cheaper. You “buy” a new car for a set length of time (has to be less than 6 months, more than 3 weeks, and it is only offered to non-Europeans) and the company guarantees to re-purchase it from you at the end of the set term. It comes with FULL insurance, with no deductible and excellent road-side assistance (not that we would likely need it!) etc etc. This was ultimately much more attractive than the stress of buying-reselling-insuring etc.
Yesterday I went to Marseille to pick up our new Renault Grand Scenic. It is a (gasp) 7-seater, though does not look huge or handle huge. In fact, I don’t think its “foot print” is much bigger than our Prius. It’ll be great when we have folks visiting to be able to all pile in together. The trip to Marseille went without a hitch. Mark and the kids took me to the bus station in Brignoles (a 30 min drive from here) and dropped me off in the wee morning hours. I then bussed to Marseille via Aix train station. Anyhoo, it was shocking to me how blissfully easy it went. I even got an (undeserved I assure you) ego boost when the guy I got the car from complemented me on my French. It made me seriously wonder what sort of awful transactions he must have had in the past! I was just delighted I managed to get where I wanted to go, managed to leave with the car, and get home all without a hitch. Well, I did experience some embarrassment at the Petrol station, but I won’t pain you with those details.
So, tomorrow morning bright and early we will set off in our new car and put some much needed miles on it! I shudder a little bit at the thought of trying to pull some rusty Spanish out of my language drawer. Right now it is just too full of bad French to really contemplate. I hope that between English and French and a teeny tiny bit of Spanish we’ll get by. Rest assured we will come back with some stories and some blogs to amuse you when you tire of the relentless Olympics coverage.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Super Bowl Sunday
On Sunday morning I drove down to the Kroger's for some Doritos and a half-rack of Bud Lite so that I wouldn't show up empty-handed to the Super Bowl party over at Philippe and Étienne's place. Also, because I knew that their friend Laurent was a huge Saints fan, I figured I'd balance things out by cheering extra-loud for the Colts while wearing a throwback Johnny Unitas jersey. But, damn it, the local Foot Locker and even the NFL memorabilia outlet store in Avignon were all sold out of Unitas, and Art Schlichter too, so I had to settle for a pair of Mike Pagel pants instead. That put me in a bad mood. And then I drank way too much of Philippe's sister's Jägermeister-and-grape-juice punch. By the time the fourth quarter started, I'd already broken one of Étienne's commemorative Little League World Series mugs, chipped another, and spilled a pitcher of strawberry daiquiris all over his cousin Pascal's taco salad. It still might've been okay, I think, until I told that crude joke about Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir and the guy who played Horshack on "Welcome Back Kotter." That was it. Étienne cut me off. Philippe started yelling at me. His sister damn near punched me. They wouldn't even let me stick around for the end of the game. At about the time that Peyton Manning threw that comeback-killing interception and the "Who Dat!" cheers started echoing through the cobbled streets, I was stumbling to my knees in an ancient alleyway and vomiting all over the back bumper of somebody's Citroën.
Okay, actually, that's a lie. All of it. Even the vomiting part. Especially the vomiting part. Total fiction. Nobody here cares about the Colts or the Saints or the Super Bowl. They don't even care about "Welcome Back Kotter," as near as I can tell.
What I really did was this: I walked with Jasper down the street to the local cinema to catch a Sunday afternoon showing of "Max et les Maximonstres."
The movie theatre (although it'd be more accurate to call it a "movie room") is in a sort of multi-purpose municipal building called La Grainage. We'd been there once before to investigate one of the elaborate and long-lasting bingo events that seems to happen every weekend. Yes: bingo. It seemed suddenly like I was spending a sabbatical at a senior center in Boca Raton. Darn near the entire population of Cotignac was there, filling out their 5-Euro-apiece cards with the hope of winning computer equipment or electric animals or baskets full of wine and cheese. I left quickly, but Quincy and Maddox and Jasper stuck around for several hours. Jasper managed two cards at a time, and then a third, and then five at a time after Maddox turned over his cards to her. She's precocious, Jasper is, with the enthusiastic bingo skills of someone 10 times her age. Didn't win anything though.
Actually, given the time difference, the Super Bowl didn't even start until it was already after midnight and into Monday morning here in France. So, what'd we do on Super Bowl Monday? We went for a little family hike – through the village, past the soccer field and the skate park, along the path of the penitents through the woods to the top of the hill, to la Santuaire Marial Notre-Dame de Grâces. It's been around ever since the Virgin Mary appeared in a vision to some local lumberjack back in 1519, and it's a very big deal place for pilgrimages – especially pilgrimages by women who are keen to conceive. Some lady from Austria famously made her way here in the 1600's and then proceeded to give blessed birth to Louis XIV. There's now a whole wall adorned with tiles – hundreds of them – engraved with thanks from parents whose prayers have been similarly answered. I may be an atheist, but I'm also I'm a sucker for heartfelt piety and uplifting architecture. It's a pretty cool place.
There was some sort of Monday morning mass going on inside the church, while nearby a couple of guys with chainsaws noisily destroyed a dying tree. We sat outside and ate a picnic lunch (baguette, goat cheese, dried sausages and apples; also pretzel stix). At one point during our picnic some old guy in flowing robes – the local Bishop, I believe – ambled by accompanied by a cat. "He is my friend," the Bishop said in French, and he hopped up onto Quincy's lap and she stroked him lovingly behind his ears. (I'm talking about the cat here, by the way; not the Bishop.)
The Bishop seemed to be in an exceptionally upbeat mood and when I asked him why, he said that he'd placed a big bet on the Saints the day before and so had won a ton on the Super Bowl. Not only that, he'd also cleared a tidy profit on a ridiculous prop bet involving the halftime show, Pete Townshend, and a porkpie hat. He was such a good-natured fellow that one thing led to another and before you knew it I was telling him my raunchy existentialist / Horshack joke. He laughed like a hyena, which is more than I can say for that jackass Étienne and Philippe and his goddam mirthless sister.
Okay, yeah, I made up that last bit. That whole last paragraph isn't true. But the rest of it is. And the good folks at Notre-Dame de Grâces really do appear to be a culturally savvy lot. They have a surprisingly sophisticated website, for instance, on which the latest Message from the Bishop starts off like this: "Today the internet is an indispensable means for the apostolate."
Okay, actually, that's a lie. All of it. Even the vomiting part. Especially the vomiting part. Total fiction. Nobody here cares about the Colts or the Saints or the Super Bowl. They don't even care about "Welcome Back Kotter," as near as I can tell.
What I really did was this: I walked with Jasper down the street to the local cinema to catch a Sunday afternoon showing of "Max et les Maximonstres."
The movie theatre (although it'd be more accurate to call it a "movie room") is in a sort of multi-purpose municipal building called La Grainage. We'd been there once before to investigate one of the elaborate and long-lasting bingo events that seems to happen every weekend. Yes: bingo. It seemed suddenly like I was spending a sabbatical at a senior center in Boca Raton. Darn near the entire population of Cotignac was there, filling out their 5-Euro-apiece cards with the hope of winning computer equipment or electric animals or baskets full of wine and cheese. I left quickly, but Quincy and Maddox and Jasper stuck around for several hours. Jasper managed two cards at a time, and then a third, and then five at a time after Maddox turned over his cards to her. She's precocious, Jasper is, with the enthusiastic bingo skills of someone 10 times her age. Didn't win anything though.
Actually, given the time difference, the Super Bowl didn't even start until it was already after midnight and into Monday morning here in France. So, what'd we do on Super Bowl Monday? We went for a little family hike – through the village, past the soccer field and the skate park, along the path of the penitents through the woods to the top of the hill, to la Santuaire Marial Notre-Dame de Grâces. It's been around ever since the Virgin Mary appeared in a vision to some local lumberjack back in 1519, and it's a very big deal place for pilgrimages – especially pilgrimages by women who are keen to conceive. Some lady from Austria famously made her way here in the 1600's and then proceeded to give blessed birth to Louis XIV. There's now a whole wall adorned with tiles – hundreds of them – engraved with thanks from parents whose prayers have been similarly answered. I may be an atheist, but I'm also I'm a sucker for heartfelt piety and uplifting architecture. It's a pretty cool place.
There was some sort of Monday morning mass going on inside the church, while nearby a couple of guys with chainsaws noisily destroyed a dying tree. We sat outside and ate a picnic lunch (baguette, goat cheese, dried sausages and apples; also pretzel stix). At one point during our picnic some old guy in flowing robes – the local Bishop, I believe – ambled by accompanied by a cat. "He is my friend," the Bishop said in French, and he hopped up onto Quincy's lap and she stroked him lovingly behind his ears. (I'm talking about the cat here, by the way; not the Bishop.)
The Bishop seemed to be in an exceptionally upbeat mood and when I asked him why, he said that he'd placed a big bet on the Saints the day before and so had won a ton on the Super Bowl. Not only that, he'd also cleared a tidy profit on a ridiculous prop bet involving the halftime show, Pete Townshend, and a porkpie hat. He was such a good-natured fellow that one thing led to another and before you knew it I was telling him my raunchy existentialist / Horshack joke. He laughed like a hyena, which is more than I can say for that jackass Étienne and Philippe and his goddam mirthless sister.
Okay, yeah, I made up that last bit. That whole last paragraph isn't true. But the rest of it is. And the good folks at Notre-Dame de Grâces really do appear to be a culturally savvy lot. They have a surprisingly sophisticated website, for instance, on which the latest Message from the Bishop starts off like this: "Today the internet is an indispensable means for the apostolate."
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Joyeux Chandeleur!
Joyeux Chandeleur!Boy, I’ll tell you, the French sure have it right about holidays. We have just learned about La Chandeleur and we have been celebrating in earnest ever since. And frankly, if the kids have any say in it, we will never stop. La Chandeleur is Candlemas, but in France it is basically known as the crêpe holiday (at least to those more secularly minded). And while it is officially on February 2, really the whole month of February is sort of crêped up. Gotta love it! Big stores have entire aisles filled with everything you need to make crêpes.
There are a variety of traditions and mythology around the holiday. First, there are some weather predictions a la Groundhog Day. I have seen a number of versions of these, here is an example:
“ Quand la Chandeleur est Claire,
l’hiver est par derriere,
Chandeleur couverte
Quarante jours de perte”
(If Feb 2 is clear, winter is past. If la Chandeleur is overcast, 40 days of winter is to last.)
Like many holidays, the tradition dates back to Pagan worship. The first record of the festival dates back to the Romans and their celebrations of Pan at this time of year. This was connected to the coming Spring, fecundity, and the desire for a healthy harvest. Apparently the Romans would dance through the night in Pan’s honour, being careful to keep their torches alight all night to welcome Pan back.
Christians (Pope Gelase in 472) renamed it “Candlemas” and proclaimed it the day of the presentation of Baby Jesus 40 days after his birth. Back then there was a custom of sequestering mothers and babies for 40 days, so this made some sense to the masses.
As time went on people believed if they didn’t feast on crêpes (their round shape evoking the sun, and therefore spring etc, after the dark of winter) they would not have a bountiful harvest that year.
At some point a tradition developed to “predict” whether one would have a bountiful year. The tradition involves flipping the crêpe with one hand, while holding a coin in the other hand. If you successfully flip the crêpe perfectly, you guessed it, you would have a bountiful year. If you failed, watch out!
Fearing the wrath of the children, if not the Gods, thus far I have chosen not to partake in any such risky behaviour. I chose to carefully flip mine. We ate them with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of Icing Sugar. Mmmm mmm!! (or in french, “Miam, miam!”) So I am sure it comes as no surprise that we are enthusiastically embracing this holiday. In fact, I have a feeling we may be celebrating it almost daily during the kids’ l’hiver vacance. Lord knows I won’t complain and maybe, just maybe, I’ll even scrape up the nerve to try a one-handed flip.
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