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Home Or Something Like It

10/4/2011

6 Comments

 
Written Sunday, October 02, 2011 (morning)

You know by now that I’m in my town.  And, since you’re already reading this, I’m assuming that you’re probably waiting with baited breath to hear all the details of said town. 

If you imagine in your mind the typical French village, it might look something like this:  a few small lanes of cobbled streets, a bakery (because everyone eats bread), a tabac (because everyone smokes), a café with little chairs inhabited by typical looking French people drinking their Perrier.  Maybe in this petit ville of your imagination there is a a little old man in a beret carrying a baguette, dressed in a cardigan and smoking galouses.  Maybe there is an old square anchored by an old cathedral. 

Such places actually exist in France and are, in fact, more common than you might imagine.  I wish I could tell you that my town is just such a village.  I wish I could tell you that I’m sitting in a café as we speak, being ignored by my waiter.  But alas, sometimes reality is not as glamorous as we might have hoped. 

I realized quite quickly that my town would be remote.  When not even a google search can give you a sense of what a place is going to be like, you know it’s gonna be different than what you’d imagine and probably hoped.  But that’s ok.  Lord knows I’ve gotten used to things being different than I imagined.

My town is what most people would consider post-war.  The buildings, while perfectly nice, are not the ornate decoration one usually associates with France.  Additionally, there’s not really a main square or central meeting point that I’ve found yet.  It’s suburban and there are trees and parks and tree-covered hills off in the distance.  Outside the window of my room is a giant weeping willow. 

One of the most striking features of my town is the predominant, almost exclusive presences of a middle eastern/Turkish/North Africa population.  The French tend to lump these immigrants into one group and call them Arabe which I’m not particularly comfortable with.  Immigration in France, as in the U.S., is a controversial subject.  But the nature of the controversy is quite different.  Basically (very basically), immigrants are the foundation of American society.  By the second or third generation, most immigrants have fully assimilated into American culture.  Their opportunities look almost the same, if not identical to those whose families immigrated much earlier on.  Illegal immigration is the root of controversy (though we know that even legal immigrants, particularly of Latin American descent can bear the brunt of racism).  This is not necessarily the case in France and in much of Europe.  Many immigrants do not assimilate and also don’t have the same opportunities for success as their white, culturally French counterparts. As such, if you look like you’re non-white, life can be harder.  It’s complicated and something I’m still trying to learn about.

While in most towns there is a tabac, I haven’t seen one yet.  I don’t smoke, but the tabac is the easiest place to buy minutes for my cell phone.  There is a market on Saturday that has tons of produce, but also clothes and shoes and knick-knacks.  It doesn’t feel typically French.  But it is a great, bustling market.  You can walk to the multitude of grocery stores which is convenient, but having a car would be useful for getting around (particularly if you want to go over to the next big town over to get a dose of city life and of some typical French life).  There does seem to be a boulangerie, but I haven’t been inside it yet.  

It has occurred to me that you might be curious about my apartment, too.  I’m getting some very inexpensive housing from the school where I’m working.  Which is great. 

Just the fact Ma’am:

My apartment is white.  Actually, they just finished painting it the day before my roommate and I arrived, so you can still smell the paint. 

My apartment is big.  Particularly by European standards.  I was expecting it to be small small small, but it has two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a W.C. and a shower with a sink.  Not too shabby.

My apartment is furnished.  It has chairs in the living room, a TV that doesn’t work, and a glass table with chairs around it.  I have a bed with linens, a dresser, nightstand and bookshelves.  There is a refrigerator, microwave and electric stove. 

There is no oven.

There are some basic cooking utensils and cleaning supplies.

There is no shower curtain (the one thing that is very French).  But don’t worry, we bought one.

I have a nice neighbor.

My room overlooks a giant weeping willow.

My apartment needs decorations.  One thing at a time.
6 Comments
Teresa
10/4/2011 01:28:18 am

It's far more appealing to live in our Beauty and the Beast image of a French village instead of a post war town. Once again we are reminded of the extent that war wreaks havoc.

I'd bet money that there is some good bread in that town but it may not be a baguette. Since you were recently in Turkey and North Africa you appreciate how interesting those cultures are and what great food they eat. Perhaps you'll expand your vegetarian repertoire. What services are the Immigrants providing? Are they laborers? Are most employed?

Interesting that you mention that European immigrants often are not assimilated. I've noticed that same characteristic with Americans and Brits as we have traveled. The US is truly unique with it's ability to suck folks in to our society. It's a gift.
Fameck's demographic is providing an interesting twist on your adventure. Another facet of France to be experienced, one beyond the Cote d'azur.

The apt sounds functional. I can't wait to see photos and what you produce in your kitchen.

XOXOX

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slenderella newman
10/4/2011 02:10:13 am

I'm an Air Force brat that grew up, well, everywhere. I discovered early in life that American isn't really a nationality -- it's a state of mind. If you're one of us, you're one of us even before you get to the states. One of my favorite memories is of how the French people treated my father. He's a WWII vet that went down in a B-17 in France, about 3 miles from the front lines as the Nazi's were being driven out. When anyone who had lived through it found out he flew 35 missions, they would start kissing and thanking him. It wasn't until recently that he started to share his photos and stories with me. But the simple act of saying thank you has given him some peace and solace over the years. My suspicion is that this goodwill is quietly handed down from generation to the next. Luv reading about your adventures!

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Suellen
10/4/2011 04:28:17 am

Katie, I just wanted to tell you how much I'm enjoying reading your travelogue entries! You are a gifted writer and should submit this last one especially to the newspapers! You really do conjure up an image in your vivid descriptions of places.
Keep writing, at the very least maybe someday you will publish a collection of your travel writings, you should!!! Love, Suellen

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Nancy Drewek
10/4/2011 09:25:28 am

Katie,
What??? No oven???? And you agreed to live in this hell hole???? No oven???? How will you survive? What is your plan? Is it too late for your parents to ship their OLD one to France? I know, the plugs are different, but seems like one could take care of that.
Love your writing. Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts. Really looking forward to more!

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Sandy Patterson
10/4/2011 02:37:18 pm

What an amazing adventure!! Not to say it sounds like an easy assimilation but you seem to be one to take it all in and live in the moment, not against it. Again, fabulous writing Katie. I can envision your descriptions so vividly, prior to seeing the pics and yes, please keep on writing. You are very gifted and reading your mom's comment and hearing her speak in meetings, I can see where you get it =)

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Katie link
10/4/2011 07:26:54 pm

My town (and the surrounding towns as well) were industrial towns specializing in the metal industry. Although ours doesn't have an actual factory, some do. And they are still running and have smoke stacks. Very weird. Also, I haven't give up on the oven! I'm hoping for a toaster oven that I can cook in.

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    Katie

    Baker. Traveler. Writer.

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