La Soiree Terroir

Last week, Rebecca's students were on break. After they spent the week with their families, they came back to the University, and the College of Engineering had a party called "La Soiree Terroir" (The Regional Party). Students brought foods (meats, cheeses, tarts, cakes, etc.) and drinks (wines, cognac, ciders) from their home regions in France to share with the students and faculty.

When Rebecca was invited to the party a total of 5 times in one day, by both students and the fellow faculty, she was a little dubious.  Was this an elaborate gag? Like the old "pool on the roof" trick?  

Rebecca's class is, like most classes, composed of the geeks, the aloof cool kids, and those that fall somewhere in between... and yet everyone was full of the same intense energy in anticipation of this event.  In our experience, the hipsters of US institutions (be they in high school, college, or other-wheres) do not often attend school functions, much less those that celebrate the diversity and regional pride of the student body. At the University of Illinois, for instance, such a social gathering would not generate the amount of interest that was apparent in the students and faculty here.  Try to imagine students from East St. Louis challenging the Chicago hipsters to a casserole-off.

One confusing exchange took place with her colleague in the English department, Helene. Helene mentioned that the party was a perennially good time.

"Are you going?" Rebecca asked.

"No, I have to teach at 8 a.m. the next day." Helene replied.

"But...it...starts at 8 p.m." Rebecca wondered aloud.

Finally, after some cajoling, "we" decided that it would be a good opportunity to interact with students outside of class, taste some specialties of France, and practice our French colloquialisms at the same time. Around 8, we biked out to campus (the party was to be held in the main hall of the first floor of the Engineering building) and were greeted with this sight:

We were a little surprised. As we moved through the crowd, we were periodically accosted by Rebecca's students recommending, in charmingly slurred blends of French and English, their home regions and the specialties therein. After visiting a few booths, we realized why everyone was so excited about this party. Hint: it wasn't the food.  In fact, quite a lot of the food--which was balanced precariously on folding tables--seemed to be accumulating on the floor.   Apparently, each year, after the food runs out, the party relocates and continues with just the drinks.

After a little hectic wandering and a totally unsystematic inspection of the various options, we tried (shudders) blood sausage with sweet purple mustard (cold; "It's better hot," Rebecca's student told us).  Next, a kind of cake stuffed with pork sausage (in retrospect we should have tried the one with what looked like barbequed duck). And finally, a slice of coconut cake (excellent).   In the meantime we were plied with various wines (from the Loire Valley, Burgundy, Corsica), cider (from Normandy and Bretagne) and an iced Cognac-orange juice mixture (from the South somewhere).  

There were lots of other kinds of foods and drinks that we would have liked to sample, but in the end we were overwhelmed by the incredible number of people, who were becoming more and more boisterous with each passing moment.  One of Rebecca's first-year students who was acting as a reporter and being videotaped came up and tried to interview her.  Another came up and apologized for skipping the last three weeks of class.  Then, students who were not in Rebecca's class began approaching us enthusiastically in garbled English.  Finally, when two young men ascended the stairs to the balcony above and began to disrobe, we decided that it was time to leave.  

The lesson we learned, which we probably should have intuited from the start, is that while these students certainly are proud of their home regions (there was lots of chanting, yelling, and singing), they are also college students: they are young and they like to party. They are not so different from their American, British, German, etc. counterparts.  In the end, rather than offering up ambitious representations of regional France, most of the efforts were put forth in the service of increasing the intensity, silliness, and disorderliness of the night.  Some of the foods were clearly store-bought versions of regional specialties and were of questionable quality.  The wines tended to be very sweet, and the other beverages were mostly fragrant, cloudy drinks that might not appeal to people outside the region of origin.   

But overall, it was a real experience, and it was fun to see what the students are like outside of class.

Paris!

This weekend, Jefe and I went to Paris. Here is a list of all of the things we didn't do:

-go up to the top of the Eiffel Tower (or even go within sight of it)

-visit l'Arc de Triomphe (ditto)

-enter Notre Dame

-go inside the Moulin Rouge

-walk along the Champs-Elysees (not even close)

-eat at the Tour d'Argent (from Ratatouille)

-take a cruise down the river Seine

-admire paintings in the Louvre

-buy cheap souvenirs (this time we brought our own wine key)

-buy expensive souvenirs

-go to French Disneyland

The ostensible reason for our trip to the tourist-trap capital of the world was to attend the french leg of the Bicycle Film Festival. Due either to lack of funding, planning, or volunteers, (or perhaps some combination of these three), the festival was somewhat abbreviated; On Saturday afternoon, Jeff hunted for the bike polo players for a little while, but gave up when he didn't see anyone there, and later, we gathered with about 200 other people to watch a series of short bicycle-related films.

(Inside Le Cinema Racine)

The audience was boisterous and the films weren't bad... The stacks of bikes outside the theatre were kind of fun to look at.

(Everyone clearly brought their A-game...but only one fender in sight)

We went out to see a few other movies (at one movie theater we were ferried across a canal from the box office to the screens). We got to do a good amount of biking around the city (see below for details), but the best part of the trip was the FOOD. We went out to several really good restaurants, and a couple of excellent ones. The first night, Friday, we had dinner at Le Chansonnier (Classic french food: queue de boeuf, cassoulet, roast chicken aux cepes, gratinated potatoes with thyme). On Saturday, we had lunch at Le Potager du Marais (a tiny gluten-free and vegetarian restaurant: curried celery soup, vegetable gratin, cassoulet du mer, gateau aux noix). Saturday dinner was at the Bouillon des Colonies featuring food from the French colonies (hummus and eggplant caviar, lemongrass shrimp with basmati, lamb confit with cumin cous cous). Sunday brunch at Doudingue in Montmartre (tartelette provencal, salmon tartar, and lots of lovely looking glutenous treats such as pain au chocolat and mini croissants). Sunday dinner at the Saint-Germain Mandarin restaurant (lemongrass chicken soup, chicken with basil, and sweet and sour pork). And finally, a cute make-shift picnic in the Luxembourg gardens (goat cheese, yogurt, saucisson, baguette, rice cakes, and fruit). When we next go to Paris, we'll definitely return to Le Potager du Marais.

Now, back to bikes, or Velib'...

In case you don't follow foreign bike news and/or urban planning news as closely as the Jefe, in the last year Paris has introduced the "Velib", a revolution in urban transport. Basically, for a small subscription fee (5 euros for 7 days, or 29 euros a year) you are allowed access to any Velib bike parked at any of the automated Velib rental points (rental points are roughly 300 meters apart throughout most of the city, an incredible feat). The first 30 minutes of your rental are always free, and each subsequent half hour is one euro. Not bad, considering you can get pretty far in 30 minutes.

Rebecca quickly became a Velib' expert. Here she is returning a bike a few blocks from dinner.

Imagine, you walk out of a building to a nearby rental point, type in your information and ride off. You return the bike to a rental point near your destination, do some shopping, eat lunch and pick up a different bike from a different rental point to continue your errands. To us, this is truly astounding. The shear number of bikes available and the ease of use of the entire system seems utopian. And, in accordance with the Utopia Rule, there are a few kinks in the system: sometimes there are no bikes available at a rental point (for instance, right after a popular event, or late at night near bars and restaurants, or for the morning commute into central Paris), or sometimes the ones that are available aren't in very good shape (flat tires, wonky steering, missing baskets, stuck seatposts, bent chainguards; though they do replace and repair bikes frequently), and you have to have a European credit card with a chip (not a magnetic strip--but Ha-ha! Rebecca managed to get hers the day before we left for Paris). Though, if we consider the Velib' as merely one more mode of public transportation to supplement buses and subways, it succeeds admirably.

In order to get the most out of your Velib' rental, you have to know where to go (unless you enjoy dodging tourists around the Pompidou Center and Notre Dame). The best guide to Paris we found is called Pariscope and is often hidden behind the counter at newsstands. I'm not sure why they hide their guides to culture while filling valuable shelf space with pornography...maybe capitalism is taking hold?

Once you have your Pariscope in hand and a good map with a street index, you're ready to go. The Pariscope lists all the exhibitions in Paris, in both major and minor museums and galleries. It also has an index of locations, hours, and prices of museums and galleries. This is very important, there are so many museums and exhibition spaces not even the Parisiens can keep them straight (someone wanted to borrow our copy to look up some museum hours).

First, a trip to the Maison des Metallos for an exhibit titled 400ml. Hundreds of graffiti artists from around the world, made art out of cans of spray paint. Some had merely painted the cans, others went much further...

It says, in French, on the bottom of the can "why is my train always late?"

On Sunday, we went to the Carnavalet, the museum of the history of Paris. We were not so excited by 18th century paintings of Parisiens by other Parisiens, so we went for the exhibit of etchings of the Paris Metro by Akemi Noguchi.

de livrais (delivery)

So, France is great. We have been writing about the phenomenal quality and variety of the food available here, the beautiful and infinitely variable scenery, the relaxed pace of life. In order to be fair, and to demonstrate the occasional absurdities of life here--which even natives must deal with--this post will detail our adventures with various parcel delivery services.

Package #1: Fedex from the US (subcontracted with France Express)
On the expected delivery date, the delivery driver calls to ask where our apartment is, and after a brief exchange in hazy French, as we try to figure who is calling Rebecca's cell phone at this hour and why, we realize who the caller is and that he is only slightly lost, nearby in the street somewhere. When we poke our heads out of the door of our building, he is 100 feet away. He was looking in the wrong part of the street.

Package #2: Fedex from the U.S. (subcontracted with France Express)
Despite the fact that we knew the package was coming, and stayed home all morning in anticipation, we aren't home at the time the delivery person came by on a Friday around lunch (which only goes to show that our cognitive map of the complex nuances that determine whether or not a service will be operational during the lunch hour is wretchedly incomplete). They leave a note under the front door to our building, which one of our neighbors places in front of our door. The note seems to contain information concerning the various agencies that have handled the package, and possibly also the current location of the package, but is nevertheless entirely incomprehensible and contains no instructions on how to have it redelivered. (to be cont'd).

Package #3: DHL from Germany
Delivery driver first rings the wrong doorbell, and then calls. Jeff goes downstairs, phone in hand, to retrieve the package. The guy holds out the delivery slip for Jeff to sign. "What, you haven't brought your own pen?" his expression seems to ask. Well, he doesn't have one either. They walk across the street together (Jeff in his pajamas) into a trendy clothing boutique to borrow a pen.

Package #2 (cont'd)
After checking the status on Fedex.com the Monday following the initial delivery attempt, we realize that they may not try and redeliver it without getting a call from us. We call twice, one time we get transferred to a number that doesn't stop ringing, and the second time no one picks up the phone. Well, since Jeff likes to ride his bike, and we want our package, Jeff decides to ride the 10 miles to the delivery warehouse (in Dissay, which also has a really fantastic 'Disneyesque' chateau). Once there, after a few inquiries and intra-building transfers, he finds the right place within the France Express compound. They happily get his package and set it on the counter, at which point he has to explain he can't take it with him (remember: no car! and it weighs 30 lbs!) and would prefer to have it redelivered.

Package #2 (part three)
The next day, Rebecca wakes up a little early (remember, daylight savings time can do that to you). While waiting for the coffee water to boil, she hears the doorbell ring in the apartment below. "My my, a bit early for visitors, isn't it?" she thinks groggily. Ten seconds later, it's our doorbell ringing. Loudly. She trots to the door and buzzes the guy up, and then changes her mind and decides to walk down (in her pajamas); they meet in the middle.

Miscellany:
In other news, Jeff got this cool wool sweater (to go with the wool hat) for winterbiking:


and Rebecca voted by absentee ballot (still waiting to get Jefe's ballot). After filling it out, she had to find two witnesses to sign the envelope and give their addresses. She felt a little awkward asking the clerk at La Poste to sign and give her his address, but swallowed what was left of her pride. He consented, which is what counts. We also went to a bar to watch a blues band called Malted Milk. Rebecca might have seen one of her students there, but she wasn't wearing glasses so she isn't sure.

She also finished the first painting (which actually consists of six small paintings...

(Rendering of Parc de Blossac in the center of Poitiers)

Finally, as we sit here drafting this blog, we are trying to avoid the scary France Telecom technicians who have invaded the apartment as they sort out the antiquated wiring and bestow internet upon us.

La Cocotte...and other recent discoveries

(The town of Sanxay. Photo taken on one Jeff's bike rides, Just to get you into the old timey mood)

A while ago, when we were furniture shopping at Troc Depot , we took a casual pass through the kitchen section, looking for a tea kettle to go with our Bodum french press (which we brought with us from the US--our priorities are evident here). Well, we didn't find a tea kettle because the area was mostly full of old glasses, plates, and flatware. However, one large, enameled pot hiding among some trinkets caught our eye. The enamaling reminded one of a sunset, with red fading into orange. The color was strikingly similar to our own Le Creuset cast iron skillet, currently in storage in Illinois, and we decided it merited closer inspection. Just picking up this heavy beast was enough to tell us it was a promising find. The telltale name "Le Creuset" molded into the bottom told us we had found another key weapon for our kitchen arsenal. A true pot for the ages...and for only 10 euro($13--according to today's exchange rate!).

(Oxtail with chorizo)

Once we had our wonderful cast iron enameled "cocotte" (casserole dish) in hand, we had more freedom at the farmers market. First to go into our fabled dish was the oxtail pictured in the last blog post. Oxtail is so full of cartilage it has to braise for a few hours (in this case in tomato sauce) before the meat will easily come off the bone. A cast iron pot is perfect for this task, it helps evenly distribute the heat in the oven and the tight fitting lid keeps the liquid from boiling away.

Though we'd made a steal of a pot which normally retails at around $150, we did not yet have our fairytale ending (but this, dear reader, has of course been the resounding theme of all our adventures!). So, the first time our pot went in the oven, we realized the handle of the lid wasn't prepared for oven temperatures (when it started to melt and smoke!); and in trying to remove the lid in order to unscrew the now-deformed handle, we discovered another flaw of our used cookware: the lid was slightly stuck to the pot because of years of caked on "fonde" (the brown sticky bi-product of cooking meat) between the rim of the pot and the lid. Apparently, "le fonde"--given enough time--turns into Nature's own adhesive.

Undaunted, the melting handle problem quickly made it onto what we refer to as "The List" --a running list of things we'd like to accomplish (for reference, we put "finding a new handle for the cocotte" above "meeting the remaining requirements for our residence permits"). Accomplishing something on The List is often a multi-stage project requiring at least two people working in tandem, and this was no exception. Replacing the handle with something ovenproof required a hardware store. Hmmmm...where to find a hardware store? First to the internet cafe to look in "Les pages jaunes". Wait...what's the word for "hardware" in French? Okay, more internet. (Okay FINE, now we realize how much we rely on the internet). So we found a hardware store, and now have a fabulous, fully functional, and still very heavy pot.

(Farmer's Market frittata with vegetables and aged goat cheese)

In one other update, we have found the only known source of painfully hot peppers in Poitiers, and possibly all of France. We neglected to mention that we bought some "hot" salsa a few weeks ago that was basically mislabeled, very bland spaghetti sauce. Luckily, we found some peppers at a tiny grocer advertising asian and african specialty foods. The peppers look much like habeñeros, but taste much, much hotter. Like eating a handful of habeñeros while being electrocuted and grabbed at by the Thing Under The Bed.

Rebecca's students have the next week off from school, so she'll have a little breather before classes start up again. The tentative plan is to take a quick trip to Berlin (hands down one of our favorite European cities) for Halloween. Another possibility is going to Paris for the bike film festival. Speaking of bikes, Rebecca has a bike now! It should be ready by Tuesday--so now we'll be able to go on cycle-outings together...she is beyond excitement.

This post is in loving memory of Lee Baughman, who we will remember as a lively and charming soul, who made every day count. She provided Jeff's first experiences with the kind of large-gathering home cooking to which he will always aspire, and she has forever linked the notions of food and family--particularly the delicious pies shared among Jeff's wonderful extended family, who he remembers devouring steaming, homemade rhubarb, apple, cherry, pumpkin, blackberry, and blueberry pies at innumerable gatherings in rural northwestern Illinois. Jeff would also like to add that it was Grandma Baughman who taught him how delicious rhubarb could be.

residence permits, furniture, parks&recreation, and FreeBox Internet (...Huh?)

Big news--we now have our Cartes de Sejour (residence permits)!!! Okay, well, that isn't exactly true, but we have temporary ones that are valid until Christmas (the real ones are pending our mysterious medical evaluations and the translation into French of a few documents).

So, now that our first (of many) prefecture visits is out of the way and we have our temporary residence cards, we have moved onto the next task on our list: getting internet in our apartment. We left off with the promise of the impending connection in our very own apartment. Turns out, things are not quite so simple in France--go figure! One of our major discoveries here has been that it is only reasonable to expect to be able to accomplish roughly two things every day--one thing in the morning, before the French take their two-hour lunch, and one thing after, before the businesses start to close (around 6pm).

There was a time when we thought about resisting the urge to get internet in our apartment to keep from spending too much time online. But, it turns out that Rebecca could do a lot of the work for her class from home on the internet and being able to talk (via Skype) to people at home is also a BIG plus.

So I (Jeff) stroll into the cellphone store on the ground floor of the building adjacent to our apartment and ask the Sales Associate about the poster advertising "FreeBox," a package deal of Internet + Cable TV + Phone for only 30 euros/month (less than we paid for internet alone in the US).

Associate: Do you have a phone number?
Me: No, that's why I'm here.
Associate: You need to go the France Telecom office to find out what your phone number is before I can give you FreeBox.

...I walk down the street to France Telecom and wait in line for a while...

France Telecom: Address?
Me: 35 Rue Gambetta
France Telecom: Which floor?
Me: Second.
FT: I have two numbers listed on that floor. Do you recognize any of the names listed on these accounts? (since there are no apartment numbers or letters, they can't tell what name goes with which apartment)
Me: Uh, no.
FT: Well, you'll have to talk to your landlord and find out where/when/if these people lived in your apartment in the past.
Me: Great.

Long story short, it may take a little bit longer for the internet...

Now for some good news.

We have furniture, and it rocks: a beautiful pine table to eat at, comfy chairs to sit in, a stereo to listen to, and a bed to sleep in, a fabulous blue couch, coffee table--even a TV (which we haven't turned on yet :P). What more could we want? We've filled up some of the floor space, and now we're working on the wall space. Rebecca took a walk to Parc de Blossac (the large park in the center of town) on Sunday to sketch some landscapes (and some surprises) to paint. We also plan to frame a few of the "ride a day" pictures Jeff has taken (the blog is called A Ride A Day, after all).

The Poitiers Farmer's Market takes place on Saturdays in La Place de Charles de Gaulle. Last week, we did a quickie trip, getting only a few things because we didn't yet have electricity in our apartment (no cooking, no refrigeration), so as expected, this time we bought two trips worth, WAY too much stuff. Well, maybe not, since it all fits in the fridge...

(Fruits, vegetables, eggs, cheeses, cured sausages, a case of assorted local wines, ...

....and an entire oxtail to make "Soupe a la Queue de Boeuf")

The weather has been wonderful, with cool, crisp mornings and warm, sunny afternoons. The leaves are starting to change, and Jeff has been taking advantage with a couple of long bike rides exploring the countryside. He has developed a set of pre-ride map-reading capabilities to make the rides more enjoyable--routes with both low traffic and an abundance of scenic distractions, mostly in the form of old churches, chateaus, castles, and abbeys, which are plentiful in the Poitou-Charentes region.

(an 11th century church in Morthemer)

(one tower of the medieval city in the center of Chauvigny, which is one of the most well-preserved in all of Europe)