I was told to wake up at 9:00, take a shower in the morning
(which is weird for me, but no way was I staying up longer that night), and
everyone would have breakfast at 10:00.
But, because I’ve been waking up at 7:00 at the latest
(except for last Saturday I slept until 8:00. I was tired, okay?), I just got
up at the usual time and snuck downstairs in my pajamas to the shower. I was so
sneaky that Colette, who was in the kitchen right next to the bathroom, didn’t
even know I had taken a shower because I didn’t wash my hair.
I have to complain that the French don’t use washcloths.
Thankfully, Colette gave me one for her house. Arrgggg! So, if you go to France, take a washcloth or two!
Then, Colette gave me toast and these things that are like
biscotti, but very plain and not as hard. I like them with jam…I thought I’d
just dunk them in my tea, but they need something. You know, now that I think
about it, they would be great with Nutella.
Then, I helped Colette a little bit in the kitchen. She was
finishing up making 8 cakes (and pies) for the party that afternoon. So, she
had me use the hand mixer and mix up the batters. And we had another
“conversation” about cooking. Why do the French people think it is so necessary
for women/girls to learn how to cook? She asked me if I cooked a lot. I
answered honestly “No”. Sure I cook, but I cook like an American: I buy frozen
things and warm them up in the microwave and oven, mostly. I can make pastas
and things from cans. I can do brownies and cookies, pancakes and waffles…as
long as there are directions on the box/package, I’m good. But cook like the
French…ummm…no. I can’t just say, “Oh, here is this and this and this and I can
throw them together and make this for dinner. No; I cannot cook like my great
grandmother (or so I imagine from what I’ve been told about her).
“Oh, you need to learn! You need to know so that you
can cook when you get married!” she says.
Okay, number 1: who says I’m ever going to get married?
She’s still single. Number 2: Men can cook too! I know that it’s weird for you
to imagine, but they do!
But I didn’t say that, because I am a good girl and a polite
person. I just listened as she talked about Marie having problems cooking
“too”, but she is getting better. And I just nod when she says that I need to
learn how to make more than just pasta and chocolate cake. “You need to learn
how to cook vegetables! They are healthy.”
Sure…in my house, to make vegetables we go downstairs, get a
package out of the freezer, and then throw it in the microwave. I’m pretty sure
that I can make an American salad and chop up carrots too. But, whatever.
Then, everyone flowed into the living room. Marie, Emilie,
and their mother messed with their hair (there wasn’t an outlet in the bathroom
for the hairdryer, so they had to use it in the living room) and makeup. It
became a hectic place, so I just sat down on the couch and read from “The
Magnificat”, because I finally figured out that we were going to Church, and I
knew that I wouldn’t understand much there. Marie was kind of excited when she
saw it. “My mom has one in French!” Seriously, it was cute: she had to show her
mom my version, but her mom wasn’t very interested. And I didn’t see her ever
use a French one. Maybe she kept it at home…
It took quite a while for Colette to get ready, so I was
actually done and sitting there after everyone except her and her brother had
left. And she drove us really fast to Church. Her brother was late. I’m not
sure why he thought he should mow the grass at 9:30 when Mass started around
10:15.
That’s another thing: did they think I wasn’t going to Mass?
Because there is no way that we would’ve gotten to Mass if we had breakfast at
10:00.
And I was right: I didn’t really understand anything during
Mass. I knew what was going on. There was only a tiny bit of Latin sung (less
than we do at my church). And, true to form, all of the songs were WAY too high
in pitch. Oh, Catholics. We need more Tony Andorfers.
And I could tell that the family, other than the grandmother
and Emilie, was into the Mass. The other people who came (friends of the
grandmother) seemed to be more…I don’t know the word…taking the Mass seriously.
But the family was there because of the grandmother, you could tell. Phones
were being sneaked out to text. People left to make phone calls in the middle
of Mass. No one knelt during the entire Mass, so I pretended I was back at St.
Vincent’s and standing in front of the microphone…bowing when I am supposed to
do so.
It was disappointing how it wasn’t as reverent as back home.
No kneeling. A lot of people fidgeting, dropping things, leaving and entering.
I can understand that it can be boring, but it’s in their language! Imagine how
the homily was for me! And it was not
a short homily. After everyone received Holy Communion, they sat down and then
we sang another song. And those are probably the main differences. Oh, I
forgot: the priest would actually stop the song and make us sing it again if not
enough of us were singing. You go, Father!
Except…I can’t sing that high and I don’t think I was pronouncing things
correctly…Seriously. We need more Tony Andorfers around the world.
After the last song, Colette had me go with her. She rushed
us to the place for the party again because she needed to do some more things
before everyone else arrived. She and Evie set up tables for the aperitif
(drinks and appetizers) outside while I carried in the completed pies and cakes
to the kitchen.
Then the party began: people who attended the Mass with the
family arrived first with the family members. Commence Operation “She’s the
American Staying with Colette; I’m from Indiana in the Mid-West, I’m Here for
Three Weeks; One More Week to Go; No I Don’t Speak French Very Well”.
And the party was like an American party for me: lonely.
It’s hard for me to socialize for so long. And this party lasted from 12:30
until 6:30. It’s hard for me to keep talking with people who tend to ignore me
after a while. I don’t like to insert myself into conversations…it’s hard. And
there have been times when I’ve said something, people looked at me, said two
more sentences, and then either closed their stupid little circle off from me
or walked away entirely. And people wonder why I hate parties with people my
own age in America. I hang out with my family, y’all, and I’m proud of it…because
I get so sick of trying.
I miss them.
Now, I’m in a different country. Throw in the fact that I
was tired and I don’t know complicated French of the elderly (the majority
there) or the slang used by the younger people there and Marie is stuck with
keeping me happy. She will be remembered in heaven for that. During most of the party, she would explain who is who...if she knew...and we talked about everything and anything we could think of: our families and our traditions, French and English words, the fact that I can't remember whether to use "connaitre" or "savoir" (they both are verbs "to know", but "connaitre" is to know, like, a person, and "savoir" is to know a fact) and she has problems with "to make" or "to do" because it is just "faire" in French. We talked about her cousins; the fact that her grandmother had six children, but only has five grandchildren. The huge, 15-ish year gap between me and my older siblings. How I love Harry Potter...and I had to say his name with a French accent or she didn't know what I was talking about. How the Harry Potter books are much better than the movies, and the French version had to change the name of Hogwarts because they can't pronounce it very well. How my older brother was in the Air Force while I was growing up and it was really hard for me. Just...everything.
No: it wasn’t that
lonely. I was okay, especially when the party just got started. People came up
to me and asked me the same questions (see the operation name above). And some
people actually knew about Indiana and could speak a little English! So
exciting! One guy was like, “What’s the capital”. I smiled at the silly
question, because Indiana’s capital is really easy to remember, “Indianapolis”.
“Ah! Les voitures (cars) qui…[ I didn’t understand him]…” And he lifted his
hands up like he was at a steering wheel. “Oui!!!” I replied, beaming. “Indy
500 races!” I was, and still am, so impressed. But, then
again, there are a lot of racecar
drivers from around the world who go to Indy…I think. I must confess, I don’t
watch it. But I know what it is!
Yes: we were eating pretty much the entire time. Still think
that the French don’t eat a lot? You eat from 1:15 until 6:20 and tell me that
you are still hungry.
So, I took some pictures from before the party. This is what
the main room looked like. I sat at the table on the right in the back:
It’s always so nice when people spell my name right. The
French way to spell it is “Alyson”. But they didn’t forget my extra “L”!
Another fact about my name: I actually forgot to pronounce it the French way
when I was introducing myself one time. Marie was right next to me and
pronounced it the correct way: “Al-EE-Son, avec deux [2] “L”s.” So, if you want
to pronounce my name like the French, say my nickname, but then change your
mind and say my full name.
I don’t know if it’s going to be weird or nice to hear my
name pronounced correctly when I get home. Maybe both…
My name card:
My place settings: two glasses for water (the bigger one on
the left) and wine (on the right), but I stuck with apple juice. Those origami
napkins were so annoying. They didn’t want to stay folded correctly.
Yep: I rinsed and dried every single one of those champagne
glasses: all 60 of them.
Then, the aperitif started. We all went outside, and I’m
like, “Oh, crapola. They are going to make me drink alcohol. I hate alcohol. God, please don’t have me drink this champagne. Maybe I can fake it.
Maybe I’ll try one sip without spitting it out and just hold a glass of poison
the rest of the time.”
Not to fear! The juice that Evie (remember, friend of the
family? She’s about my age, I think) made the day before was also sitting out
there, so that the really little kids (under 8) could drink something in the
glasses and so that everyone didn’t have to have too much champagne. So, I wait
a little while, and snatch a champagne glass filled with delicious juice. “Thank You, Lord! I may look like a sissy
to these people, but I don’t care. If I’m going to be forced to drink, I
don’t know how much I can handle, and I’m not going to get drunk here
without my mother or sisters.”
And Marie noticed, of course. But she said it was okay. She has a friend who hates alcohol too. So, I'm not the only person on this planet. Someone here in France hates it too.
What were the appetizers? They were bite-sized…like dough
with either salmon, cheese and ham, or pizza on top. And they were good. It was so hard not to take half of
each pan. But “No, Allyson. You know that the French eat too much. I know
you’re hungry, but before today is over you’re probably going to have eaten too
much. Just forget what’s on the table. “Ignore the Man Behind the Curtain!”’.
On top of the tables inside, there were little bowls with
pink roses floating in water. So I thought that the other bowls just had pink
rocks in them. Yeah…pink sugar rocks. I was surprised when I saw people eating
them. They turned out to be pure sugar. They weren’t that great. They helped if you tasted something you didn't like on your plate. But other than that, they weren't that wonderful.
The roses in water that Colette’s sister put together: is it
just me, or does the grandmother’s favorite color have to be pink? It’s pink,
right?
The table that I sat at was the “young-people’s” table: I
sat with Evie, Marie, Emilie, and their cousins, Fredric and Simon. Everyone
was in their twenties at that table. And everyone talked in their slang French.
So I didn’t understand anything. Yeah, put Allyson with people her own age.
She’ll be fine. Sure…except for the fact that young people don’t speak
“correct” French. It’s even more complicated than English slang! They cut their
words in half and switch them around! So, “merci” is “ci-mer”…I think. I could
be wrong! But it’s something like that! In English slang, we just shorten words
and emphasize syllables! Putting me with them was an incredibly stupid move, in
my opinion. Now I didn’t have any way to insert myself in the conversation,
because it was like they were talking in a different language entirely.
So, I’m sitting there alone, and I get summoned across the
room by Colette’s brother…the picky, bossy one. Apparently, we (the young
people) were supposed to open all of the wine bottles. But…I’ve only opened
wine once before that day. But, whatever. He learned quickly that I was going
to have trouble. I still think it was rude, though. Just because I was willing
to help the entire previous day does not mean that I am obligated to keep
helping during the party. I am a
guest. But, whatever. It was fine. I got to sharpen my wine-bottle-opening
skills…like I’ll use them a lot. Me: the person who never drinks.
During the time when
we, young people, were opening the wine, the priest was saying a few words. It
was a little funny how the father would say something and then all of a sudden
“POP!”: one of us had opened a bottle. “Sorry! This guy is making us open them
all right now!”
And, later, he came around and was mad because we weren’t
drinking enough. After all, we had opened the bottles of wine. And he paid for
them. We should be finishing those three bottles. And no one else is drinking
enough, either. “AREN’T DRINKING ENOUGH?!!” I screamed at him in my head. “I
DON’T LIKE ALCOHOL! Who Freaking
cares if no one is drinking “enough”?! So, put the corks back in the flippin’
bottles. You drink the rest! It seems like you’re the one who
needs it!” Then again, maybe he’s one of those people who get extremely mean
when drunk, you never know…
But I didn’t say those things, because I am a nice person
and a really good guest.
The entrée was salmon loaf, carrots covered in herbs and
vinegar, and two different kinds of “salade”s, which is really pasta salad or
rice salad with cold cucumbers and tomatoes, covered in vinegar. And I couldn’t
finish my pasta salad or carrots, as you can see below, because I hate vinegar.
I shouldn’t have taken anything. The main dish was beef or…turkey, I think…with
potatoes. And the beef, as you can see below, isn’t really cooked. Apparently,
they all like it rare. Disgusting. The picture below is my plate when I am
finished.
And right before this entrée I didn’t enjoy, Colette’s
brother comes over again and tells me that I can sit on the other side of the
table because two people never showed up. I appreciate the thought…at least,
we’ll assume he wanted me to move in order to hear everyone at my table better,
but I said “No.” And I had to refuse three more times before he let it drop. We
can say that he was being nice, but I think after a while he wanted to be
controlling and he wanted me to be French: always talking. But I can’t
communicate with these French young people who are talking in their slang and I
don’t relate to them. Besides, I didn’t want to sit by Evie, who was smelling
particularly bad that day.
Because the French people don’t
wear deodorant. And they smoke. And Evie smokes a LOT. I think she had 4 or 5
cigarettes the entire party. She had to go outside to have them, but still…she
smelled horrible. And when she wasn’t smoking, she seemed to have to hold one
in her hand. She has a problem. Actually, be warned. It seems like most people in France smoke...a lot. I just got lucky when I was assigned to Colette, who doesn't smoke.
Then, it was time for cheese and bread. It was at this time
when I figured out that I do not like camaberet cheese.
After, there was a PowerPoint, that Emilie, Marie, and
Colette made. They remade a popular French song with lyrics pertaining to their
family and their grandmother. I wish that I knew exactly what we were singing.
Then, we saw pictures from their grandmother’s past. She had
so many siblings. At first, I thought
it was a picture of her class, but no. That small army was her entire family
when she was young. And it was interesting to see pictures of Colette when she
was younger.
Finally, it was desert time. Actually, I'm getting ahead of myself. I must talk about the birthday cake and the candles being lit. And the song. I'm thinking, "Okay, what does the French song sound like?" And they start singing the English version! Except, when they got to the part when we say "Happy Birthday dear Grandma" they didn't say that. They just kept singing "Happy Birthday, happy birthday. Happy Birthday to you." Wow. What an annoying song you have to sing multiple times per year. We need to teach them the whole song sometime.
So many to choose from…I picked
Colette’s lemon pie (which was a little burnt, but still good), Colette’s
chocolate cake (which the French say is pie, but it’s not, okay?), a little of
Marie and Emile’s mother’s raspberry cobbler-like dessert, and I had to try the
tiramisu that I had helped make, of course.
All the deserts that I had were really good. I had to get
used to the pure coco on top of the tiramisu, though. It would’ve been better
with some other kind of chocolate on it, I think. But it was still good. I
finished dessert, I promise!
Then, at around 6:20, everyone is getting ready to leave.
And the kissing on the cheeks begin. I can’t help it: I’m American. It’s not
that it is weird, but it’s just too much to have dozens of people give me
kisses on the cheeks when I hardly know them or don’t know them at all. And
they don’t know me! They would say “Avoir”, give me the two kisses, and then
ask who I was! TOO WEIRD! Why can’t they give kisses only to people that
they know? Whatever. The French are weird.
So, I had to wash my face twice both Saturday night and Sunday
night, because my face felt sticky and gross from all those kisses from old
people and touching of cheeks from the younger people. The younger crowd has
decency to just kiss the air next to my cheeks, but our cheeks still touch and
it’s a little gross after the third person. I felt like I was wearing
everyone’s sweat, makeup, and a few people’s saliva and lipstick. I like the
American way: let’s just shake hands and be done with it. Please. Maybe it’s
because I’m half German. Don’t touch me if you don’t have to. Please, I’m
begging you.
But, we have to remember that the French would rather kiss
cheeks than give hugs…even the crazy half-hugs that we Americans give each
other. It would be awkward for Marie if I tried to give her a hug. She would be
majorly uncomfortable. Just like I’m uncomfortable having her grandmother’s
second cousin once removed giving me kisses on the cheeks before knowing my
name…yeah, I think my weird-level is higher than her’s would be. My
grandmother’s second cousin once removed wouldn’t hug her if she visited. Just
sayin’…
I went home with Colette’s uncle, Raymond, and his wife.
They were super nice. And he is the best driver I have ridden with: not
aggressive and not in an extreme race to the next place. I almost forgot I was
in a stick-shift.
I got home, took a much needed shower to wash every kiss and
sweat and grime off of me twice, and wrote Saturday’s post on Word because the
internet is not working here. Then, I went to bed with plans to go to school
early the next day so that I could get on the Wi-Fi and do a few things before
class.
Blissful sleep in a bed that was firmer than the last one…
