Spain is well-known for its gastronomía and unique dining schedule, with most restaurants serving lunch around 2 pm, and dinner after 8:30 pm. Most kitchens close in-between and food is not served. This initially was hard to adjust to, as I was used to eating much earlier, and found myself starving and snacking before dinner. At this point I have completely shifted my eating habits; eating dinner at 7 would feel unnaturally early. However, I’m sure I will switch back once arriving home!
While Spain is famous for many dishes, including paella, gazpacho, and cerdo iberico, tapas and tapas hour is one of Spain’s most prevalent traditions. Tapas are small plates or portions of food, that are accompanied by drinks. The word tapa comes from tapar, which means to place something on top of something else. This comes from original tapas, which were generally a piece of bread or toast with some kind of meat or cheese on top. Tapas are often eaten before lunch or before dinner, and bars will participate in tapas hour, with deals when purchasing drinks and tapas, before restaurants officially open for meal time. People often hop from bar to bar drinking and trying food at each place. They are often eaten standing up or outside on the terrace, in a more casual setting. Tapas are not only a traditional aspect of Spanish cuisine, but they are an integral part of the social life in the country. Tapas allow for friends to spend time together and catch up, and provide engagement with the local community.
I have eaten many tapas since arriving in Spain, ranging from more modern plates like smoked salmon, or duck with goat cheese, to the more traditional Spanish tortilla, which consists of eggs, potatoes, and onions. I enjoy tapas because it allows me to spend time with friends, visit unique parts of the city, and try numerous types of food that I would not otherwise, if they were only served as large plates. Tapas have also helped ensure I am no longer starving throughout the day as I wait for proper dinner time!
A few pictures of tapas I have tried during the last month:
It’s hard to believe, but I’m nearing the end of my stay here in Gleann Cholm Cille.
This week has been a little different for me, because I decided to really challenge myself by moving up a level in my language classes. The instructor speaks almost exclusively in Irish. We aren’t even allowed to use dictionaries; instead, the instructor defines vocabulary we don’t know using other Irish words that (hopefully) we do know.
I went back to the Sliabh Liag cliffs one last time — as you can see, it was quite windy!
Most of the other members of the class are more advanced than I am, to be honest. But I’ve already noticed my speaking ability improving. My classmates are incredibly dedicated to learning, and they really encourage my own efforts.
It has been exciting to compare my current abilities with my language fluency back when I first arrived in Gleann Cholm Cille. I am still by no means fluent, but I can respond to basic questions in Irish much more naturally and quickly than before. One of the most challenging parts of learning Irish, in my opinion, is the simple act of saying “yes” and “no.” There are no general words for “yes” and “no” in the Irish language; instead, you answer a question with the positive or negative form of the verb contained in the question. For example, if someone asks you, “An éisteann tú leis an radió?” (Do you listen to the radio?), the response should either be “Éisteann” (listen) or “Ní éisteann” (do not listen). Such a structure comes naturally to a native speaker, but when you are first learning the language it can be difficult to do the mental work of identifying the verb in question, putting that verb into its positive or negative form, and then using it in the correct tense. Constant daily practice has greatly improved my ability to respond to these types of questions, however, at least with the more commonly used verbs.
Overall, I have had a wonderful time in Gleann Cholm Cille. As I said in my first post, I have been so inspired by my fellow students. They all have different reasons for coming here, but everyone is dedicated to the language and passionate about its continued survival. I look forward to coming back to class at Notre Dame as a more fluent speaker and to continuing my involvement in the Irish-language community beyond graduation!
This picture was taken at a Dublin pub, on my last night in Ireland. Farewell!A Joyce quote I found in the pub. It seems to be an accurate summation of my time here!
As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, I’ve made friends with a family in my dvor (apartment complex). This week the mother of the children I play with has invited me to dinner almost every night. I’m finally eating properly! While my host family was a relative disappointment, with awkward conversation and bad food (and not enough of it), I’m really lucky that the other families where I live have opened their homes to me. My first night, after dinner, I sat with Oksana (the mother) and we drank coffee and talked about love and life until two in the morning. I’ve gotten to see her children in their home and learn how the youngest is learning to talk (sometimes we even make the same mistakes). Her food is wonderful, and there’s a lot of it, thank goodness. I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better cultural experience. Last night, I even got my moment with Oksana’s husband and really, for the first time in St. Petersburg, got to experience some of the culture here. Her husband is actually Ukrainian, so you could say I got some Ukrainian culture in there too. Yevgeniy, Oksana’s husband, sat down with me over a salt cured fish, yes a whole fish, and shared with me, told me how to eat it. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. Over the fish (and beer, out of a mug, because that’s how beer is drunk with fish according to Yevgeniy) he asked me about american culture and tradition, all of my answers were poor, but fortunately he was comfortable enough talking. Then he told me anecdotes, which is the common form of humor in Russia. A lot of them had to do with Moldovans, whom he really enjoyed making fun of. Interestingly enough, he told me that old Soviet anecdotes aren’t funny anymore, they’re just “stupid.” He explained to me why Russians (but mostly Ukrainians) are so resourceful and explained his opinion on politics, Kiev, and a host of other things. I can’t say I understood everything, but I understood a lot. I am coming to realize that the Ukrainian accent is harder to understand for me. I didn’t speak very well, these were all topics for which I have little vocabulary, but I listened a lot. Honestly it was a little startling at first to just have Yevgeniy start peppering me with questions so intensely. In class I rarely got that kind of questioning, and I’m used to the subjects that I talk about with peers. This was a different generation, and older, more soviet generation and it was visible. I really felt like I was interacting with real Russians for the first time. Interestingly enough, Russian is Yevgeniy’s second language and he would sometimes ask Oksana how to correctly say something. The whole evening was an incredible window into how people live here. This family has opened up their home to me, fed me, let me play with their kids. Yevgeniy told me that he used to eat fish and drink beer with his father, and then he did so with me. I felt so honored and so welcomed. It was unlike anything I could have ever imagined and I’m so blessed to have had the random chance of meeting these people. I’m so glad I’m returning for a semester in the spring. Two months is not long enough, and I only just started to get to know this family. It takes time to build friendships here, and I’m fortunate that the friendships that I’ve had the chance to build aren’t going to end on August 9th.
But that isn’t all. After my evening with Oksana and Yevgeniy, I and a few friends went to the Present Perfect electronic music festival. As far as Russian culture, it was another experience entirely. The festival was held in the outskirts of the city on the property of an old factory. It was the young people of Russia, the weirdos and the hipster rave crowd all gathered into one place. St. Petersburg is a relatively progressive place in Russia, there’s a large population of hipster youth, and it was really cool to be able to see the hub of it. My friends and I stayed out all night dancing and experiencing the deep underground nightlife of St. Petersburg. Honestly, I didn’t think that I was going to enjoy the experience that much, but it was really fun. Dancing all night and actually having a crazy youthful moment right after my finals was a really fun way to spend a weekend. The counterculture is rich here, and for a night I was part of it.
This Thursday, I was awakened by the sound of church bells. This, in and of itself, was not out of the ordinary. The Church of Sant’Anna (the small parish that serves the port neighborhood of Marina Grande) is practically a stone’s throw away from my bedroom window, and it rings bells during the day to mark the hour.
The church of Sant’Anna, seen from my window.
Two things, however, made Thursday’s bells unusual. First, the bells rang in a continuous peal, not in the measured chiming of a clock. Second, they rang at approximately 4:45 in the morning.
As I soon learned, July 26 is the feast day of Saint Anna, the patron saint of Marina Grande. To celebrate, they had Mass every hour from 5 am to 12 pm, and twice more in the evening. There was also a festival with food and games that night. The bells to invite the faithful to Mass rang out at a quarter-to-the-hour all morning. The car horns (or possibly boat horns–after all, it is a fishing neighborhood) started around 7 in the morning. The fireworks started at 8.
I now digress, very briefly, to tell you all about one unexpected aspect of a summer in Sorrento: the fireworks. I may have missed the 4th of July shows, but I have more than made up for it in my time here. The smallest festivity is not too small for fireworks in Sorrento.
Fireworks in Sorrento’s main square.
Many of them are set off from the dock in Marina Grande, which is quite close to my dorm. The sound that they make at such close quarters is incredible. I can only do it justice by saying that it sounds like a bomb exploding in my immediate vicinity (which gives you an idea of how alarming they are when unexpected). Even with the noise, I love all the fireworks. There have been some truly spectacular shows.
The celebration of Saint Anna has been going on all week, and won’t be over until Monday. For me, it’s been a window into a very Italian tradition. After all, I’ve never seen an American neighborhood throw a week-long party to celebrate their patron saint. The Catholic faith has left deep imprints on Italian life, even though many modern Italians are not practicing Catholics.
Impromptu shrines to Mary, like this one, are everywhere.
According to the woman with whom I meet to practice Italian, these saints’ days are a lot like Christmas in America. Almost everybody celebrates Christmas, even though many Americans are not Christian. It’s not an exact comparison, however. For one thing, there’s only one Christmas, while there are saints’ days celebrations at least once a month. For another, the celebration of a patron saint is a highly local affair. For example, Marina Grande celebrates Saint Anna, but central Sorrento celebrates Saint Anthony. Therefore, if I walk five minutes from my dorm in one direction, I’m in the middle of a festival. Five minutes in the other direction, and it’s business as usual.
Tradition in Italy stretches back even farther than Christianity. For example, businesses in Sorrento tend to stay in one family. One of my peers who works in Sorrento even calls them “hereditary.” According to my professor, this can be traced to the fact that Sorrento was founded by the Romans, for whom family was very important. To support his claim, my professor said that a woman from Sorrento, if she marries into a prominent Sorrentine family, will introduce herself thus: “My name is —-, wife of—–.” Meanwhile, in Massa Lubrense, a town only 5 miles from Sorrento, a woman always simply states her own name. Massa Lubrense was founded by the Greeks, for whom family was not as important as it was for the Romans. My professor claims this is the reason for the small cultural differences that exist between the cities to this day.
This wood-imprint shop in Sorrento has been in the same family for generations. Wood-imprint is itself a very traditional art form here.Ceramics is another very traditional form of art in this part of Italy.
I asked my Italian-speaking partner about other aspects of tradition in Italy. For example, wasn’t it true that Italians gathered as a family, Thanksgiving style, very frequently? Yes, she told me, but most do it out of “tradition.” For many Italians, the big family gatherings are a duty, not a joy. In fact, she says there is too much tradition in Italy. She envies America’s lack of tradition, because it leaves us free to focus on the future. In fact, one of the most common descriptions of America by Italian locals is “young.”
One reason I’m able to get locals’ views on all this is that the locals are finally starting to speak to me in Italian. Many speak to me in English at first, but once I respond in Italian, they will switch as well. It’s a little thing, but it is a tangible sign of progress, and therefore very encouraging. My greatest success happened yesterday, when an Italian woman not only responded to me in Italian, but actually had a long conversation with me. She described the language barrier she faces every day with tourists who don’t speak Italian, and she told me about her dreams to visit America. I only caught about 75% of what she said, but it was enough to keep the conversation going. I am thrilled.
Meanwhile, I have been studying for my final exams, a sure sign that the end is near. Four weeks down, one more to go. As always, thank you for accompanying me on my Italian adventure.
The cuisine of Ho Chi Minh city (HCMC) is a confluence of various Vietnamese (e.g., northern and central Vietnam) and international influences (e.g., Thailand, Korea, France, and Japan). The street food embodies all of these influences; it also reveals the material conditions that form the backbone of culinary culture in HCMC, and Vietnam in general. Street food, which is served out of carts, stalls, motorcycles, is food for the people. It is affordable, delicious, simple, and focused.
My favorite street food in HCMC is Bot Chien, a rice-cake omelette cooked in a cauldron-like tried-and-true searing-hot wok. Bot Chien is topped off with various pickled vegetables and soybean based sauce. This dish is very balanced; the rice-and-egg base lives in harmony with its vinegar-y sweet-and-sour vegetable topping.
This dish is culturally important because it is food for the working class. The dish costs less than a dollar typically. Any attempt to “restaurant-ize” this dish, a process which often occurs in the states, is conceptually untenable and culturally abhorrent. The chef at the particular bot chien stand I frequent knows that anyone trying to place bot chien next to cloth napkins is making a fool of themselves. Part and parcel to its popularity is the fact that it is cooked in a wok that represents labor itself.
In his track “Hungry Heart” from his breakthrough 1980 album “The River”, Bruce Springsteen sings of an adventure that takes him away from home but prevents him from returning. As the first verse tells us, “Like a river that don’t know where it’s flowin’, I took a wrong turn and I just can’t go home”. As my time in Moscow quickly winds down, I feel a desire to stay in Moscow and continue to learn and live – the ironic part of this journey is that just as I feel like I am making my biggest strides in using and understanding Russian, it is almost time to leave. But alas, this is only an incentive for me to return to Russia in the near future.
Yesterday, I finished my classes for the summer semester at Moscow International University. A grammar exam, oral exams, and a couple of essays marked the culmination of 7 weeks of coursework. Next week, our group will spend 3-4 days on a cruise around Lake Ladoga, visiting the towns of the scenic Republic of Karelia (a semi-autonomous republic in northwest Russia that has more sovereignty in local matters than other oblasts). We will also have a day before and after the cruise that we will spend in St. Petersburg.
Before I cover some of my adventures from the past 10 or so days, I wanted to share my thoughts about a very important cultural holiday here in Russia – Victory Day (День Победы), celebrated on May 9. Just like V-E Day on May 8, День Победы celebrates the victory of the Allied Coalition against Germany in the Second World War. However, more importantly, this day also commemorates the millions of Soviet soldiers who lost their lives in their Great Patriotic War (Великая отвечественная война). As a result, this day is especially important to all Russians. Every year in Moscow there is a parade featuring surviving veterans and a concert, but in contrast to the celebrations, there are flowers and wreaths presented solemnly at the monuments to the victims of the war – civilians and soldiers alike.
Center aisle of Парк Победы, featuring the central obelisk with St. George on horseback
I had the chance to ask one of my Russian friends about this holiday and journeyed with her to Victory Park (Парк Победы), a gorgeous andsolemn display of monuments to the victims of the war amidst green rows of trees. Among the monuments are a memorial synagogue and a sculpture dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust. Another statue features four figures, one from each of the main Allied Powers – Great Britain, France, the Soviet Union, and the United States. The main statue of the park is a huge, painstakingly detailed obelisk with a sculpture of St. George (the patron saint of Moscow) on horseback.
Perhaps it is this similarity between Russia and the United States – a shared legacy of the wartime service of millions of citizens – that we find the greatest reminder of our common humanity. My friend and I shared our stories of relatives’ service – her great-grandfather fought in the war, while both of my grandfathers served on the Pacific front. She told me that veterans would often come to schools and talk about the war, but like many American veterans they rarely spoke about details. Like many other Russians, Victory Day and its historical significance are incredibly important for her, and she says that it is actually her favorite holiday.
“In the fight against fascism, we were together.” Парк Победы, Moscow
One of my professors at the university also lectured about Victory Day and its significance, especially about the losses that the day represents. Every Russian family at that time sent at least one family member to thewar, and many sent more – sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. My professor actually showed us some letters that her father sent home from the war front, filled with encouraging and affectionate language. Unfortunately, most did not survive, and these huge losses are on a scale unimaginable to Americans. Most of these losses actually come from civilian deaths, thanks to invasion and siege. We still don’t know the official extent of Soviet losses, as declassification of Soviet documents means an ever-changing estimate, but perhaps as many as 11 million soldiers and probably more than 25 million citizens perished during the war. My professor personally relates to these losses, as her youngest brother was sadly killed during the war near Stalingrad.
As a result, День Победы remains a crucial memorial to the service and sacrifice of millions of Soviet citizens and is also a source of great national pride. Regardless of opinions of the Soviet regime, Russians celebrate this day because nearly every family can relate to its significance. Парк Победы is a beautiful reminder of this national pride and sorrow, inevitably intertwined in the Russian mentality.
On a lighter note, I had the chance this past weekend to visit two old Russian cities: Tula and Vladimir (I didn’t have the chance to visit Sergiev Posad on Sunday). Let’s look at these and other adventures:
Tolstoy’s home at his estate, Ясная Поляна
Tula (Тула) and Tolstoy’s Estate (Ясная Поляна): Last Friday, our group traveled via bus to Leo Tolstoy’s residence not far from the old city of Tula. His estate sits quietly among the fields of provincial Russia, about three hours by bus away from Moscow. We toured the scenic property and his home. Afterwards, we stopped in the city of Tula, known for its samovar museum and small Kremlin. The interior of the Kremlin was lined with craft shops and bakeries, and in the center of the territory stands a church and museum.
Vladimir (Владимир):On Saturday, some friends and I traveled by train to Vladimir, another ancient city northeast of Moscow. In the 12th and 13th centuries, the city served as the capital of medieval Russia but
View of historic Vladimir, featuring 850-year old and 900-year old churches in the background and foreground, respectively
declined in prominence after the Mongol invasion of 1237. In the 14th century, the grand princes moved their court to Moscow. Nonetheless, the town is full of history in its monasteries, churches, monuments, and its old entry gate. At least three churches date to the 12th century, and the old stone gate that stands in the center of the old town was built in 1166. We walked around the city, ate at several small cafes, and saw how life in the provincial cities differs from the hustle and bustle of Moscow. From the top of the hill and the deck of an observation tower, one can see the rolling hills and fields of the Russian countryside. To date, my day in Vladimir was my favorite of the trip.
Speaking: Yesterday I had a really good day of speaking, first with some oral exams in the morning and then later with a Russian friend of mine and her friend. We walked around Парк Победы and then ate at a local cafe, and besides not always hearing the questions I understood how to respond. Furthermore, I was able to more competently talk about some American politics and history – in the past, I’ve tried this but it doesn’t usually go well. However, with some help on some vocab this time, I was able to convey my points and was understood, which I considered quite a personal victory. For sure I’m still making errors, but the major errors are rare and smaller errors are less frequent. I am more satisfied with my speaking ability than ever before, and more importantly I have the confidence to put myself in most everyday situations.
In the foreground is a monument to Prince Vladimir, who Christianized Russia in the 10th century. Behind me is the Assumption Cathedral (Собор Успения Прксвятой Богородицы, 1160), which served as the inspiration for Assumption Cathedral in Moscow.
In short, I’ve had quite a few adventures in this past week – two new cities, many historical sites, and endless reasons to love Russia. I now realize that my personal gamble of spending two months in Russia was well worth the risks. Springsteen also sings in “Hungry Heart” that since “everybody’s got a hungry heart,” you should “lay down your money and…play your card”. Given this sentiment, I would say that for the first time, I truly gambled and played my cards. I took perhaps the biggest risk of my life, and now I am finally reaping the rewards of that decision.
Given that I will be on a cruise in the middle of a lake, I don’t expect to be easily accessible. If I have the service, I will try to keep in contact. Until then, good night from Moscow!
As I have been learning Irish, I wondered why I would possibly need so many words to say “wonderful,” “awesome,” or “amazing.” On my first day of class alone, when discussing how to reply to the question “How are you?”, Mary gave us 3 different ways to reply that we were wonderful. “Tá mé go hiontach,” “Tá mé ar fheabhas,” “Tá mé go dial.” I couldn’t possibly convince myself that I would need to learn more than just one way to say that anything was wonderful, so I stuck with the standard “go hiontach” and that was it. And in the permacloud of South Bend with a pre-lunchtime class, the answer to “conas atá tú?” was usually not much more than “go maith” (good), “tuirseach” (tired) or “tá ocras orm” (hungry). Iontach was dropped into my writing occasionally, but never overused.
Now that I’m in An Cheathrú Rua, I’ve found that I have, indeed, overused the word “iontach.” I added “ar fheabhas” to my vocab and even that was becoming overused. Our teacher begged us for some variety in our adjectives. I know understand why the Irish needed so so many words for wonderful. I’ve since added “thar cionn,” “thar bearr,” and “ar dóigh.” If I’m asked “cén chaoi bhfuil tú?” I could answer with “Tá mé ar muin na muice” – translated to “I am on the pig’s back” – translated to “I’m wonderful.”
How are you?
Tá mé ar muin na muice
How was the trad session last night?
Bhí sé ar fheabhas
How was the beach?
Thar bearr
Although so many aspects of the Irish language still confuse me to no end, their vocabulary makes more sense as I live through it. Not everything can be ar fheabhas, and since so many things are indeed “wonderful,” I have to expand my vocabulary.
Their 50 or so words for types of rain are more logical as I must describe the difference between the different types of ways I get rained on during my long walks to town. And while I doubt I will ever learn each of the different words for the Ireland rain, I can imagine what creative description the Irish have for the type of rain falling.
One of my proudest moments so far in this program happened at one of the (two) local pubs. One of the people in the program is well known around the town after attending the program nearly 20 years ago (he even adopted an entirely new Irish name), and one of his friends joined our table. His friend was nearly fluent but wasn’t a native speaker, which was probably why I found it easier to understand him. I was able to hold conversation with him for over an hour, mostly all in Irish. If ever I was unsure of whether I got my point across and translated to English to make sure, he would say “Don’t translate, don’t translate, tuigim,” (I understand). Even if I wasn’t forming the most academic of sentences, I was communicating. At one point he even tested my grammar going around and having me change the pronouns for first person, second person, third person, plural / single, etcetera. It was an easy lesson, but he was very impressed with my Irish. Each time I would stop speaking, he would tell me to keep going, saying that it didn’t matter what I said, so long as it was in Irish. When I ran out of things to say I introduced everyone at the table as Gaeilge or just started saying random things, but all they want is for people to learn the Irish language. It was so encouraging to see that my communication abilities exceeded my relative confidence in them.
Tomorrow, we will be taking a trip to one of the Aran Islands, so my next blog post will hopefully be full of more amazing pictures of this beautiful country. Slán go foill!
Of all the places for our bus to break down, I can’t complain. Kylemore Abbey Kylemore Abbey
What do Germans think of the United States? Will I be welcomed or rejected because I am American?
Crowds in Nuremberg Hauptbahnhof (main city train station)
These were two questions that circled through my mind as I prepared for my two-month language immersion adventure in Germany. Throughout my time here, I have asked several Germans of all different ages and backgrounds of their opinion of the United States. Here are some of their responses:
Teenage Germans
I recently met a group of 19-year-old young women and men who had just finished their high school exams! After introducing ourselves, they expressed their desire to travel to the USA. One girl explained that she dreams of visiting New York and San Francisco, but has not yet had the opportunity. She says, “There are so many things to do and see in the United States — and I want to do them all!”
In addition, I also met an 18-year-old woman on the train to Frankfurt and asked her where she was going. Coincidentally, she said she was flying to the United States for a two-week vacation! In fact, she was actually flying to Minneapolis, Minnesota — my home state! She was super excited and I was excited for her!
As our conversation continued, she explained that the German youth are fascinated by the United States. “It is so far away and so spread out. In Europe, countries are relatively close together. It is incomprehensible to us that you cannot go from Minnesota to California for a weekend trip.” But, she explained that President Trump is also a hot topic for German youth. By the tone of her voice, it was clear that from her perspective the majority of German youth did not view Trump very highly.
Middle-Age Germans
An early thirty-year-old woman I met on the streets of Schwäbisch Hall explained that the United States is a big, beautiful country and the people are very friendly and welcoming. However, she believes that President Trump is not helping to stabilize the country’s national and international relations because of the inconsistency of his policies.
Elderly Germans
I also interviewed an elderly man and woman. The man stated that he had never been to the United States, so he could not express an opinion on the nature of the American people or the environment of the country. But the woman had visited New York once and exclaimed that there is so much to do and see. She was also very surprised at how willing the Americans were to help her navigate the big city.
Nevertheless, both agreed that President Trump does not present the USA well to other nations. The woman exclaimed that, “He says one thing and then a few days later he changes his mind to have the opposite stance on the same political issue!”
“Grown-ups never understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince // The Little Prince
Featured food of the week: ice cream at Place Plumereau
“OK, c’est à toi,” Noa indicated that it was my turn to roll the die and move my little, plastic horse along the perimeter of the board. Noa is the 5 year-old grandson of Chantal, my host mom, and he was instructing me on how to play one of his favorite jeux de société (board games), Les Petits chevaux (the little horses). First you have to roll a six, then, starting from right outside your stable, you make your way around the spaces until you get back to your stable which consists of six places. To get to the first spot marked with a “1”, you first have to roll a one, then to advance you roll a two to get to the next spot, and it continues until you’ve gotten past all six spaces. To win, you have to once again roll a six, then you can proudly install your tired, little horse in the middle of the board… and start all over with a second horse. It’s not difficult to play, but as you can imagine, it can become tedious, especially if your opponent passes you up forcing you to restart all the way at the beginning.
Noa did his best to stay patient with me. He liked that I could speak English and he would exclaim “Yes!” or “What??” every once in a while (which he learned from French “Dora”), but beyond that I was just an American, blonde grown-up with French abilities not quite as good as his own and whom he’d only known for a little bit. As I was slightly distracted by a conversation with Chantal and the French news stations playing in the background, he had to remind me frequently to take my turn or re-roll the dice. Additionally, he made sure I was facing my game piece in the right direction, because I was a jockey who had a tendency to point my horse’s nose backwards and, according to Noa, “he has to go this way, you can’t go the other way!” I had a lot to learn about the rules of the race from this young professional.
We played a few other games, too, like a card-matching game and a game Noa invented which consisted of taking the dried-up moche fleurs (ugly flowers) from Mamie Chantal’s flower pots and throwing them over the side of the balcony (with her permission and adult supervision, of course). People would pass by to enter the apartment and he would warn them, “Attention ! Je jette des fleurs ! Watch out, I’m throwing flowers!” and he would then watch the petals spiral down through the air and fall into the street, sometimes successfully managing to drop them into a puddle. As with Les Petits chevaux, Noa was also a master of the matching game where he won every time except once when we tied. Each time he found a set of cards, he announced, “Mamie, look! I found another one! Je suis un beau gosse !” which made her giggle because essentially, as she explained later, what he was saying was, “I’m a stud!”
A flamboyance of flamingos
I learned some more “popular language” from Noa’s remarks during these games. Being so young, he didn’t understand what he was saying, but I knew some of it had a more mature meaning when Chantal or his father would correct him and ask with a shocked expression, “Where on earth did you learn that?” I’m finding that it wasn’t just my siblings and I that picked up the particular phrases from the TV or the street that confounded our parents: this method of language acquisition seems to be universal.
un paon
Another means of education in both the States and France is to visit animals at the zoo. This was one of my first “classrooms” where I learned about the various animals from around the world. In the same way, when I visited the botanical garden in Tours (which is much smaller than a zoo), I learned about the animals and plant life from the plaques throughout the garden and by asking questions. From there, I relearned the name of the paon (peacock) and the poule (chicken) and discovered the origins of the émeu (emu) and wallaby. It seemed a little bizarre at 21 to be figuring this out again. This sentiment applies to just about everything I’m learning in France: I have to learn like a child.
While I’m definitely more comfortable listening to and speaking French since my arrival, I have yet to perfect my interactions with the French. When I approach a native French-speaker and ask them about something basic to the French culture, at first I get a puzzled look (I’m not sure if it’s because my pronunciation isn’t perfect, or they are just surprised I don’t know the answer for myself), then once I clarify that I’m American and I study at the Institut de Touraine, I get one of two responses. The first is more positive and usually includes a story about how the person has visited America, loves American TV (the show “Friends” is really popular in France), or is interested in learning more English. The other is not quite as receptive. It entails either a political discussion asking where I stand with the current President (because in France, politics are always fair game), or being generally closed off because I’m not French. This happens much less frequently.
After asking around for some general stereotypes of Americans to see what may have provoked these more negative responses, I discovered Americans are frequently perceived as obnoxiously loud people who smile too much, are selfish (especially in wanting everyone else to speak English), and then political tensions get tossed on top of all of it just for fun. I’ll confess to talking loudly in public, being very smiley for no particular reason, and, when I first came to France, I would quickly switch to English in hopes that the person I was talking with spoke my maternal language. Since I’ve spent about 7 years now studying French and I’m still not completely confident in my speaking and listening abilities, I’ve learned it’s unrealistic to hope everyone else who isn’t native to an anglophone country is fluent in English. Learning another language is extremely difficult, which is something I had taken for granted before coming to France.
La grande roue at Pont Wilson
In other news, I’ve since passed the DELF B2 proficiency exam and received my level B2 diplome (certificate)! I still have a lot of work to do in French, so I’ll just keep learning like a kid and enjoying the few weeks I have left!
Takaari for sale in an alley in front of the institute
Though Nepal is a country of diverse peoples (which means many different types of foods!), one might think of daal bhat as a very ubiquitous Nepali dish. Daal bhat translates literally into ‘lentils’ and ‘rice,’ but it’s often much more than that. Like in many South Asian countries, daal bhaat in Nepal includes other sides to complement the lentil soup and rice, including a seasonal vegetable (takaari) mix, pickles (achaar), and a leafy green side, or saag.
Saag for sell
Which brings me to saag. Saag generally means leafy green vegetable, but actually there so many different types that it’s hard to keep them straight. Chinese leafy greens, mustard greens, spinach…. The list goes on.
Dinner at my house
At my homestay, I’ve found my favorite are ‘pumpkin greens.’ First things first – Moona, the wife/mother in my homestay family, is an amazing cook, so anything she cooks is to die for. (One of the first things I learned how to say without even having to think about it was mito cha! – it’s delicious!) However, I’ve found that despite all being greens, there are definitely differences in the texture and eating experience of the different saags. In my opinion, pumpkin greens just can’t be beat. Mixed with the achaar, bhat, daal, and curry dish, they add the perfect texture and taste to the whole experience, and I just can’t get enough of them. I haven’t yet eaten with my hands this trip, which is the way my family and many Nepali people eat (and which some claim to actually change the way the dish tastes), but I plan to try that soon.
Pumpkin greens cooking on the stove at my homestay house
To prepare pumpkin greens, you must first tear off the fibrous outer layer of the stem as you break it into smaller pieces. The first time I saw Omkar, the husband/dad in my homestay family, doing this, I asked to help. For every one of the sections I did, Omkar had done three, but it was still nice to be able to help and learn how to prepare my favorite greens.
Takaari seller going on his way
I am going to miss daal bhat (and especially Moona’s cooking) so much when I am back in the states, but luckily I recently bought a cookbook to bring back with me. Hopefully it won’t be long before I’ll be replicating some flavors of Nepal in South Bend, IN.
