When it rains, it dumps

So here I am at an Irish pub in Strasbourg with two peepe from Galway watching a rugby match, and I'm talking about my wisdom teeth. I say how great it is to have more molars with which to chew things.

"But they're wasted on you," the Irish kid says, "you're a vegetarian. You're not even going to rip meat apart with them or anything."

He has a point. We talk, laugh, drink; conversation over. I wake up the next morning with a throbbing ceek, a burgeoning pain that increases internally and begins to manifest itself externally (read: chipmunk cheek). My Couchhost is kind, tries to help me whiskey-drink my way out of it, to no avail. I spend the night not sleeping and thinking about how much energy it takes to be in pain.

I went this morning to a dentist, presented myself abruptly, told her I was going to Paris the next day at 7am, and wanted her to rip my wisdom tooth out, there and then. It was the only option, in my head; I'd re-configured my whole trip on the TGV under the assumption that I'd be woozy and in extreme pain, lugging my huge backpack around and slurring my speech, plastic bags trailing out of my pockets that I'd have ready for impromptu vomiting.

But no. La dentiste laughs at me, and tells me that I have an infection in my gum that snuck in through the little cracks in between my dent de sagesse and my gum while the tooth was busy growing in. She can't possibly take my tooth out because I can barely open my mouth (I'm here spoon-feeding myself eggs with the facility of a baby bird... woops, cannibalistic analogy), and if she took a knife to my gums, it would only spread the infection deeper, leading to a swollen, infected mouth.

She promptly writes me five prescriptions (an antibiotic, an anti-inflammatory, two painkillers and an antiseptic mouthwash) and charges me 21 euro. Don't worry, though, she says; here's a form that you can fill out and send to the MGEN (the national health care provider) and get reimbursed. I run to the pharmacy, fill all five ordonnances immediately, am charged another negligible fee, and now am here trying to take all these ridiculous pills with a semblance of a meal so that I don't vomit all over the Strasbourg cathedral (though I have a plan in case I do!)

Verdict: French health care system, you win.

Paris tomorrow for Christmas with the Smucker clan!

WWOOFing on Wednesdays

Another reason to like Wednesdays -- I WWOOF! I finally bought the WWOOFing catalog for France (15 euro, eh, but the organization has to support itself somehow) and looked up some local farmers in the Vosges, hoping to maybe learn how to make chevre or something on the weekends. I got in contact with a woman in nearby Anould who runs a horse farm, and met up with her on Wednesday. Though the possibility of riding is slim (most of the horses are old, and the frozen ground isn't too friendly on hooves right now), it was so nice just to be around horses again. There must be a reason people willingly shovel their feces; horses are incredible creatures. The woman, Suzanne, also has a bunch of colts at the farm, who are super friendly (super genial!) and love nuzzling humans.

WWOOFing is normally done by travelers who are looking to explore to agricultural life of a certain area, and will work on a farm somewhere in exchange for room and board. Since I'm only doing this on Wednesdays, Suzanne and I have agreed that I'll work in exchange for a meal and German lessons (she's German).

I'm hoping to WWOOF somewhere in the south of France for my February vacation (after I take the GREs in Paris...). I've already gotten positive responses from women in Corsica and near Perpingnan, a city in the waaaaay south that's just about on the Spanish border. I have to decide if I want to fly or take the TGV, which is really only a matter of convenience, since they'll cost about the same. Although, I'm thinking Corsica might be really nice to visit in the spring after I'm done with work... any takers?

Mind-bending en francais

As it turns out, I've been assigned as an assistant in Gerardmer not only to teach English, but to explain certain very special things to the French students here that no one other than an American can explain.

1. Geography. At least once a week, I'm asked if I go home to New York every day. I patiently explain that no, I live in Gerardmer because New York is far, far away, and it takes me six hours (six!) by plane to reach the United States. By plane, do I mean tunnel? No, I don't mean tunnel. Let's look at a map.

2. Religion. Last Friday, I decided to briefly talk about Hanukkah because it was, well, the first day of Hanukkah, and Hanukkah in New York means matzo, potato latkes, and extra-festive bagelries. But before I started drawing menorahs on the board, I asked if anyone in my class of ten and eleven year-olds was Jewish. Silence, then: "what's Jewish?"

3. The meaning of an accent. Many of my younger students think that I actually am French, since I speak it in the classroom, albeit with an accent. Who knows why I come from America; it's just where I'm from. They ask me when I learned English, and if I learned it in America. Many of them also ask me to translate their names into English, meaning that they want me to pronounce their names with an English accent (as in, turning "Thomas" from "toe-mah" into "tom-iss"). Everything is all mixed up in their little minds and they have no idea why I talk funny or how I know how to communicate with them or why their names change in pronunciation from one language to another.

Today was also picture day, and my students wanted me to be in their class pictures with them. We all lined up and said, "ouistiti!" (marmoset). This whole thing is a nice experience.

"Les eleves font de la neige"

Les eleves (the students) can also font de l'orage (make hurricanes) as well as la neige (snow), meaning that they're getting wild and generally making crazy. But don't say this anywhere outside of the Vosges, because everyone else in France will think you're talking about children manning artifical snow machines.

I'm slowly picking up (and being happily taught by various Vosgiens) some local slang, which is at once hilarious and worrisome, knowing that when I travel out to Paris for Christmas this year, I might actually end up sounding like une vraie plouc (a real hick).

Besides the rather thick accent (which elongates o's and is a very round, in-the-mouth kind of accent), some words and phrases that won't make it past Champagne include:

"ca caille!" (it's freezing!)
"vain dieux!" (literally, "vain gods," used as a vulgar exclamation)
"c'est fin bon" or "fin nul" (it's really good, or it really sucks)
"il pleut comme les vaches qui pissent!" (it's raining like pissing cows!)
"moooooooh" (strange noise people make when something is extreme)

And these are just a few. The slang is based on Patois, the old language of the Lorraine region that has basically died out (similar to what's happening to Alsacian) and is only remembered by the old and spoken via slang by the young. For as much as I complain about being stuck au milieu de nulle part (in the middle of nowhere), it is pretty cool to be living in a community so steeped in tradition.

Cheese comme d'habitude:

Morbier: the middle line is not actually mold, as this is not a blue cheese; it's vegetable ash. Traditionally, when the farmers made this cheese, they would throw their milk into the cheese tub, then pour vegetable ash over it to protect the milk from outside bacteria. The next day, they would pour more milk over the ash, leaving a gray line in the middle of the cheese. Aromatic almost like camembert, but in a sharp kind of way. Really good.

It's been such a fascinating experience trying all these different cheeses, most of them made relatively close to Gerardmer. Not only have I learned so many cool new facts, but so many things about what cheese means to the French people, how much pride they take in creating it, how to eat it properly, everything. A traditional French meal begins with an aperitif, then an entree (appetizer), then the meal, then maybe a salad, then dessert, and lastly: the cheese. I'm not sure what might be going on chemically on biologically, but there's something about having ate an entire meal and having already drunk some wine that very seriously changes the flavor of the cheese in your mouth. (I credit this theory to my friend Danny.) No one would ever start their meal with cheese; it would be far too strong. You eat a lot, you drink a lot, and then eat your cheese, which reacts with the wine and becomes this practically tangible yet ethereal type of sensory experience that for some reason, works better with your already-primed palette than it would have a few hours ago. In other words, it's worth it to be a cheese snob. You won't regret what you paid for.

Frightening Lives

At the very least, living in France has made me even more aware of what I'm putting into, on, and around my body -- in the form of food, body products, house cleaners, dishware, n'importe quoi (whatever). A short blog post by Paul Krugman of the New York Times, Cancer from the Kitchen, sums up my sentiments exactly when it comes to environmental toxins and how shockingly blase people are about ignoring obvious problems. It disgusts me and frightens me and makes me wonder how much damage I've already done.

Update

I my Internet is partially back -- in the classroom a few doors down the hall from me. However, I can only use it on the weekends and after dark (when the students and/or construction workers aren't there), meaning that I have to bundle up tight, since the heat is turned off during these times. It's better than nothing.

Speaking of which, it has been cold -- hovering just above freezing for the past few weeks, which makes for misery: near-freezing rain, wind (can't use an umbrella), and no snow. This is my normal get-up:

This is also pretty much what I'm wearing right now (in the unheated classroom), plus a vest and a sweatshirt. Meh.

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These are the cheeses of the past few weeks:

 

 Tomme des Vosges: sharp, smoky, and tastes a bit like dirt. Rather like the Vosges themselves. I really like it.

Chevre frais (fresh goat cheese -- not affine, or aged) rolled in sun-dried tomatoes and herbs, with reblochon, a runny fromage de lait cru (raw milk cheese) that's like a very strong camembert with pronouned smokiness.

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Latest local event: Saint Nicolas. Different from le pere Noel (Santa Claus), Saint Nicolas is based on the Catholic Nicolas de Myre who, according to Wikipedia, is the patron saint of students, teachers, boatsmen, barren women and sterile men, glaziers, butchers, and travelers. I can attest at least to the butcher, because he was up there in the sledge alongside Saint Nicolas and pere Fouettard (Father Whipper), who is Saint Nicolas' partner in crime when it comes to doling out gifts. The "Naughty List" doesn't exist here; you just get thrashed.

I didn't have my camera on me (of course), but Becca, my roommate, did, so here are a few pictures from Gerardmer's celebration last night:

 

Sledge that led le defile (parade) through the streets of Gerardmer; you can see Saint Nicolas standing up in his pope-like hat, with Pere Fouettard right next to him (dressed all in black, as per the tradition), and then the butcher.

 Some pretty great fireworks were let loose.

The street at night. 

It was quite a festive atmosphere. Saint Nicolas threw some bonbons from the sledge to all the kids sitting on their dad's shoulders, while Pere Fouettard looked like an insane Jack Nicholas wearing sunglasses at night  and grinning like a maniac. The butcher just waved.

As cheesy as this all sounds, what made this event kind of cool was that it is very strictly regional. Lorraine and Alsace are the only regions of France that celebrate la fete de saint Nicolas on December 6th since it's a tradition that has spread over from Germany and the Netherlands. The whole event is so winter- and mountain-oriented: you go to the parade, shop at the Christmas market, drink vin chaud (hot wine mulled with spices), eat choucroute garni (sauerkraut with many meats) and tartiflette (a mess of potato, ham, and cheese baked in a casserole dish), and march back home, up the mountain, to get drunk on homemade mirabelle liquor beside your indoor wood furnace. They take pride in this kind of stuff, you know?

The night before the festivities, I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner by my friend Danny and an grizzled old man friend of his, Claude. A crusty-handed mountaineer who distills his own pear liquor from fruit he gathers wild in the Vosges, Claude served us a veritable (and unfortunately meat-laden) Vosgien meal: quiche lorraine, a casserole of spiced potatoes, chunks of local ham, an assorted cheese plate (chevre affine, comte, etorki, roquefort, aged munster), a plate of choux pastries, fresh walnuts from his backyard. All of this was accompanied by proper drinks: la biere de Noel (spiced beer) for the quiche, Alsacien white wine for the potatoes and ham, Bordeaux for the cheese, a post-dessert cafe, and a variety of homemade liquors for digestifs.

The French don't drink water (it's true!), so I was an overstuffed and staggering mess by 11:30 -- the time that dinner was officially "over." If there's one French tradition that I've truly come to love, it's multiple-course meals (minimum of four) and everything that comes with them: lazy chatting, eating slowly and savoring flavors, not having anywhere to be (because after a French dinner, you simply can't have other plans). It's an art that shouldn't have to be.

Makin' money, coppin' hoes

The Economist paid me, finally -- 75 USD! And they're interested in another article I pitched them, which will be an abridged version of my post here on suburbia.

I think this means I have to take these two blog posts down since my words now belong to The Economist... I'll have to read the copyright form I just signed. Yikes.

Wednesday is the new Saturday

It snowed here a few days ago, but only settled on the mountaintops. I wanted to go for a hike in the snow -- so I ran up to the top of the mountain and did it. Once again, I left my camera at home -- who wants to carry a camera on a jog? -- but found that there's something selfishly thrilling about seeing something beautiful and not being able to share it.

And this is how it went: I felt like a magical deer in the woods, running around in my blue leggings and knitted winter hat with braids dangling down my shoulders like a Jan Brett character, grinning and singing a little (there's nothing like the twangy background of "Red Squirrel Rising" to make you feel like a forest creature). I got lost a bit, as I always do on especially good excursions, and ran into a couple cool dogs. After about two and a half hours of this, I walked back down the mountain, where it was about six degrees (celcius) warmer and stinky with car exhaust.