Cote du Rhone

Food & Wine Edition, Part I

More than likely, I will […]]]>

Cote du Rhone

Food & Wine Edition, Part I

More than likely, I will post multiple entries on this subject near and dear to my heart : gustation.

In addition to my actual classes (where drinking wine is, at least, frowned upon), I am engaged in a class of degustation de vin.  The course is divided into four sections, or regions: Cotes du Rhone, Burgundy, Bordeaux, and last but not least, Champagne, starting with the foremost.

Our first wine was the odd man out by region, but certainly agreeable in taste, a 2001 Savennieres Domaine Roche aux Moines.  Hailing from the Loire Valley, this white pressed from chenin blanc is flavored with quince and pear.  Its fruit and balanced acidity render this wine as elegant as the crown-embossed, Anjou-style bottle from which it flows.

Next up, we met the “Queen of Cote de Rhone,” the very light and feminine Cote Rotie.  This red made entirely from syrah has a floral nose attributable to the violets added to its French oak barrels.  However, our 2002 had not yet peaked, to quote our professor Joel Corre, it was “criminal to drink before 10 years.”  So much for my clean record.

How better to follow the Queen than by her King, Chateauneuf du Pape.  Crème of the crop, the Cuvee du Baron LeRoy is exactly what you want to spend your winters drinking.  I can think of quite a few hunters back home who would be overjoyed to pair this spicy, rustic red with their freshly-chased game.  After a few mouthfuls (because tasting wine takes more gumption than sipping), its ruby red color becomes mesmerizing.

In natural succession, dessert is next.  You certainly could enjoy this with a crème brulee or caramel tart, but Baumes de Venise is enough to satisfy your sweet tooth without outside help.  The makers of this Muscat, Domaine des Bernardins, ensure it by adding extra sugar.

Chablis & Mussels with a white wine saffron sauce

Fortunately for me, these wines, and the amazing meals I’ve been eating, fall into my student budget, thanks to my program for setting up the degustation class, and my host mother for her delicious cuisine. Every dinner consists of an entrée (appetizer), a plat (entrée), salad, cheese, ending with fruit or a gateau on special occasions. Here’s a glimpse into Colette’s kitchen.

In no particular order, my favorite dishes topping the list are as follows.  Meat/poultry : osso bucco with a rich tomato base, scooping out the slippery marrow to place atop warm baguette, and glazed chicken baked with sugared apricots and caramelized onions.  Mediterranean seafood : mussels in a buttery, white wine, saffron sauce (right), and calamari sautéed in white wine and cognac, which I can proudly say I helped prepare, as evidenced by my ink-stained nails the following week.

As our gorgeous provencal weather has cooled into autumn, soups have become a staple.  Previously finding them either bland or overly concentrated (of course Mama, your crab bisque is the exception), now I become disappointed if I don’t find a bowl atop my Limoge plate.  [I will admit one of my favorite things about eating soup is revealing the beautiful Havilland pattern hidden at the bottom.]  My favorite soupe quotidienne remains soupe de courgette (zucchini); although, one evening, Colette prepared ceppe soup with pâté de canard and truffle oil, which I declared I would be ecstatic eating for the rest of my life.

To conclude this first edition of food & wine, I will add, as a side note, that I have taken up running at least 3 times a week.

Next time: my very own Peter Mayle story–the Crumps visit the Luberon.

Alice calls me.  We met last weekend at an Anglo/francophone soirée held by the multi-cultural department of my university.  She said she would facebook me, though I assumed she wouldn’t; […]]]>  

Alice calls me.  We met last weekend at an Anglo/francophone soirée held by the multi-cultural department of my university.  She said she would facebook me, though I assumed she wouldn’t; our conversation was full of empty promises.  She tells me to meet her in the 7^th arrondissement, three blocks away from the Eiffel Tower.  I arrive early.  She arrives late.  We duck into a stereotypical French apartment dressed in classic architecture.  Alice makes introductions, but the name of her friend escapes me immediately.  I’m distracted as her thick hair falls effortlessly against fragile brown shoulders.  Alice sinks into the opaque sofa and starts rolling a cigarette.  Her friend smiles awkwardly.  I fall in love.  That makes three times today.   

I take a seat opposite Alice in the only other available chair.  It’s a small studio.  The tiny kitchen goes unnoticed upon entering the apartment, even though it separates the front door from the main room, the notable contents of which consist of tan-stained coffee mugs and worn academic paperbacks.  Alice and her friend start talking.  I sit quietly, politely.  I get a vague idea of what they’re talking about.  Alice’s friend asks me if she’s talking too fast.  She is, but I say it’s fine.  They try to engage me, ask me questions.  I respond well to some, stare blankly when posed others.  Alice’s finished cigarette lies neatly on a tiny orange coffee table while she fumbles through a frilled handbag for a lighter.  I turn my head towards the only window.  The Eiffel tower meets my gaze; the sun begins to set.  I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and turn around.  Alice’s friend smiles at me with an outstretched hand; I wish it were empty.  I return the smile as I take the cigarette.  Merci.  I move closer to the window, blow smoke between the modest blue curtains.  Not having smoked in months, I slink back from the window, try to get my bearings.  Alice declares that we’re late.  Her friend asks me if I want to take a quick shower before we leave. I’m sure I’ve misunderstood, though I love how my silence allows the question’s ambiguity to fill the room.  I look to Alice for help, then back to her friend.  They both smile. I smile. We leave.

The subway is hot and wet, but nobody seems to notice.  I ask where we’re going.  It’s a house party close to the Bastille.  I don’t ask what the Bastille is.  It could be a suburb three hours outside the city limits; I’d be trying just as hard to hide my grin.  The car rattles through the tunnel.  We share a beer in silence.  Alice grasps the can with two hands and takes a sip, passes it to her friend, who does likewise before gesturing towards me with the beer.  I take the can two-handed.  My fingers overlap.  The can lets out a little crink. I sip, my nose pressed against the sticky metal top.  The train halts to a stop; doors open.  I feel a tug on my shoulder.  We slip out of the car and climb back up to street level.

    On arrival, Alice tells me it’s Augustan’s party.  I wish I new the name of Alice’s friend instead of his.  He talks slowly, in a low tone.  I half listen, half scope out the apartment.  There are twenty to thirty college age-kids, drinking, dancing, whispering, smiling.  Most occupy the middle of the dimly lit living room, but groups of two or three scatter the narrow hallway, which runs though the middle of the flat.  American pop music blares in the background.  I try to mingle, with relative success.  Most show initial interest; I try to sustain it.  I succeed, fail, start again. 

Alice’s friend introduces me to her boyfriend, Bob.  He’s open, friendly.  We talk politics.  We agree, disagree, no hard feelings.  With heavy eyelids, he asks me to roll him a cigarette.  I feign reluctance, then accept and get to work.  Music blares.  I take out a tissue thin strip of cigarette paper.  It rests feebly in my left palm.  My right fingers mete out an even line of stringy tobacco along the middle of the V-shaped paper.  I pinch the ends of paper together from above with my palm down right hand, allowing my left hand to turn palm up and grasp the ends from below.  My right hand then follows suit, revolving palm up, grasping from below.  I begin to roll, rubbing the ends of cigarette paper between my fingers and thumb, the line of tobacco solidifying into dense cylinder.  The party continues around me.  I feel childish.  Alice’s friend gives me pointers.  I finish.  Bob gives me an obligatory complement before lighting up.  I sit down.  Smoke fills the room.  People keep dancing, talking, whispering, smiling.  I get up, dance a little, talk a little.  I don’t whisper, smile a lot.  More and more kids enter the apartment.  I’m tired of speaking French, tell Alice I’m going to leave.  She tells me the metro is closed, doesn’t open until the morning.  I find Bob, whisper into his ear.  He smiles, hands me his tobacco.  We both light up. 

The apartment is stuffy.  I sit back down.  Someone joins me on the sofa.  He talks through smoke and over music, perspiration on his face.  I do the same.  People start to leave.  I wonder how they plan on getting home.  I don’t ask.  I keep chatting with the kid on the sofa.  More and more people leave.  We keep talking.  He tells me he has to leave.  There are only five people left in the apartment, including me.  Augustan tells me I have to pick the music from now on.  I put on the Chillipeppers.  We all dance.  I can barely stand. 

Augustan takes a phone call, announces something.  We all leave, loiter outside the apartment.  Bob offers me a cigarette.  Augustan tells me how happy he is that I came.  I feign surprise, thank him.  We all say adieu.  I head toward the metro.  My shirt is still moist with sweat, feels like it’s pasted to my back.  My legs are Jell-O.  I think about how good it’ll feel to put my head against a pillow, but my apartment is 35 minutes away by train.  I get to the metro; I’m not alone.  The sun is coming up, its early light outlining the forms of trudging Parisians trying to make their way home.  Descending the metro stairs into the station, I note that they look just as tired as I do; I fall in love, certain it’s just the first time today.

I experienced my first taifuu (typhoon) yesterday! Many Japanese houses (or at least the most recently built ones) have metal shutters which roll down to cover the window, which I […]]]> Hello!

I experienced my first taifuu (typhoon) yesterday! Many Japanese houses (or at least the most recently built ones) have metal shutters which roll down to cover the window, which I am very thankful for because the wind howled loudly and the rain… I slept like a baby, though. Before the taifuu, we were quite worried because the path of the taifuu was directed towards either Nagoya (where I go to school) or Oosaka. It passed us by, but Kobe was damaged a bit.

Anyway, continuing the subject of Japanese language, I would like to talk about women’s language in Japan. During the Muromachi period of Japan, women in court began saying words for things differently for the sake of distinguishing themselves and their social status. They basically used beautification prefixes and suffixes to make words sound softer, more feminine. At that time, women’s language was by choice, but at the start of the Edo period (1603-1867), officials decided to make women’s language law. Women had to use honorific language to speak with their husbands among other ways of sounding more ladylike.

The following examples are lists of how men and women refer to themselves in Japan.

Men: boku, bokutachi/bokura (plural) ore, washi, ect.

Women: atashi, ashi, atakushi, uchi, uchira (plural), ect. [Basically, removing the "w" sound made the pronunciation softer because the speaker uses less muscles and force to form it.]

Now, of course, women’s language is not by law, but there are still some words that are considered unlady like and should not be used in the presence of older people, strangers, and authoritative figures. For example, referring to oneself as “boku” or “ore” (although the same restriction applies to males when using “ore”).

Also, it is rare to refer to other people as “you” in Japan. You generally ask what the person’s name is and then begin a conversation.

See you later,

Joy

So, last week I talked about OLs and how they used gossip to make office work more enjoyable and to create a better working environment for themselves. Just to […]]]> Hello again!

So, last week I talked about OLs and how they used gossip to make office work more enjoyable and to create a better working environment for themselves. Just to clarify, the gossip is effective because if the office of human relations hear about problems between OLs and salaried men, that man will probably never be able to become a manager because he cannot gain the cooperation of only a few people (as opposed to even more if he were a manager). [Clarification is over.]

This week I thought it would be good to discuss Japanese language… And it will be really quick b/c a class will start in here soon!

[Okay, why do my drafts post??? EMBARRASSING! (Or, in Japanese, "hazukashii!"]

Anyway, basically three types of words exist in the Jp language:  kango (words from China), wago (words from Japanese), and gairaigo (words from all other countries). I will only very briefly gloss over kango and wago.

Basically, one can differentiatebetween kango and wago because kango has no hiragana attached to it. What is hiragana? The characters created by Japanese people for sound. There are 46 characters with variations of sound depending on whether certain symbols are added to them: http://www.ivysoho.net/mojimoji/kidsa.htm.

As you should know, kanji the more complicated looking characters used in Jp, was borrowed from China. (Nowadays, Jp people use about 2,000 kanji.) Wago and kango both use kanji, but the pronunciation of the characters hints as to whether the word is kango (Ch origin) or wago (Jp origin). For example (and this is where the fact that this site won’t let me type in Japanese is a problem), The word for sky in Japanese is pronounced “sora,” but when the character is beside another kanji, the pronunciation becomes “kuu” (the Chinese pronunciation, apparently).

More fun though, is gairago, the words from foreign countries because 1. they get their own alphabet called katakana (http://www.ivysoho.net/mojimoji/kidsb.htm), 2. the origins of the words are not specified in any way, 3. Jp has only two consonants side by side without manipulating the alphabet (tsu and chi) so simple words become quite long (sekushuaruharasumento=sexual harassment), 4. the lengthy katakana words are abbreviated and the meaning is even harder to discover for non-native speakers (sekuharu=sexual harassment), and 5. sometimes the meaning is different (adoresu (address) is actually for email addresses only).

Ja ne!

Back-tracking a bit, I want to recount the highlights from the weekend patrimoine.  To encourage cultural exploration, the French government opens official buildings for touring and offers free […]]]> Salut à tous!

Back-tracking a bit, I want to recount the highlights from the weekend patrimoine.  To encourage cultural exploration, the French government opens official buildings for touring and offers free entry to most museums, chateaux, etc. one weekend a year, this year, September 19-20.

Saturday afternoon, Colette & I set off on Rue Celony toward the centre ville, making our first stop at the Pavillon Vendôme.  An exposition of Jacqueline Picasso’s black and white photographs accented the hotel particulier’s 18^th century simple elegance.  With great attention to detail, but nothing overdone, I decided

In front of Chateau de l'Emperi at Salon-de-Provence during the Weekend Patrimoine

 the Baroque Mediterranean city manor and its manicured jardins suited my taste well enough, and inquired to Colette as to whom I needed to marry to become a permanent resident.

We continued down le Cours Sextius, named for the Roman Préconsul Caius Sextius Calvinus who founded Aix (Aquae Sextiae) on a slope protected from the Mistral, just after destroying the Salyen town of Entremont on the plateau above (merci architecture class for the history lesson).  Swooping around the Rotonde, the largest fountain in Aix at its center, we headed down the Cours Mirabeau, its many plane trees shading our promenade.

Bearing south, we entered the newer, orthographic Quartier Mazarin.  Situated at its eastern end near the Rue d’Italie, we visited the Musée Granet’s chronologically overlapping Cezanne/Picasso exposition.  A perfect follow up to Jacqueline’s photos, Pablo’s work exploded into life with giant, inky brush strokes, palettes of bold ochre against violet.  His earlier work, natures mortes in oil and charcoal drawings, were strategically placed next to Cezanne’s, demonstrating their collaboration.  Picasso following Aixois master Cezanne’s detailed technique, at first, before more liberally taking his own turn into Cubism and beyond.

I consider now the next stop, my favorite church in Provence, the Église Saint Jean-de-Malte.  So far, I’ve racked up a half a dozen, with many more to come.  Saint Jean was hosting a wedding that afternoon, one of my other favorite things besides churches.  We lingered long enough to hear the beginning of Stéphanie and Jean-Pierre’s vows, then started toward the Hotel de Ville, where we visited rooms not usually open to the public, and witnessed our second wedding of the day.  Having covered some impressive territory, we stopped in my handpicked patisserie near the Place des Precheurs for some pastries and tea, Colette informing me that my random choice happened to be second only to Aix’s oldest patisserie on the Cours Mirabeau.

After some more wonderful weekend conversation, we began to flâner, one of my favorite French words meaning to stroll leisurely without destination, toward Nouvelle Aix for some leche-vitrine, or window-shopping.  The literal translation means to lick the windows (they’re serious about fashion here).  Initially, my scientific mind was grossed-out by the phrase, until we passed Hermès, and I understood the sentiment completely.  Finally, we met up with Patrick at Aix’s library for a theatrical rendition of Provencal music and history in the time of Roi Rene, bagpipes included.

The next day, Patrick & Colette took my friend Adam & I to Salon-de-Provence, a neighboring town built up around the Chateau de l’Emperi.  Dating back to the tenth century, the castle sits atop a natural stone foundation, making it easily defensible against medieval attacks.  On our walking tour, we noted the Porte Bourg-Neuf, the only structure remaining from the original ramparts, and the beautiful 17^th century Hotel de Ville.

I know I strayed from the original agenda, but I thought a dose of history and culture seemed appropriate.  Perhaps, next time, a little more down to earth : food & wine.  A bientot!

Today’s topic is Office Ladies, more commonly referred to as OLs. The duties of the OLs in Japanese companies are not specified, but they normally fetch coffee and do […]]]> Hello again,

Today’s topic is Office Ladies, more commonly referred to as OLs. The duties of the OLs in Japanese companies are not specified, but they normally fetch coffee and do other menial tasks. OLs are seen as “outsiders” of the company. For example, if a salary man finishes a task, the boss will san “gokurosan,” a form of thanks which implies that it was the person’s duty to fulfill the task. However, when an OL completes her work, she is told “arigatou” which is more like the “thank you” we use.

Earlier, I used the term “outsiders.” Have you heard of one of the many forms of Japanese relationships called “uchi/soto”? Uchi is (hopefully) the kanji for house, and soto is the kanji for outside…and also the first kanji for the term gaijin (an unflatering word for foreigner). Uchi can be many things, but it mainly deals with those who are members of a person’s own group (family, company, ect.). Soto refers to those who are not members of a person’s group.

OLs are usually hired based on looks and youthfulness and it is common for OLs to use work as hunting grounds for a husband. They are also fired after having their first baby. In addition, the OL is paid far less than the salary man and wages are generally stable; however, the OLs’ advantages include being able to watch the desperate struggle of the men as they try to gain better positions in the office, being able to get favors for the men they work with (being treated to lunch and presents from business trips), and the ability to completely ruin a man’s chances of success. How? The power of gossip!

See you next week.

Ja mata.

Fac de Droit

I am spending the year in Poitiers, a small city in Midwestern […]]]>

Fac de Droit

I am spending the year in Poitiers, a small city in Midwestern France.

Most mornings, the sky is as white and as blank as a canvass.  A dense fog hugs the banks of the Clain and scatters the light from departing buses.  Central Poitiers was built on a hill.  As you descend, medieval stonework and nineteenth-century façades dissolve into strip malls and car-dealerships.  Mopeds fly down sloping streets at intimidating speeds.  Heading towards campus, the road is flanked by Kebab shops and Indian restaurants claiming to specialize in “la cuisine tandoorienne.”  From the bus stop, well-dressed students stream towards the Fac de Droit and intermingle with their slightly less polished counterparts from Lettres et Langues.  Against the colorless sky, the university buildings appear a cold, institutional grey.  Students holding cigarettes and small paper cups of coffee linger in the square separating the two faculties.  Just above the entrance to the Fac de Droit someone has scrawled “Grève Général” in sharp uneven letters on the stone (a relic from the widespread student strikes last spring).

My Iberian colocataire and I have an Arabic class at eight o’clock on Tuesday mornings.  She has already been to Morocco and has no problem with the trilled r’s, but I am slightly better than her at distinguishing between [h] and [?].  When it comes to pronouncing [t??], we are both lost.  Walking around the city, you occasionally see fliers put out by the Reseau Contre l’Islamitisation de la France plastered on the glass windows of bus stops.  I have not seen any official numbers, but Poitiers gives the impression of being a city of immigrants, mostly English and West African.   That in addition to the large student population has spawned a surprisingly urban atmosphere in a town of under 90,000.  Bridges and underpasses sport some of the most elaborate tags I have ever seen.  Last weekend, I had the chance to visit La Rochelle, a slightly larger city on the Atlantic coast about 150km to the west of Poitiers.  While I may not have gotten to see enough of it, I was struck by how different the graffiti was from that of Poitiers (regional styles of graffiti?).  I am just now starting to get a sense of the city’s quirks: the fog that does not dissipate until noon, the anti-Muslim propaganda, the street art.  Hopefully in the next post, I will have something a little more anecdotal to share.

            I’m writing from the ever-distant present to inform you that someone has made an incalculably colossal mistake and given me, what seems to be at first glance, complete […]]]> Past Readers

            I’m writing from the ever-distant present to inform you that someone has made an incalculably colossal mistake and given me, what seems to be at first glance, complete creative control over my own blog.  Unfortunately, I won’t be able to warn you in time, you know, being in the ever-distant present and everything.  For even though you’re reading this ‘currently’, feeling the presence of the discourse I’ve left at your disposition, I (the author) am anything but at your disposition.  I’m in the present, while you (the reader) are reading the trace I’ve left behind (this blog entry) seconds, minutes, days earlier.  The proof is right in front of you: the second this entry was published, it was too late; my warning was made useless.

            Don’t fret.  Yes, it’s true that no matter what I add to this blog, I’ll never be able to take you into the present with me, here in Paris.  BUT, I’ll try to leave enough traces behind– stories from abroad, photos, etc. to shorten as much as possible the gap between me, in the ever-present, and, well you.  So, keep up with the blog, and even though you won’t ever be in Paris as a result, I’ll do my best to make it feel like you are.

See you soon.  Well, not me, but you know what I mean.

Ben

A bit of business first : I’m becoming increasingly aware of sounds, as oftentimes I have no notion of what they indicate […]]]> Rebonjour, or simply “re,” as the French students say,

A bit of business first : I’m becoming increasingly aware of sounds, as oftentimes I have no notion of what they indicate due to my limited French vocabulary, and have decided the word “blog” sounds too horribly dissonant to speak—or even type—and will refer, from now on, to my “e-journal.”  Also, I find my thought and speech patterns swirling together into a very distinct “Franglais,” which I will attempt to avoid, but promise nothing.

At Mejean, where we picnicked & I swam in the Mediterranean Sea for the first time

For my second e-journal entry, I considered recounting my typical day in Aix ; however, upon reflection, I realized

 that I have no idea what that is (the language barrier is also forcing me to admit when I’m completely clueless, as I have accidentally agreed to a few things when I did not understand what I was being asked—stories later.)  So, I decided I’d give some details from the couple weeks that I’ve been here.

I left Memphis Friday, Sept. 4, arrived in Marseille Saturday, Sept. 5, and slept Sunday, Sept. 6.  We began orientation Monday, all 27 girls and 2 boys [guess Aix is a bit like Rhodes, ha].  Our week of savoir faire classes came to a close with the grande finale of meeting our language partners over aperitifs in the garden.  I have two language partners—the number of boys I know in France just doubled—and their names are Julien.  Yes, both of them are named Julien.  I always heard that the provençal life was simple.  No, they are very different, very sweet guys, both.  We will meet for at least two hours each week, splitting our time between our two native languages.  The photo from my first entry is of us on the Cours Mirabeau, “the Champs Elysees of Southern France,” eating Pizza Capri (the best) in front of Provence’s esteemed arts patron and medieval ruler Roi René, before going out dancing.  I love to dance, and luckily, so do the French.

With Colette & Patrick (almost) at Mejean

The following morning, my host parents took me to Méjean, a beautiful but quiet port near Marseille.  After some extensive hiking along the seaboard, we picnicked overlooking the Mediterranean.  Everyone who passed said “bon appétit,” a phenomenon I found absolutely delightful and reminiscent of American Southern mannerisms.  Contented with crusted baguettes stuffed with fleshy tomatoes and salade verte, homegrown basil, ham seasoned with herbes de provence, and buffalo mozzarella (Colette is horrified that we eat mozzarella from regular cows), we ate our French peach-plum hybridized fruit on the trek back.  After glistening slightly from the exercise, I decided to take a dip in the sea.  Possibly training for the Tour de France, Patrick went off for another hike.  I alternated salty swims and sketching sailboats in my journal.  Colette and I chatted and sunbathed on stones smoothed by the tide and warmed by the Provençal sun.

Next up: this past week and weekend, including classes & Aix at night.  Ciao!

I am a Rhodes senior & Buckman Fellow studying at the American University Center of Provence (AUCP) in Southern France for the fall semester.  Fondly referred […]]]> Bonjour à tous from Aix-en-Provence!

I am a Rhodes senior & Buckman Fellow studying at the American University Center of Provence (AUCP) in Southern France for the fall semester.  Fondly referred to as “the American Center” (spoken with a French accent), AUCP is

Here with my language partners, sharing slices from Pizza Capri in front of the Statue of Roi Rene on the Cours Mirabeau

anything but American.  It’s strategically located on the Cours des Arts et Métiers, right next to one of the Grande Ecole in Aix.  The upper levels of our buttery, Mediterranean villa overlook the adjoining Parc Rambot, where my friends and I often spend our two hour lunches.

Being a sort of “college town,” Aix is bustling with students, history, and culture.  And fountains.  Lots of fountains.  This weekend is particularly scholastic as le weekend patrimoine, where nearly all the government-operated cultural establishments are free and open to the public.  My French host parents, Colette and Patrick Pollet, are planning to take me to the Musée Granet, le Parc Vendôme, and l’Hôtel de Ville today.  For tomorrow, I’ve heard whispers of visiting a chateau….

The weather is exactly as you’d picture it—as always in Provence—gloriously sunny, in the 70s, & with very low humidity.  I walk half an hour every morning to the American Center from my family’s apartment near Aix’s hospital.  You’d think I’d be slim and trim by now from my daily promenades, but my host mother’s French cuisine has put that notion to rest (foodie details later).  The location is very convenient, about a fifteen-minute walk from the busiest parts of the town.

I’ve noticed so far that my paragraphs do not quite stay on task with my topic sentences…but we’ll attribute that to the combination of my being a science major (so NOT an excuse) and this being a blog (equally poor reason, see the film Julie & Julia.)  At Rhodes, I am a pre-med, Biology major, French minor.  This is like one of those exercises where you try to pick the thing that doesn’t fit out of a lineup.

So, French…my name is French, as my host father jokingly reminds me whenever I dress up to go out, “ohh, Mademoiselle DeLozier, etc.”  Why else?  I love the unexpected abilities of the language, its fluidity & romance that can abruptly spiral into a flood of “fightin’ words,” as we say back home.  The “Art of French Conversation” is a cultural microcosm in itself.  But how does studying fine arts fit with my proposed career as a scientist?

Medicine = science + art.  The scientific foundation is irreplaceable for treating the patient’s ailment; whereas, establishing the doctor-patient relationship remains more artistic.  Differing cultural or lingual backgrounds, subject of education, and physical (dis)comfort are only a few of the barriers that must be overcome when the patient first presents to the doctor.  Communication and understanding are essential to receive an accurate history and discuss necessary tests and treatment options.  What better way to acclimate to the patient’s disarray and dependence than learning to live in foreign place, speaking a foreign language, where oftentimes one feels disarrayed and completely dependent on her new neighbors’ mercy?

Now that formalities have been dutifully addressed, I promise more exciting news of Provence in my following entries, for it seems I shall be chronicling my cultural journey for the next four months.  So, adieu for now, but à bientôt!  And of course, bises for both cheeks.

I had no idea I would be writing a blog… Well here goes…

Hi from Japan/Nihon/Nippon (generally used at sports festivals). I am writing this in a hurry because my favorite […]]]> Hello,

I had no idea I would be writing a blog… Well here goes…

Hi from Japan/Nihon/Nippon (generally used at sports festivals). I am writing this in a hurry because my favorite Japanese singer will be on television this evening/your morning! I have been in Japan for roughly four months, so a lot of the novelty has worn off to simple, warm feelings, but I will do my best to make this interesting for you!

For starters…the Japanese keyborad’s spacebar is very small!

Okay, I will work on distinguishing between publishing and saving the draft next time.

I am studing Japanese, Japanese Culture, Hanga (woodblock painting), and Fieldwork Research Methods in Japan at Nanzan University! My Japanese class has 3 or 4 sessions depending on the day with 4 different teachers! Jp Culture is also fun and we particularly focus on the relationship between language and culture. Hanga hasn’t really began, so I can’t say much about it, nor my Fieldwork class, but I have great expectations for both. School starts late in Japan! I have only been taking classes for a week. ^.^ Now, on to the people!

The Japanese students are very well dressed here, guys and girls! All of the exchange students joke that they will be fiercely disillusioned when they return to America, myself included! Girls wear high heels everyday, even in the rain! Men’s hair is spectacular and they look amazing!! Everyone looks like a model. Here is an example: one day I wore a black pleated mini, otk (over the knee) socks, and a hair bow and my host mother said that I looked plain. Fashion is on a completely different level here.

Well, that’s all for now! I shall try to think of an interesting subject next time!

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