Action de Grâces

This is how the French Canadians refer to our beloved holiday of harvest. They also call a hot dog a “chien chaud” and turn practically any word into its French literal meaning. However, the French don’t need to try so hard since they are so darn French already. So they call a hot dog a hot dog and they call this holiday we celebrate Thanksgiving. Or actually, “Tanks-geeving.” 

This Thanksgiving was weird. It’s the first major holiday I’ve spent away from my family. It doesn’t feel weird to not be with them, it’s just weird that they’re all together without me. Maybe that’s the same thing. I wish I could be a fly on the wall of my grandma’s dining room to see what they act like when I’m not around. But at any rate, I have been very blessed to be surrounded by loving, sweet people to help me be really thankful this Thanksgiving.

The burnt pie.

It never struck me how very American this holiday is, and I think it’s quite possibly the only holiday America really has dibs on. Okay, 4^th of July also, but I think every country has a patriotic day. I became a Thanksgiving expert, the go-to girl for questions. I found myself telling about why it’s a holiday, what a pumpkin pie is supposed to be like, and my own family traditions—which by the way, we don’t really have any. Except maybe keeping Grandma from putting jelly in a crystal dish. So it was a privilege to help organize a dinner with a bunch of other Americans for people from different countries. It was pretty successful. We had some of the typical dishes: delicious cranberries, amazing stuffing, swell sweet potatoes, and artful mashed potatoes, but also tons of other yummies from other cultures. No turkey though, since they are nowhere to be found in this country. I wanted to make a traditional apple pie, I prepared a beautiful pie, well worth the pride I had in it. But France caught wind of my attempt to be American and sent all the fires of Hades to the only oven to which I had access and burned it to a crisp in under 8 minutes. I have witnesses to this fact. Fortunately, we were able to scrape off the black carbon from the top and the rest of the pie was intact. It was scrumptious, and was gone before the night’s end. 

For the actual night of Thanksgiving, I was blessed to have dinner with a family from church. As I said, turkey isn’t found in France (I have a hunch they were all kicked out because they weren’t classy enough) so we had some delicious chicken. I had a “cultural experience” explaining what I meant by “dark meat” along with several other valuable lessons. For instance, in France if you want to talk “gangster,” you invert words. For instance, to say “bizarre” you would say “zarre-bi.” So hood, n’est-ce pas? Also, what we call French toast is called “pain perdu,” or “lost bread” since it is traditionally cooked with stale bread. I think my favorite part of the meal besides the company was the stuffed mini pumpkins the wife made. I feel so incredibly blessed to be able to spend Thanksgiving with a family who was so patient with my French and so gracious to invite me into their home.

I have a good friend who makes a list of things she’s thankful for each Thanksgiving. I am following her wonderful example and making a list of my own. So I present to you, in no particular order, what I am most thankful for this year.

•       My wonderful, hilarious loud family
•            My dearest friends who practically are my family.
• ·         The Gospel in my life.
• ·         People who use their talents to build others up.
• ·         Mountains in the Northwest
• ·         Parc Jourdan
• ·         Grace
• ·         Hymns
• ·         Snail mail (thank you all!)
• ·         The patience of those who tolerate my imperfections
• ·         God’s patience
• ·         That God has a sense of humor
• ·         Cardigans
• ·         Woobies (those comfort items we all seem to have)
• ·         That we get to live in such a beautiful world
• ·         To be from America.
• ·         To be from Washington.
• ·         Peanut butter
• ·         Arend Hall, even if I'm not living there anymore.
• ·         Hugs
•       Photographs
• ·         Prayer
• ·         The opportunity to be in France
• ·         The scriptures
• ·         The Lord’s missionaries
• ·         Laughter and those who make me laugh
• ·         That I have blonde hair, brown eyes
• ·         Genuinely sweet people
• ·         The Holy Spirit
• ·         The Atonement and how it allows me to become better than I am
• ·         Hope
• ·         Libraries
• ·         That spring always follows winter
• ·         Humbling experiences
• ·         Rain
• ·         For learning piano, even though I always wish I had stuck with dance.
• ·         Chocolate
• ·         Sunshine
• ·         Healthy legs to run with
• ·         For a living Prophet
• ·         the smell of Verbena
• ·         the empty journals I inherited from my grandfather
• ·         Skype
• ·         Peppermint Tea
• ·         Trains, metros, and airplanes.
• ·         C.S. Lewis and all his wisdom
• ·       to have breath in my lungs
• ·         inspired leaders
• ·         my grandma’s spunk
• ·         my mother’s compassion
• ·         comfy loveseats
• ·         American customer service
• ·         La Poste
• ·         All the rugged, REI-loving, zombie-obsessed, faith-centered, immature maturity that is the  Whitworth campus
• ·         The Temple
• ·         That God has a plan for me.

Render all the thanks and praise which you whole soul has power to possess, to that God who has created you, and has kept and preserved you, and has caused that ye should rejoice.

Mosiah 2:20

I hope you all had a fantastic Thanksgiving!

franglais.

                When you are learning another language, you may find yourself in a peculiar state: when you are incapable of speaking neither the language you are attempting to master and neither your own native tongue. I believe this is the state I am in currently, and find myself speaking a lot of franglais (francais + anglais, or English and French combined). I think, dream, pray, all in French. And I have to check myself often when corresponding with friends back home since becoming fluent in franglais, because as you can guess, the use of franglais is for a very specific audience. Not many people understand when you say “Il ne matter pas” or “Tiens, mange on this.” It makes for a fun time for your bilingual friends, but the off switch can be hard to find when speaking with professors and uni-lingual Anglophones. Please excuse any slip ups to those whom I have corresponded with from the U.S.

                I really do love this language. It is hard, and often I feel like I’m playing a glorified game of Mad Gab. It wears me out every day. But it is rewarding to see progress, to gradually be able to understand more and more of a church service, hold longer conversations with French people and to have errands run smoothly (or as smoothly as French bureaucracy will allow). It’s an irreplaceable experience. Truly.  However, although a beautiful language, I have discovered a couple gaps. In English, we have the words “like” and “love.” The French use “aimer” for both. I think the most difficult gap for me is that there isn’t exactly a translation for “home.” There are words for places in which you reside (chez-moi, la maison), and the closest translation is “foyer,” which is your family based “home.” But still is not used the same way we Anglophones use it. You would not say “there is no place like foyer.” 

But there are a lot of words I just really, really like. Here are some of them:

• Sonder. It means to search deeply, like what you do with scriptures. We don’t really have a word for it in English. “Study” is one translation, but it is deeper than that. 
• Epanouissement, which means “blooming.” It can be used when you talk about hobbies and things you enjoy. If you wanted to say you really like hiking, you could say what would literally translate to “I bloom when I’m hiking.” Similar to how we say we’re “in our element.” 
• Chauffard. The French word for driver is “chauffeur” and the word for idiot is “connard.” So the combination of the two, “chauffard” means someone who is a bad driver--or every driver in Europe.
• Une bebe sage. Literally “a wise baby,” and means a baby that is good and quiet. I can’t help but picture this bearded baby with walking stick and a face like Yoda.
• Toc. A quirk, or OCD tendency. (I’m pretty sure that’s how it was explained to me, but this one could be incorrect.)
• Mon petit choe. A term of endearment which literally means “my little cabbage.”
• Le doigt dans le nez. Similar to our phrase “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” this literally means “finger in the nose.” It means it’s easy, a piece of cake, could do it with my eyes closed. Idioms are the best, folks.

                I’m pretty sure we’re all familiar with the term called French kissing. And in many other countries of the world, the term also translates to “French kissing.” However, I’ve come in contact with French people who have no idea about this and are even confused by it. I assume the term came from the label of the French people as being very romantic and passionate, but I find it quite humorous that the French don’t know about it. Their words for “French kiss” allude to ice skating and shoveling, which really aren’t that romantic at all. But really, if you say anything with a French accent, it sounds romantic. At least that's what Hollywood has always told me.

nom nom nom.

WARNING: The intention of this blog is to make you jealous. If you suffer from uncontrollable salivation or hunger, you should stop here.

ignore the smelly squiggly lines, but the rest is true.

When you think of France, many think of the stereotype of the little old man with the striped shirt, the little chapeau, red scarf, curly mustache, baguette in one hand, wine in the other. People hate stereotypes, but I’ve noticed it bothers them more the more true it is. If it wasn’t rude to take pictures of strangers, I would to show you how common this sight really is. At any rate, the point I’m making is that baguettes are common, cheap, and addicting. They are sooo good, especially with one of the cheeses France is also known for. One of the best meals I’ve had here was a picnic in the park of cranberry juice, baguette, cheese, and sausage.  If you replaced the juice with wine, it would be one of the most French meals you could have. I don’t I can emphasize how many different cheeses there are here. If you go into a grocery store, there is maybe one section of one shelf devoted to milk. There are three entire shelves devoted to cheese, and then several feet of the deli section is packed with fancier cheeses. It’s simply insane, but the cheese is also fairly cheap, considering how much you would pay for it in the States.

I recently made a dangerous discovery. It’s called Speculoos. They are Belgian caramel ginger cookies, which are oh-so-scrumptious. But there is also the Speculoos spread made from I think ground cookies, which currently ranks a close second to peanut butter. I hope it is sold in World Market in Spokane, because this stuff is pretty darn grand! 

For good reason, the French are very proud of their creme brulee. This is evident in the number of products that are creme brulee flavored. Ice cream, chocolate bars, coffee, candles, cupcakes, you name it. You can buy it in packs like you would buy yogurt (which they have a creme brulee flavor for also). They even sell easy packets to make it yourself, if you have a ramekin or two.

Perhaps even more than their creme brulee, it is undeniable that the French love their chocolate. At a church picnic once, I think we had a salad course, a quiche course, and then probably five courses of chocolate. They kept pulling it out of nooks and crannies like it grew on trees. You think I'm kidding. And there's something about the chocolate here that is just better than the typical chocolate you find in the States. Their cheap brands are 10x better than a Hershey bar. I like the chocolate ice cream here too. I don't even like chocolate ice cream. That's how good it is. Also, there is a type of hot chocolate here, sometimes called "ancien chocolat chaude" or old hot chocolate. It is practically a melted chocolate bar in a cup. Although delicious, definitely not something you can drink very often. Starbucks actually sold it for a short time, but it didn't sell. I believe this is probably partially due to American cup sizes. They're bigger than pretty much anywhere else, and if someone tried to down a grande 16 oz cup of this stuff, it's likely he/she would become ill.

As any French person will readily tell you, France is credited with the best food in the world. During my stay in Lyon, I had the opportunity to sample some exquisite gastronomy (the art of fine food) at a restaurant opened by a Michelin chef. The Michelin rating system is based off an annual guide that is published annually for restaurants around the world. Basically, if you get a gold star from Michelin, you are the cat’s meow and you have the right to charge $500 for a single dish at your restaurant. That may be an exaggeration, but it’s a pretty big deal. That lunch was simply amazing. I can’t remember what I ordered exactly, but I do remember it was rich and vibrant. My taste buds are not accustomed to such brilliant flavor, but it was quite a treat.

For those of you wondering “Isn’t Michelin that tire company?” yes. They’re owned by the same company, I think. It’s a weird coincidence and I assumed the two just happened to share a name. But sure enough, in the restaurant in Lyon there was a hearty picture of our friendly Michelin Man (known as Bibendum here in France).

Since Lyon is the center for gastronomy in France, qualifying it to be the center of gastronomy for the entire world, we thought it appropriate for me to have my first kebab there. “Kebab” is not the skewered-barbequed entrée, as it is known in the States. Those are shish kebabs. Wikipedia tells me that the kebab here is called döner kebab, and basically it is meat that rotates on a vertical spit (see picture) that they shave off and put in a wrap or in pita bread. As far as I can gather, its significance is like this: United States is to hot dog, as Europe is to kebab. They are also found in Canada and Australia. I think it’s not found in the States because we have these silly things called “health regulations,” and I’m sure kebabs defy many of those. For instance, you never know exactly what kind of meat you’re getting, but just assume it’s lamb. Often, they’re served with white sauce (also unsure what it is) and French fries (ahem, I mean frites) directly in the pita.They’re delicious, if you ignore the bare hands preparing them, the exposed meat on the spit, and whatever other policies you have in the pristine United States of America which are ignored. However, they’re quite large and often leave you with similar sentiments as eating a hot pocket (“did I eat that, or smear it all over my face?” or “I feel like I’m gonna die.”) But no matter. It’s all part of the cultural differences. 

my first kebab.

Okay, so kebabs are not the height of French cuisine. But let me tell you about the pastries. Or better, let me show you:

these are everywhere.

so light, so FLUFFY!

fresh squeezed orange juice and raisin escargot pastrie.
a most perfect breakfast.

super-duper rich praline something or other.

  flan.

calissons, a very traditional pastry originating here in Aix.

meringue.

scrumptious macarrons. I think these are my favorite. They come in a variety of flavors, and are pretty much the pride and joy of French patisseries. They showcase them like jewelry.

the "old" hot chocolate.

I think it's time for a diet.

The rest of the BCN story.

                Barcelona is a very international city, and it seems to be catered specifically to tourists. Barcelona felt more American than anywhere else I’ve visited with as many Starbucks as you would see in Seattle and Subways, McDonald’s, and KFC’s dotted everywhere. I was startled to hear English speakers everywhere. To my surprise, I did not hear much Spanish. Mostly English and Catalan. None of us speak Spanish, and I expressed some concerns about this to one of my more linguistically inclined friends. He told me “I’m sure your Spanish will come back. It is similar to French after all.” Technically, I took Spanish for two years in high school. But my well-intentioned friend was wrong. I remembered nothing. The language barrier wasn’t too big a deal because we were centered on the tourist hot spots, but when showed itself, it loomed prominently and was unsurpassable. We felt like the worst American tourists ever, especially because we kept slipping into “merci” instead of “gracias.” We could barely order in restaurants and mostly resorted to pointing. I would have hated me too.

             Believe it or not, Barcelona really does have more than just Gaudi shrines! The other highlights we experienced are as follows:

There is a massive open air market that is just off the main stretch. It’s fantastic and has any food your heart could possibly desire. One of my friends accidentally spent 35 euros (that’s about $50) on dried fruit at a particularly enticing dried fruit stand. It was quite entertaining.

We also went into an ice bar. No, that was not a typo. You read correctly on both accounts. Yes, it was a room full of ice. And yes, I entered a bar. We went quite early before any of the crowds got there so it was more like an ice room with three other people shivering in a corner. We were given these stylish silver Michelin-man-style coats and gloves, and drank drinks (or juice in my case) out of cups made of ice. It was quite neat, and was a familiar taste of home. I had forgotten what it felt like to have your legs freeze through your jeans. Fortunately, I thawed out quite quickly by stepping outside into the warmer Spanish air.

A huge tourist hotspot is called Poble Sec, also referred to as the Spanish Village. It was built for the International Exhibition in 1929 and was fashioned after many rural Spanish villages. It is full of restaurants, artisan shops, and a couple art galleries, representing the different regions of Spain. The art gallery we entered was fantastic with works by Dali, Arman, and Jorge Castillo. Also, there was a real live cat. But I don’t think he was part of the exhibit.

A major highlight of the trip was the Picasso Museum. The exhibit was of course devoted completely to Picasso and his life and how his works progressed. The craziest part was to see these classical styled portraits and landscape paintings with delicate colors—know they were done by the bold cubist Picasso. I suppose I knew he was classically trained, but I never really thought about it much. Little Pablo had always possessed a natural talent for painting which his father encouraged a lot. The layout of the museum was a bit confusing and I think it may have been under construction, but it did show the transitions of Picasso’s life. I found his works from his Blue Period (1901-1903, a time when he painted with a predominantly blue palette) intriguing. How did he not get bored with it? Or really depressed? 

Left: Velasquez' original. Right: one of Picasso's versions

I think this is my favorite.

Although the museum no doubt fulfilled its purpose in awakening us to the brilliance of Pablo Picasso, it skipped about 30 years of his life. This happened to be the very crucial period that explained how he transitioned from his generally “normal” style into cubism. We concluded that aspect is probably a traveling exhibit being shown in another museum around the world. But to have no mention of it was a little disappointing. We walked from the Blue Period into Las Meninas, a cubist study of a work by Velasquez of the same name. 

And of course we got to see the ocean.

I agree.

                For those disinterested in museums and architecture, I will include a universal concern: the food. Perhaps the most important being paella. It’s a rice dish usually served with seafood and it is oh-so-delicious. We tried it at several places, some good, some “bad,” but even the bad paella was yummy. Also, Spain is known for its Tappas. These are appetizers generally served when you order drinks at a restaurant, however we were so fond of them, we sought out restaurants which specifically served tappas. They were small dishes of tasty wonder. Also, there is this bread traditionally served. It’s quite simple, but we were quite infatuated with it: just bread with a little bit of olive oil drizzled on, with a smattering of tomato puree. It was almost an obsession, and this is really saying something because I don’t like tomatoes. 

paella.

Tomato bread goodness.

                We weren’t in Spain long enough to make any generalizations about the country as a whole, and I know being a tourist does not give you a good feel for a region. However we noticed some minor differences from what we had grown accustomed to in France. For instance, I asked an American girl in my hostel studying in Madrid how to ask for something politely in a restaurant. She just said to use “quiero,” like the Taco Bell Chihuahua. When I asked about a conditional form she seemed confused and I explained to her that in France, you need to first apologize for your existence, grovel a bit, and then ask with a polite verb conjugation. In Spain, they are much more to the point. Also regarding language, I think the French have stolen all of Spain’s grammatical articles. In French, you never have a noun without an article (like the, a, an), and Spanish seems to be a bit article-deprived.

                As any French person will pridefully tell you, they have the best food in the world. However, if you want to taste real spice, Spain is where it's at. The French are masters with butter and delicate flavors, of which I am quite fond. But I like salt and spice every once in a while, which I found just across the border in Spain. Many of you have undoubtedly had (or at least heard of) crème brulée, France’s eggy custard dessert. Spain has a similar dessert called Catalan Crème, but is slightly different. The French crème brulée is served fairly cold in my experience and has a light, vanilla flavor. Catalan Crème isn’t chilled and is more like pudding than custard with a distinct cinnamon flavor. 

French crème brûlée

Spanish Catalan Creme

                Finally, how those in Barcelona treated foreigners was a bit different also. Of course by now we’re used to the standard distrust and annoyance with us for being American. However, the Spanish were fairly relentless with us, insistent on getting their point across in Spanish even though we don’t speak it. The French, on the other hand, have a tendency to try for a little bit and then give up on us entirely and ignore us from then on out. Oh the French. 

Needless to say, it’s good to be back in France.