Foie Gras, French Celebrities, 5000 theatre posters
This has been a summer full of incredibly varied experiences. I hoped on the train from nuclear reactors and caves in Geneva to travel to Provence where Galen's French family lives. His mom was an exchange student with the mother Marie Chantal and lived on a farm not far from where I am now. When Galen was in high school he lived in Lausanne for a year with Marie Chantal who is as close to him as an aunt.
We rolled up on our bicycles, packed for our tour and were greeted at the house by kisses and hugs. Three kisses from the Swiss, two from the French. The house matched the Mediterranean colors apparent everywhere, the shades were periwinkle to match the grey green leaves of the olive trees and the warm beige stones. The house seemed huge, large enough to fit the entourage that is staying here. Three French actresses who are performing in Avignon as part of the biggest theater festival in the world stroll around in their pajamas, hair down and make up removed. The daughter of one of the actresses is here with her four children including Kiera a little girl who loves to give stones as gifts, Keiren who loves his new sword and drawing Jedi knights, Keliana who wants to be a math teacher and Alana who dreamt about the same boy for 30 days in a row even though she detests him.
French is thrown around fast and furious but this is the most interesting kind of immersion. I learn the language as fast as I can so I can understand Serges' stories about the history of the towns we see, and the actresses' inside views on the festival. Of course I'm barely understanding enough to help with the dishes, my new favorite activity since it's something that at least makes sense to me in English. Galen's new name is mon petite babelfish since he translates for me whenever the topic of the conversation sounds too interesting to miss. For the most part I just listen and learn and everyone is exceptionally understanding about my inability to pronounce the French r, and my tendency to indicate the past tense by waving my hand behind my shoulder as if to say yesterday.
I also continually throw in pronouns and conjunctions from Spanish that may or not be intelligible but my good attitude about my own ineptitude seems to keep everyone from mocking me.
We traveled to the festival to meet the actresses after their show was over and rushed through the streets to a restaurant. I can barely keep up with the Parisians as I'm entranced by the posters plastering the beautiful old walls of the city. There are over 500 plays in the festival and attempts to grab the attention to fill an audience results in a city filled with posters and flyers. I joke that in Vegas they hand out stripper cards as aggressively as Marie Chantal is handing out cards for the women's play. I think I like France better.
The restaurant that we arrive at is everything Paris Las Vegas would like to be but just can't match with its stones and plants aged by paint instead of time. We walk into a brightly-lit patio, filled with trees, lights and waiters running from table to table. The lights are especially bright because they are filming a famous actress for TV as well as a man on an old bicycle who is weaving among the tables.
I have a hard time taking my eyes off the spectacle to read the very expensive and fancy three course French meal. The men order an entree and main dish. All the women get a main dish and dessert. Galen and I laugh since he earlier proposed that women use chocolate as a replacement for fulfillment in relationships.
We stare at each other wide eyed across the table. I'm confused by the menu, slightly embarrassed for ordering something only offered at lunch time, blown away by the price that would have fed me for a week in Morocco and wondering just how I ended up at a table filled with beautiful French actresses. Three more women join us. One has bright red curls, tied dramatically into a bun when she sits down. Her giant diamond ring flashes in the movie lights as she reaches for bread and wine. Another women sits down and Marie Chantal whispers in French that she is a very famous French singer well known in the 60s. They kiss our cheeks, I sheepishly say Enchante and laugh at how many beautiful women just kissed Galen who knows enough French to flirt with them.
The woman who we saw being filmed when we walk in comes over to say hello. I find out later from my babel fish that there is tension between the actresses because her show in Avignon is selling out even though she used to be less respected in Paris.
The loquacious red head tells Galen across the table that she is quite timid and even though I don't understand her French well I certainly don't agree. I'm the silent one, soaking it all in, giving Galen oh my god how did I get here looks.
I'm glad that at least I brought the Patagucci dress that my mom mom helped me fix up before we left and not my chaco sandals.
The food is amazing, the zucchini perhaps the best Ive ever tasted. Serge, Galen's French father, insists that we drink more wine as it is good for bringing people together. I don't drink in the states and drink the glass very slowly to avoid a obligatory refill that I know will make me even less capable of understanding what is going on.
Galen and I decide that the dinner, the experience, the lights, the cameras, the celebrities were worth our 90 dollar dinner without question.
The next day we travel to Avignon again and marvel at street theatre as we walk to the show of the three women. Singers and dancers surrounded by attentive crowds fill every little corner and makeshift stage in the town. Costumed performers wander the streets trying to convince the passers by to pass their evenings inside their theater.
The play we watch is about three women aging and is a series of short sketches. I resign myself to linguistic confusion and focus on the humor. The humor is very physical. In the play the women are 45, 50 and 60 but in real life they are 52, 55 and 65. They are still running around in military get ups, face masks, walkers and strollers singing and dancing with such life and energy that Galen and I can hardly believe their real ages. The women who were so calm at breakfast, talking to me slowly and simply with great patience are now performing at a mile a minute, 15 different characters each by the time the show is over. After the play we head to the Palace and descend to the basement of a fancy restaurant behind it into a large cellar area.
One of the three ladies has a father who is a famous French poet and playwrite. An Englishman informs me that her father just won the French equivalent of the Tony and that his works are so magnificent that he was inspired to move to Paris to act. I sheepishly explain that although Ive been living with her for four days did not understand that until he arrived to explain it in English.
She is singing songs composed with the lyrics of her fathers play. Although the words are hard for me her expressions, her comic timing, her rhythm emotion and voice are amazing. It hardly matters that I'm missing a few of the jokes because I can tell she has true talent. The pianist that accompanies her sings as well. I tell the pianist later that although I can't understand the words I could understand the music and that it was beautiful. Only later does someone inform me that she was the composer of all of the songs.
This reminds Galen of our experience earlier that day in an art gallery. He helped me translate the descriptions on the wall about how the artist cannot know exactly what their art holds and that it is up to the observer to add interpretation to the art. He starts talking to a woman about how much life is in the sketches and they banter about the art. I listen attentively and can tell just by the expression on his face when she tells him that she is the artist. She pulls out rolls of sketches and I think she is trying to sell one to Galen as I can understand that he is saying we are on bikes and cannot carry them even though they are beautiful. We leave and he is silent, thoughtful, like I haven't seen him before. I feel badly for interrupting my babelfish to see what was said. She has offered him a free picture because when she was young she had no money for art and loves it when the young are interested. She decided to become an artist because she had no money for art and had to create it herself.
I tell Galen that he is certainly cabable of carrying some art back to our house here and that it is a silly reason to refuse a genuine offer. We turn around, pick out a sketch of a womens back and carefully carry it home on our bikes.
Every day here is filled with jewels of experiences, with good friends, with laughter, with fresh produce from Provence and huge family meals. As everyone keeps saying, we have lots of time. It's vacation.
We rolled up on our bicycles, packed for our tour and were greeted at the house by kisses and hugs. Three kisses from the Swiss, two from the French. The house matched the Mediterranean colors apparent everywhere, the shades were periwinkle to match the grey green leaves of the olive trees and the warm beige stones. The house seemed huge, large enough to fit the entourage that is staying here. Three French actresses who are performing in Avignon as part of the biggest theater festival in the world stroll around in their pajamas, hair down and make up removed. The daughter of one of the actresses is here with her four children including Kiera a little girl who loves to give stones as gifts, Keiren who loves his new sword and drawing Jedi knights, Keliana who wants to be a math teacher and Alana who dreamt about the same boy for 30 days in a row even though she detests him.
French is thrown around fast and furious but this is the most interesting kind of immersion. I learn the language as fast as I can so I can understand Serges' stories about the history of the towns we see, and the actresses' inside views on the festival. Of course I'm barely understanding enough to help with the dishes, my new favorite activity since it's something that at least makes sense to me in English. Galen's new name is mon petite babelfish since he translates for me whenever the topic of the conversation sounds too interesting to miss. For the most part I just listen and learn and everyone is exceptionally understanding about my inability to pronounce the French r, and my tendency to indicate the past tense by waving my hand behind my shoulder as if to say yesterday.
I also continually throw in pronouns and conjunctions from Spanish that may or not be intelligible but my good attitude about my own ineptitude seems to keep everyone from mocking me.
We traveled to the festival to meet the actresses after their show was over and rushed through the streets to a restaurant. I can barely keep up with the Parisians as I'm entranced by the posters plastering the beautiful old walls of the city. There are over 500 plays in the festival and attempts to grab the attention to fill an audience results in a city filled with posters and flyers. I joke that in Vegas they hand out stripper cards as aggressively as Marie Chantal is handing out cards for the women's play. I think I like France better.
The restaurant that we arrive at is everything Paris Las Vegas would like to be but just can't match with its stones and plants aged by paint instead of time. We walk into a brightly-lit patio, filled with trees, lights and waiters running from table to table. The lights are especially bright because they are filming a famous actress for TV as well as a man on an old bicycle who is weaving among the tables.
I have a hard time taking my eyes off the spectacle to read the very expensive and fancy three course French meal. The men order an entree and main dish. All the women get a main dish and dessert. Galen and I laugh since he earlier proposed that women use chocolate as a replacement for fulfillment in relationships.
We stare at each other wide eyed across the table. I'm confused by the menu, slightly embarrassed for ordering something only offered at lunch time, blown away by the price that would have fed me for a week in Morocco and wondering just how I ended up at a table filled with beautiful French actresses. Three more women join us. One has bright red curls, tied dramatically into a bun when she sits down. Her giant diamond ring flashes in the movie lights as she reaches for bread and wine. Another women sits down and Marie Chantal whispers in French that she is a very famous French singer well known in the 60s. They kiss our cheeks, I sheepishly say Enchante and laugh at how many beautiful women just kissed Galen who knows enough French to flirt with them.
The woman who we saw being filmed when we walk in comes over to say hello. I find out later from my babel fish that there is tension between the actresses because her show in Avignon is selling out even though she used to be less respected in Paris.
The loquacious red head tells Galen across the table that she is quite timid and even though I don't understand her French well I certainly don't agree. I'm the silent one, soaking it all in, giving Galen oh my god how did I get here looks.
I'm glad that at least I brought the Patagucci dress that my mom mom helped me fix up before we left and not my chaco sandals.
The food is amazing, the zucchini perhaps the best Ive ever tasted. Serge, Galen's French father, insists that we drink more wine as it is good for bringing people together. I don't drink in the states and drink the glass very slowly to avoid a obligatory refill that I know will make me even less capable of understanding what is going on.
Galen and I decide that the dinner, the experience, the lights, the cameras, the celebrities were worth our 90 dollar dinner without question.
The next day we travel to Avignon again and marvel at street theatre as we walk to the show of the three women. Singers and dancers surrounded by attentive crowds fill every little corner and makeshift stage in the town. Costumed performers wander the streets trying to convince the passers by to pass their evenings inside their theater.
The play we watch is about three women aging and is a series of short sketches. I resign myself to linguistic confusion and focus on the humor. The humor is very physical. In the play the women are 45, 50 and 60 but in real life they are 52, 55 and 65. They are still running around in military get ups, face masks, walkers and strollers singing and dancing with such life and energy that Galen and I can hardly believe their real ages. The women who were so calm at breakfast, talking to me slowly and simply with great patience are now performing at a mile a minute, 15 different characters each by the time the show is over. After the play we head to the Palace and descend to the basement of a fancy restaurant behind it into a large cellar area.
One of the three ladies has a father who is a famous French poet and playwrite. An Englishman informs me that her father just won the French equivalent of the Tony and that his works are so magnificent that he was inspired to move to Paris to act. I sheepishly explain that although Ive been living with her for four days did not understand that until he arrived to explain it in English.
She is singing songs composed with the lyrics of her fathers play. Although the words are hard for me her expressions, her comic timing, her rhythm emotion and voice are amazing. It hardly matters that I'm missing a few of the jokes because I can tell she has true talent. The pianist that accompanies her sings as well. I tell the pianist later that although I can't understand the words I could understand the music and that it was beautiful. Only later does someone inform me that she was the composer of all of the songs.
This reminds Galen of our experience earlier that day in an art gallery. He helped me translate the descriptions on the wall about how the artist cannot know exactly what their art holds and that it is up to the observer to add interpretation to the art. He starts talking to a woman about how much life is in the sketches and they banter about the art. I listen attentively and can tell just by the expression on his face when she tells him that she is the artist. She pulls out rolls of sketches and I think she is trying to sell one to Galen as I can understand that he is saying we are on bikes and cannot carry them even though they are beautiful. We leave and he is silent, thoughtful, like I haven't seen him before. I feel badly for interrupting my babelfish to see what was said. She has offered him a free picture because when she was young she had no money for art and loves it when the young are interested. She decided to become an artist because she had no money for art and had to create it herself.
I tell Galen that he is certainly cabable of carrying some art back to our house here and that it is a silly reason to refuse a genuine offer. We turn around, pick out a sketch of a womens back and carefully carry it home on our bikes.
Every day here is filled with jewels of experiences, with good friends, with laughter, with fresh produce from Provence and huge family meals. As everyone keeps saying, we have lots of time. It's vacation.
posted by Cammie at 12:24 AM
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