Why is there a car in my front yard...?

Visit #4

My brother's in town! People come to visit me as dependably as the bakers find an excuse to make something tasty (see below). Visits from family and friends are exciting on all counts. Seeing cool peeps is always a good time when you're far away. Not only because a person can get lonely all the way on the other side of the ocean, but because as exciting and foreign as France may be, I didn't get a chance to notice every exciting and foreign detail before becoming adjusted to the ways of the French world. Having a visitor opens my eyes to things before my eyes that I had never seen before. It also gives me excuses to go hiking along the calanques of Cassis, which are gorgeous and new every time.

Culinarily gifted brothers are also handy to have around when you need to impress French people. For example, on Friday, I gave a presentation at a small organization, and Cyrus provided the refreshments. The presentation went over fine, but it was my bro's salsa that I caught someone eating with a spoon. One of the attendees was heard saying, clearly impressed, "All the Americans speak French!" Bah oui.

I took Cyrus to the market today, my favorite Sunday morning activity. He got to meet the friendly cheese lady (who made sure he tasted all the cheeses), the friendly vegetable dudes, and the woman who has strange and elaborate opinions. We had some quality basking in the sun time, and some quality wandering-around-Marseille time, and we're headed to Barcelona on Wednesday, for all the adventure that entails.

Amelia + dessert = holiday

It's entirely possible that I mark the passage of time with the changing displays in the bakery windows. France never fails to delight me with its rich tradition of rich food. Christmas was the buche de noel, a cake shaped like a log, complete with little frosting mushrooms. Just as American New Year's Resolutioners were kicking into gear, the French busted out the month-long galette des rois party. If your slice of cake includes the feve (which is a little figurine, here, a traditional Provencal character), you get to wear the tacky paper crown, and the next cake is on you. And so on and so forth until February 2, Chandelier, which, as far as anyone knows, is when you take down the creche (nativity scene) and devote yourself to eating crepes. It may be the day that Jesus ate his first crepe, but we're really not sure.

Eventually, there's Lent (Careme), which has no special desserts associated, but there was Carnaval somewhere in the middle, perhaps to show that France is an equal-opportunity disdainer of religious practice. That brings us up to Easter, featuring mouna (which seems like a strangely un-French word), a light brioche-like cake, like sweetbread with a hint of orange water, I think, and most importantly, little crystallized beads of sugar on top. David Sedaris fans will know that the French are not visited by the Easter bunny, but by the Easter bell, and while I have not confirmed this with any real French people, I have seen quite a few chocolate Easter bells at the bakeries. They also have large chocolate cats, fishes, hens, the occasional bunny, and eggs. There's some debate as to whether or not we saw chocolate turtles.

Part of the thrill is that I didn't know about any of these traditions until they started appearing in the bakeries. So who knows what the next big event will be? I hear May 1 is big around here, at least for disrupting bus schedules, so we shall see what that brings.

I also want to take this opportunity to remind you of how much I love ice-cream. Ice-cream in France (especially when there are Italian influences involved) is exciting every single time. Lavender ice-cream will never get old. And yogurt ice-cream -- who knew what tangy delights awaited me? This country is full of pleasant surprises.

The pen is mightier than the sword

Have I mentioned recently that I live, more or less, in my second language? Let's talk about language.

I met a French lady today, who, immediately upon meeting me and learning that I was American, informed me that "French is the language of Culture." That French is more difficult than English, because there are more French words (although a minute with google debunks this), each precisely defined, lending the language infinite subtlety.

If French is the language of Culture, what, I asked her, is English? It's for everyone, she responds. Everyone can learn English. Whereas French cannot even be mastered by all French people.

Which is why, if you speak French truly well, you will always succeed (just, in general). Because, she explains, if in conversation you use a word that the other person doesn't know, "you win." The perfect French is the language you use to bend people to your will.

This conversation put me at unease.

I'm not sure I properly understood her, but the questions I asked didn't lead me to the clarity I'd hoped for. I asked, first, if she saw conversation as a way to take the upper hand, rather than as a way to establish rapport. She protested heartily. I couldn't say on what defense. My second question was which French language she meant. "In general," she said unhelpfully. The language of inner-city youth? Nope, definitely not that one. That's not French, that's something completely new. Those kids who can't be bothered to learn French French will never leave les banlieues (French equivalent of the inner-city). It's French French that will open doors -- or close them.

She is absolutely right, though, that language is power; that language can be used to exercise control. You can see this in the dynamics of a single conversation, or you can see it in the power politics of colonized countries. As soon as someone opens their mouth, you have the evidence you need to pigeon-hole them in a class, should you choose to stop listening there. I don't disagree that you'd do well to arm yourself with the weapon of words. But wouldn't you rather see words as a million little doors that open you to the world and the world to you? Or as bridges uniting two minds?

And what the hell is Culture anyway, if there's only one? Surely not the one that was dead by 2007?

As we parted ways, this woman invited me to an olive cultivation expo next week. With a smile, she said, "It's culture."

Whatever, dude.

Who I played Bach for this afternoon

Blossoms and other lovely signs of spring

The sun is shining unabashedly, the fruit trees are blooming, I played Bach to an open window this afternoon, and I'm only going to write about the good things in life.

I left school in a good mood, as I often do these days. My students are endearing themselves to me more and more and the months pass. If I ever become a teacher (which is looking more and more likely), it would be for the endless possibilities of the job -- not only could I endlessly and endlessly master the art of teaching, but every one of my students is endlessly fascinating. As we learn to trust and understand each other, each one crafts a unique rapport with me. April seems too soon to leave.

Not to exaggerate my competences as a teacher either, but I've felt different lately, standing before my class; more at ease. I'm chipping away at my discipline issues (my middle schoolers listened to me this week, which is what getting high must be like). I'm learning to talk slowly, repeat the directions, and explain when we use the past simple instead of the present perfect.

I would not say that I'm a good teacher, or a natural. But I feel good.

I'd meant to describe my weekend -- a leisurely Saturday lunch shared, a blue-skied morning of music with poets and friends, and hearing Joan Baez sing in person. But you can imagine.

March Flowers

Mimosas

and almond trees.