No country is without its problems.
I should care more about my opportunities in life, instead of constantly doing the bare minimum, instead of trying to escape. In the past I have treated my education like a burden, not something to be treasured. I need to be passionate about what I do.
Like it or not, I will always be an American. But that's not necessarily something to be ashamed of; it's my identity.
Learning a foreign language is one of the hardest things I've ever done. So I should have more sympathy for non-English speakers in America.
Trip planning is hard, but necessary and totally worth it.
I can get what I want if I really try.
I can figure things out on my own, even in European cities where the streets are every size and direction imaginable.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
So what if I missed the bus?
No doubt you've heard about the grèves (strikes) in France.
They are frequent, apparent in every French city, and touch almost every facet of everyday life--if there's a strike, you'd better count on a different mode of transportation besides the bus or train, and you may not even have class.
Such was the case on Tuesday this week. There was a massive manifestation (demonstration) downtown, so everyone who could afford to take an unpaid day off gathered in the streets to march for (or against) retirement reform. My teacher decided to march instead of going to work, so I went to check out the manifestation as well.
I have never seen so many people act so nonviolently and yet so passionately for a social cause. There weren't even any police officers present--there was no need for them. Only syndicate workers lined the streets every few blocks, keeping a liberal count of the turnout. Check out my photo album to get an idea of the crowd.
Unlike in America, the people here strike to keep their social protections, not to fight for higher wages. Anyone, even kids, can march in the manifestations. And they do. Teens will often close their own high schools, and not as an excuse to slack off with schoolwork. The French see it as their social responsibility to participate in the strikes. To them, missing a day of school or work is trivial compared to the potential consequences of lying dormant in the face of higher taxes and fewer benefits.
The problem with retirement reform in France is this: people are working longer and harder for later retirement and a smaller monetary reward. Normally, you'd start working in your early twenties, spend 37 years contributing a small portion of your salary to the collective retirement fund, and retire at age 60. But with the high unemployment rates and aging baby boomers, things simply can't continue that way. Because many people now don't start their careers until their mid- or late twenties, they either spend fewer years contributing to the retirement fund, or they are forced to retire later. If you're lucky enough to have a job, you contribute more money to the fund to make up for those who are unemployed and can't contribute. There are also fewer contributers than there are retirees, meaning each worker is basically paying the entirety of someone else's retirement.
The French government has proposed raising the retirement age from 60 to 62 years, with the latest age being 67 (a two-year increase from the previous 65). The length of monetary contribution for workers would be 41.5 years, and taxes would increase from 7.85% to 10.55% in 2020.
France is in a pickle!
But whether you favor or oppose retirement reform, this problem will touch everyone eventually--which is why active participation in politics is essential, even for the kids. As I walked for almost an hour and a half with the citizens of Pau, I was shocked at how natural the manifestation seemed. Despite the impassioned signs and flyers, the drums and horns, the berets, and the issue at hand, friends still greeted each other with la bise (a kiss on each cheek). Store owners stood outside to watch the crowd pass. People snapped pictures. In America, something like this would end in broken glass, fires, and police brutality. Or no one would show up at all, and people would show up at work or school and bitch about how terribly our country is run with other social deadbeats.
Tomorrow there will be an assemblée générale in front of the University. Students will skip class to gather and discuss the retirement problem. Regardless whether a conclusion is reached, the French will continue to show their interest in political issues, and I will continue to take pictures and marvel at how different things would be at home.
They are frequent, apparent in every French city, and touch almost every facet of everyday life--if there's a strike, you'd better count on a different mode of transportation besides the bus or train, and you may not even have class.
Such was the case on Tuesday this week. There was a massive manifestation (demonstration) downtown, so everyone who could afford to take an unpaid day off gathered in the streets to march for (or against) retirement reform. My teacher decided to march instead of going to work, so I went to check out the manifestation as well.
I have never seen so many people act so nonviolently and yet so passionately for a social cause. There weren't even any police officers present--there was no need for them. Only syndicate workers lined the streets every few blocks, keeping a liberal count of the turnout. Check out my photo album to get an idea of the crowd.
Unlike in America, the people here strike to keep their social protections, not to fight for higher wages. Anyone, even kids, can march in the manifestations. And they do. Teens will often close their own high schools, and not as an excuse to slack off with schoolwork. The French see it as their social responsibility to participate in the strikes. To them, missing a day of school or work is trivial compared to the potential consequences of lying dormant in the face of higher taxes and fewer benefits.
The problem with retirement reform in France is this: people are working longer and harder for later retirement and a smaller monetary reward. Normally, you'd start working in your early twenties, spend 37 years contributing a small portion of your salary to the collective retirement fund, and retire at age 60. But with the high unemployment rates and aging baby boomers, things simply can't continue that way. Because many people now don't start their careers until their mid- or late twenties, they either spend fewer years contributing to the retirement fund, or they are forced to retire later. If you're lucky enough to have a job, you contribute more money to the fund to make up for those who are unemployed and can't contribute. There are also fewer contributers than there are retirees, meaning each worker is basically paying the entirety of someone else's retirement.
The French government has proposed raising the retirement age from 60 to 62 years, with the latest age being 67 (a two-year increase from the previous 65). The length of monetary contribution for workers would be 41.5 years, and taxes would increase from 7.85% to 10.55% in 2020.
France is in a pickle!
But whether you favor or oppose retirement reform, this problem will touch everyone eventually--which is why active participation in politics is essential, even for the kids. As I walked for almost an hour and a half with the citizens of Pau, I was shocked at how natural the manifestation seemed. Despite the impassioned signs and flyers, the drums and horns, the berets, and the issue at hand, friends still greeted each other with la bise (a kiss on each cheek). Store owners stood outside to watch the crowd pass. People snapped pictures. In America, something like this would end in broken glass, fires, and police brutality. Or no one would show up at all, and people would show up at work or school and bitch about how terribly our country is run with other social deadbeats.
Tomorrow there will be an assemblée générale in front of the University. Students will skip class to gather and discuss the retirement problem. Regardless whether a conclusion is reached, the French will continue to show their interest in political issues, and I will continue to take pictures and marvel at how different things would be at home.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Gavarnie
Intensive language classes started last week. I tested into the highest level of French offered, so I don't think I'll be bored in class. Exhausting as it is to spend 20+ hours a week sitting in a classroom, the subjects are varied between culture, geography, art history and literature. Very little grammar or conversation work, and only a smattering of homework.
I have been in France for over a month now, and I think I can finally say I have adequately adjusted to Pau. It feels like I left the U.S. months ago, and yet still have an eternity until I come back. I know the day but not the date; I look at my map less frequently; I can follow the conversation at the dinner table. I make preliminary plans for weekends in Barcelona and Amsterdam. After many minutes spent perusing the wine aisle of the grocery store, I buy a bottle of Jurançon, the local white, and make risotto with seasonal mushrooms and emmenthal cheese. I ride my bike downtown to meet friends for a drink. I allow myself to relax and do nothing except listen to rain on the roof.
I caught my first cold of the year on Thursday. It hasn't been debilitating, but my lacking lung capacity and sinus pressure rendered a hike in Gavarnie (2 hours east of Pau) more difficult. Still, Gavarnie was beautiful; its yellowing trees reminded me of Colorado. No spectacular peaks in sight thanks to the low clouds and light rain, but we still spent a good two and a half hours on the trail towards the biggest waterfall in France. And before the hike, we ate duck soup (deliciously salty and just what I wanted) at a restaurant in town. Several tourist shops lined the street leading to the trail, but I bought nothing except a postcard. So has been my experience in France thus far--I've spent lots of money on food, but hardly anything on souvenirs. I'd rather enjoy what I can't bring back to the U.S., such as cheese and soup, and forgo the tacky snowglobes and keychains.
I have been in France for over a month now, and I think I can finally say I have adequately adjusted to Pau. It feels like I left the U.S. months ago, and yet still have an eternity until I come back. I know the day but not the date; I look at my map less frequently; I can follow the conversation at the dinner table. I make preliminary plans for weekends in Barcelona and Amsterdam. After many minutes spent perusing the wine aisle of the grocery store, I buy a bottle of Jurançon, the local white, and make risotto with seasonal mushrooms and emmenthal cheese. I ride my bike downtown to meet friends for a drink. I allow myself to relax and do nothing except listen to rain on the roof.
I caught my first cold of the year on Thursday. It hasn't been debilitating, but my lacking lung capacity and sinus pressure rendered a hike in Gavarnie (2 hours east of Pau) more difficult. Still, Gavarnie was beautiful; its yellowing trees reminded me of Colorado. No spectacular peaks in sight thanks to the low clouds and light rain, but we still spent a good two and a half hours on the trail towards the biggest waterfall in France. And before the hike, we ate duck soup (deliciously salty and just what I wanted) at a restaurant in town. Several tourist shops lined the street leading to the trail, but I bought nothing except a postcard. So has been my experience in France thus far--I've spent lots of money on food, but hardly anything on souvenirs. I'd rather enjoy what I can't bring back to the U.S., such as cheese and soup, and forgo the tacky snowglobes and keychains.
Monday, October 4, 2010
A month
Another rainy day in Pau. I wake up to blowing wind and the sound of water trickling off the roof. Monday has become my day to run errands and get groceries, but today I am sitting in bed with hot chocolate and the third floor to myself while Charles and Magali are in class.
I finally spent enough time at the grocery store last week to prepare a true meal for myself: a great vegetable and chicken soup, no recipe used. As much as I miss health food stores in Colorado, I'm beginning to get accustomed to the brands here. I'm sacrificing some of my dedication to only organic and preservative-free foods, but I'm trying not to let it bother me for now. It's hard to explain the relationship with food in France. Somewhat paradoxically, the difference between French and American eating habits is not so much about portion size or meal frequency, but about concern for the content of one's food. No one here prepares a meal with nutrition as the top priority; it's all about taste and what flavors go well together. All of my meals with my host family have been made from scratch (except the ice cream or yogurt for dessert). In America, it seems like people are either extremely concerned with health, or not at all. In France, there seems to be more of a moderate stance: you eat food you make yourself because it tastes good and because it's been prepared that way for dozens of years. You don't take extra vitamins, you don't deny yourself something because it's not good for you, but you don't have the desire to gorge yourself, either. From my perspective, the French are very no-nonsense about their food.
After my three-day boredom streak last weekend, I planned ahead enough to take a day trip with two friends to Biarritz on Friday. We took a two-hour train ride and stopped at a market on our way to the beach. As usual, it was almost impossible to choose just one thing to eat, so we resorted to the traditional French lunch of baguette, ham, cheese, rosé and gâteau basque (like a big sugar cookie with cherry filling). We spent hours on the beach swimming, napping, eating and getting slightly sunburned. The weather was perfect--only a few clouds and 75 degrees all day. I truly felt like I was on vacation, and I know I'm probably never going to get enough of the beaches in southwestern France. They are too beautiful, especially for someone who normally lives 1,000 miles from the ocean.
I also bought a bike this week. It's cheap, ugly and almost too small for me, but it'll suffice for three months. A bike should make it easier for me to go out at night.
We took a placement test at the University last Wednesday to determine our level for French classes that start Thursday. Results posted today--I have no idea where I'll fall in the spectrum of classes yet. Sometimes I think my French has improved since I arrived in Pau; other times I feel like I'll always be hopelessly behind in communication. It's especially bad when I've been speaking English all day and then try to have a conversation in French. My American friends and I have started speaking Franglais partly as a joke, partly to keep our brains at least somewhat in French Mode.
Where is my parapluie? ("Where is my umbrella?")
Mon mal. ("My bad"--probably doesn't directly translate)
Will you please regard this gâteau? ("Will you please look at this cake?")
I finally spent enough time at the grocery store last week to prepare a true meal for myself: a great vegetable and chicken soup, no recipe used. As much as I miss health food stores in Colorado, I'm beginning to get accustomed to the brands here. I'm sacrificing some of my dedication to only organic and preservative-free foods, but I'm trying not to let it bother me for now. It's hard to explain the relationship with food in France. Somewhat paradoxically, the difference between French and American eating habits is not so much about portion size or meal frequency, but about concern for the content of one's food. No one here prepares a meal with nutrition as the top priority; it's all about taste and what flavors go well together. All of my meals with my host family have been made from scratch (except the ice cream or yogurt for dessert). In America, it seems like people are either extremely concerned with health, or not at all. In France, there seems to be more of a moderate stance: you eat food you make yourself because it tastes good and because it's been prepared that way for dozens of years. You don't take extra vitamins, you don't deny yourself something because it's not good for you, but you don't have the desire to gorge yourself, either. From my perspective, the French are very no-nonsense about their food.
After my three-day boredom streak last weekend, I planned ahead enough to take a day trip with two friends to Biarritz on Friday. We took a two-hour train ride and stopped at a market on our way to the beach. As usual, it was almost impossible to choose just one thing to eat, so we resorted to the traditional French lunch of baguette, ham, cheese, rosé and gâteau basque (like a big sugar cookie with cherry filling). We spent hours on the beach swimming, napping, eating and getting slightly sunburned. The weather was perfect--only a few clouds and 75 degrees all day. I truly felt like I was on vacation, and I know I'm probably never going to get enough of the beaches in southwestern France. They are too beautiful, especially for someone who normally lives 1,000 miles from the ocean.
I also bought a bike this week. It's cheap, ugly and almost too small for me, but it'll suffice for three months. A bike should make it easier for me to go out at night.
We took a placement test at the University last Wednesday to determine our level for French classes that start Thursday. Results posted today--I have no idea where I'll fall in the spectrum of classes yet. Sometimes I think my French has improved since I arrived in Pau; other times I feel like I'll always be hopelessly behind in communication. It's especially bad when I've been speaking English all day and then try to have a conversation in French. My American friends and I have started speaking Franglais partly as a joke, partly to keep our brains at least somewhat in French Mode.
Where is my parapluie? ("Where is my umbrella?")
Mon mal. ("My bad"--probably doesn't directly translate)
Will you please regard this gâteau? ("Will you please look at this cake?")
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