As I’ve mentioned before, I’m from California, where extreme weather is a few days of rain or a night in the low twenties. I’ve always had a romantic idea of winter: the peaceful snow that blankets the city and clear cold night walks when you can look up at the twinkling stars from a scarved and hatted bundle and then go home to hot chocolate next to the fire. There would be snow days when you could frolic in the snow.
Oh boy, did I have a thing or two to learn about winter.
Perhaps I could have enjoyed the snow if my apartment had a lower ceiling, or a more modern heating system, or if I had the proper clothing for snow. But as it was, the advent of snow in Toulouse meant cold like I could never have imagined. Cold that lasts. Cold that gets into your bones. Going outside was miserable even after I figured out to wear seven layers and gloves because you never can cover your nose and the sidewalks got treacherously slippery with ice. Staying inside was miserable because my heater wasn’t powerful enough to banish the seven layers. Frolicking wasn’t an option during my four snow days because there would be no way to dry off or warm up afterwards if I lost the weak flicker of heat I was able to maintain. I felt paralyzed anew after I had finally gotten some level of familiarity with life in France.
On the up side, the snow and ice did give Toulouse a sparkling, highlighted face, and I did get some pretty awesome photos.
Now, after two weeks of abnormally cold weather, the city has thawed and the sun is out again. The sun already seems warmer than ever, and I will appreciate the coming of spring on a more visceral level than I ever have before.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The English Invasion
I see Toulouse with an outsider’s eyes, and particularly with the eyes of an American. And, contrary to what you might think, the observations that stand out the most to me are not those things that are different. Everything is different. If my brain picked out every single new and different thing I saw when I got here it would have burst into a soggy whizzing mess. (Actually, according to what jet lag felt like, my brain may have tried to identify every difference before quickly realizing the impossibility of that endeavor.) Instead, what stand out the most to me are the flashes of familiarity in this strange landscape, things I thought I left when I jumped continents.
American culture has a definite presence in France. The most obvious examples are fast-food restaurants. There are two MacDonald’s in downtown Toulouse and at least two Domino’s. We do hear about the prevalence of low-quality American chains all over the world in the U.S. though, so I was less shocked and more generally depressed to see it was true when I encountered these restaurants. The same sentiment resurged when I saw how many French restaurants the American style inspired (including Quick and Boum Burger). It really did come as a shock to discover that the popularity of American culture goes further than fast-food restaurants. English words appear frequently in advertisements and cutesy store and restaurant names. The French are prickly about their language – the Académie Française still closely regulates the appropriation of new words – but despite the Académie’s insistence on tradition, the world of marketing has accepted English words with alacrity.
That English appears to the outsider most often in advertising indicates a fascination with American culture that I find exceedingly difficult to understand. To me it’s the presence of history, the fact that you can see the results of ancient tastes and events alongside present life, that makes France appealing. I love the constant acknowledgement of the past. But to the French, old buildings and tradition are only normal. They are proud, and they love their Frenchness, but what’s intriguing to them is America’s focus on the future. I’ve spoken to many French people on this subject, and they all communicate the same point of view. They say things like, “la culture de la France est en train de mourir;” “La France dort;” “Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites ici si vous êtes de San Francisco?” French culture is dying; France sleeps; what are you doing here if you’re from San Francisco? They say France does everything America does, only ten years behind. The same American determination to look forward and be productive and create the future that I find frustrating and artificial they find exciting. And so it is that I see my native language and culture bounced around playfully and used to sell things. It’s more than a little bizarre.
American culture has a definite presence in France. The most obvious examples are fast-food restaurants. There are two MacDonald’s in downtown Toulouse and at least two Domino’s. We do hear about the prevalence of low-quality American chains all over the world in the U.S. though, so I was less shocked and more generally depressed to see it was true when I encountered these restaurants. The same sentiment resurged when I saw how many French restaurants the American style inspired (including Quick and Boum Burger). It really did come as a shock to discover that the popularity of American culture goes further than fast-food restaurants. English words appear frequently in advertisements and cutesy store and restaurant names. The French are prickly about their language – the Académie Française still closely regulates the appropriation of new words – but despite the Académie’s insistence on tradition, the world of marketing has accepted English words with alacrity.
That English appears to the outsider most often in advertising indicates a fascination with American culture that I find exceedingly difficult to understand. To me it’s the presence of history, the fact that you can see the results of ancient tastes and events alongside present life, that makes France appealing. I love the constant acknowledgement of the past. But to the French, old buildings and tradition are only normal. They are proud, and they love their Frenchness, but what’s intriguing to them is America’s focus on the future. I’ve spoken to many French people on this subject, and they all communicate the same point of view. They say things like, “la culture de la France est en train de mourir;” “La France dort;” “Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites ici si vous êtes de San Francisco?” French culture is dying; France sleeps; what are you doing here if you’re from San Francisco? They say France does everything America does, only ten years behind. The same American determination to look forward and be productive and create the future that I find frustrating and artificial they find exciting. And so it is that I see my native language and culture bounced around playfully and used to sell things. It’s more than a little bizarre.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
A World Below
The streets of Toulouse are beautiful. I never tire of peering up at the stained art deco windows or the pointed and crenellated towers built by rich 17th century dye merchants. The sight of many wrought-iron balconies and tall, thin windows gleaming in the afternoon sun is a sight as pleasing to the eye as one can reasonably hope for in one day. Even so, my favorite part of everyday life in Toulouse lies underground: my metro ride.
Toulouse's metro system is clean, efficient, and highly accessible. With a student rate of 10 euros per month, it is more student-friendly than any other city in France. Each station boasts a unique and artistic architectural plan: for example, the one I use to access the train most often has a giant black tree statue made out of shiny black mosaic tiles that reaches all the way up the wall. It looks quite impressive contrasted against the wall's white rectangualr tiles. Another station has an enormous display of glass panels that resemble the heavens as it curves over you above the escalator. Each station is also unique in its particular combination of staircases and escalators and number of floors. The network reaches much of the city, so even without a car I can reach most any part of the city easily. That one freedom makes a huge difference!
The metro is practical and convenient, but it is also a significant landscape in my everyday life. I don't live downtown, so outside of groceries and laundry I take the metro to get everywhere, work- or play-related. It's never a task, however: I enjoy the experience of riding the metro as much as I like the freedom it affords me. In contrast to the chaotic, preoccupied, unfriendly, fashion-obsessed and generally unsatisfying world of human concerns it contains, the system itself is sleek and efficient. Since the rules of polite metro conduct forbid eye contact, touching strangers more than absolutely necessary, commenting on rude sounds and unusual baggage, or asking questions, it's easy (and indeed encouraged) to pretend that world has temporarily ceased to exist. When you descend the escalator to the underground platform, you escape to a world of bright, shiny white tile, steel rails, and concrete tunnels. Once the train has come rushing up, a strictly timed mechanism opens all the doors at once and spews commuters out. A buzz informs those ascending that the doors are about to close and the train takes off, zooming at exactly the prescribed speed. And since the trains have windows and the tunnels are lit with white lights every couple of meters, a passenger at the very back of the train may watch the tracks fall away behind her in long, gentle curves outlined in parallel tracks. She will see a passing train speed away with its human cargo packed in yellow plastic train cars as if they were lunch packed in fast-moving tupperware. She may observe platform after glass-insulated platform arrive and disappear around a twist or rise of the tunnel and imagine she has found order at last.
On every thrilling ride, the time comes when you hear the recording of a melodious female voice announce your stop (in French and then in Occitan, the dialect native to Southern France). The moment of peace and excitement ends abruptly as you fight the inelegant throng crowding out of the car and up the escalator and you surface, thrown once again into the uncertain world of turmoil and decisions.
Toulouse's metro system is clean, efficient, and highly accessible. With a student rate of 10 euros per month, it is more student-friendly than any other city in France. Each station boasts a unique and artistic architectural plan: for example, the one I use to access the train most often has a giant black tree statue made out of shiny black mosaic tiles that reaches all the way up the wall. It looks quite impressive contrasted against the wall's white rectangualr tiles. Another station has an enormous display of glass panels that resemble the heavens as it curves over you above the escalator. Each station is also unique in its particular combination of staircases and escalators and number of floors. The network reaches much of the city, so even without a car I can reach most any part of the city easily. That one freedom makes a huge difference!
The metro is practical and convenient, but it is also a significant landscape in my everyday life. I don't live downtown, so outside of groceries and laundry I take the metro to get everywhere, work- or play-related. It's never a task, however: I enjoy the experience of riding the metro as much as I like the freedom it affords me. In contrast to the chaotic, preoccupied, unfriendly, fashion-obsessed and generally unsatisfying world of human concerns it contains, the system itself is sleek and efficient. Since the rules of polite metro conduct forbid eye contact, touching strangers more than absolutely necessary, commenting on rude sounds and unusual baggage, or asking questions, it's easy (and indeed encouraged) to pretend that world has temporarily ceased to exist. When you descend the escalator to the underground platform, you escape to a world of bright, shiny white tile, steel rails, and concrete tunnels. Once the train has come rushing up, a strictly timed mechanism opens all the doors at once and spews commuters out. A buzz informs those ascending that the doors are about to close and the train takes off, zooming at exactly the prescribed speed. And since the trains have windows and the tunnels are lit with white lights every couple of meters, a passenger at the very back of the train may watch the tracks fall away behind her in long, gentle curves outlined in parallel tracks. She will see a passing train speed away with its human cargo packed in yellow plastic train cars as if they were lunch packed in fast-moving tupperware. She may observe platform after glass-insulated platform arrive and disappear around a twist or rise of the tunnel and imagine she has found order at last.
On every thrilling ride, the time comes when you hear the recording of a melodious female voice announce your stop (in French and then in Occitan, the dialect native to Southern France). The moment of peace and excitement ends abruptly as you fight the inelegant throng crowding out of the car and up the escalator and you surface, thrown once again into the uncertain world of turmoil and decisions.
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