Of Percussion and Pyrotechnics

So, I have discovered this week that nodding one's head in response to incomprended statements simply doesn't cut it. No matter how good of an actor you are, there comes a point when ignorance is just...not bliss anymore.

Take Tuesday, for example. I was calmly working in my office, creating a list of LPs of which the mediatheque has more than one copy so the staff knows which records are available to trade to other collections. All of a sudden this percussive Jamaican-sounding music started up in the lower courtyard of the Conservatoire. I could hear (and practically feel) the beat, but since it is two levels down, I couldn't see what was happening (not that I would have understood even if I could have). So, I asked Marie, a motherly black woman, what was happening outside.

Now, I must explain there are certain people I just can't understand very well when it comes to French. One guy I work with is about 26 and speaks INCREDIBLY fast, with utterly no consideration for the poor American stagiare. I have a hard time understanding him. Another guy I work with gets so excited about musical manuscripts that it seems he can't take the time to properly form his lips around the words that come out of them. He's a very amiable, but very classic geek--button-up shirts, big glasses, looks like he hasn't seen the light of day for a while, tells the same stories over and over again (judging by the reactions of my other coworkers at lunch the other day), forgets that he had meant to leave the music score storage area an hour earlier because he is so engrossed by cracking musical pages--you get the picture. He I also have a hard time understanding. Thankfully, though, this is improving, as I have been helping him with various projects, such as pulling and alphabetizing literally thousands of piano scores (some hundreds of years old)

Marie, however, doesn't speak too fast, nor are her words especially indistinct. After pondering the matter, I have come to the conclusion that she must have an accent to which I am not accustomed. This week's events lend evidence to that view.

Anyway, I asked her what was going on downstairs. I caught the word "groupe" and something about someone leaving, maybe? I figured it wasn't a big deal. I smiled, nodded--and promptly went to see what was going on for myself. It was indeed a percussion ensemble. I arrived at the end, just in time to see one of the group members, to whom I had been briefly introduced the week before on my two-day long tour of the Conservatoire, shake everyone's hand and get applauded. Not wanting to appear truant, I went back to my post. Later, Marie came in and asked me if I wanted to go to lunch. I said sure, so after her shift at the desk we headed out of the library. She said we were going to meet another woman, and a few other things, but nothing sounded out of the ordinary (of the things I understood). My 2,75 euros armed and ready for the cantine, we set off.

Imagine my surprise then, when, instead of the cafeteria, Marie led me to a bamboo forest off of the forum where a veritable feast of bread, cheese, wine, tartes, and quiches were spread across two large tables. I was even more surprised when Marie started acting the perfect hostess, cutting the tarts, greeting people, and supervising food distribution to the approximately forty or fifty people who turned up. It appears that it was a good-bye celebration for the percussionist, and he, being from "the islands", Marie told me, had specially selected many of the dishes (half of which were made by Marie).

I confess, I was a little wary of the tartes at first. It was sort of like going to a good ol' Minnesota potluck, where there are so many "hot dishes" in various shades of brown and gray that, for the ones you don't recognize, you just say a quick prayer and hope your fork doesn't meet with something wriggling or capable of cracking your enamel. I must say that these tartes and quiches were labeled, but, even my limited French aside, there were a lot of things I've never heard of before. I recognized shrimp, tuna, and a couple that looked like cheese and ham. Now, if I had realized that Marie had made many of them, I would have made more of an initial effort to try them all, but as I was still reeling from the shock of entrance onto the scene, I needed some coaxing--in the form of Marie practically force-feeding me a mysterious piece of tarte in a manner which reminded me of those wholesome, midwestern potluck ladies at home (or, alternatively for those of you who have never encountered such, Mrs. Clause in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: "Eat, Papa, eat!").

After that, I figured, what the heck. After assuring myself that I had indeed never had the various kinds of fish Marie was describing to me, I dug in and tried just about everything--with the most pleasant results! I discovered that even the tastes of fish and egg (both of which I have tried to avoid over most of the course of my twenty years) can be masked by a skilled cook and well-chosen seasonings (and a flaky crust). Plus, even after buying a drink at the conservatoire cafe, I ended up spending less on lunch than I would have at the cantine. :)

On Thursday, however, my incomprension of rapid French concerned something rather more important. My boss had invited me the day earlier to a staff meeting discussing library policies Thursday morning. As I find these, in relation to French politics, can be interesting, I decided to attend. When I arrived at work, though, on Thursday, my boss told me that due to a personal problem, she was delaying the meeting. She didn't say more than that (I'm sure this time!), but she appeared very disheveled. Her normally very classic-Librarian hairstyle had been superseded by none at all, and even her clothes weren't up to their usual neatness. When the other workers arrived (I am pretty much always the first one there; I will describe French work habits at some other point), she explained that she was postponing the meeting, and then went on to describe something that was, judging by her visage and the reactions of my coworkers, extremely grave that had happened to her house. She described how she didn't know how to comfort her children who had seen all their toys destroyed, but I completely missed what had actually happened!

The situation was significantly serious, and the French was flying so fast, that it would have been extremely awkward for me to interject with, "Pouvez-vous repeter ce que vous avez dit, s'il vous plait?" The problem was, whenever I was close to someone with whom I felt sufficiently comfortable to ask, my boss was always nearby. Then, as the day wore on, my query became even more irrelevant as the conversation became more and more distant. I tried to eavesdrop when the situation was explained to people later, but with no success. A flood, perhaps? I rushed to my French dictionary (which I keep surreptitiously and unceasingly near me at all times and for which I thank God nearly every day that I remembered to bring it at all)--"inondation"? I didn't remember hearing that word.

Yesterday I finally got up the courage to ask Yann (the nice, geeky one) what had happened (given my previously-described difficulty in understanding him, it wasn't my first choice, but what could I do?). It turns out that my boss' house had caught on fire! They aren't sure about the full extent of the damage, but it sounds like it is great--"un coup dure" (hard hit), Yann said. Please pray for her and her kids (she is divorced, I believe).

On a completely unrelated note, some of the girls from La Vigie and I went to Chantilly today. I needed some initial convincing, because I was really tired from the work week, the girl who prefers to speak French with me wasn't going, and it is expensive, because the train is outside the normal Paris zones (1 and 2). I was really starting to regret going at all when I got on the train, but at that point it was too late to turn back. Plus, I was the social link between one girl from Princeton in France and the other two girls I had met at La Vigie.

It turned out, though, to be a really fun (if exhausting!) day. Chantilly is most famous for its chateau, which is associated with a hippodrome, horse races, and equestrian museum. It's also a really cute little French town, so quietly and nature-ly different from Paris (it has grass--that you can even sit on!). We arrived around 1h30, and decided on the Cafe Noir for lunch. We all ordered these local specialties (of which, of course, I now forget the name) which consist of a something like a slighly-thicker-than-average crepe topped with various cheeses, meat, or vegetables, according to your preference. I ordered one with mozzarella and ratatouille; t was magnificent! In taste, it sort of bore a resemblance to the thin-crust frozen pizzas we used to eat when I was little (which I loved but were, unfortunately, replaced by Digiornos'). Of course, these were loads better! Then, after prowling the streets and being utterly amazed by the comparatively low prices and the amazing-looking pastries (equal to Paris; baked goods are one thing that all of France knows, understands, and is more than willing to share), we found the chateau.

We then realized, though, that we had arrived on a special Chantilly event, the 16th annual gargantuan (and I mean GARGANTUAN) fireworks display! Not only were we disappointed that we needed to get back to Paris and would not be able to see them, but this also meant that the chateau was closing early, and was no longer admitting anyone! We took as many pictures as we could, trying to imagine ourselves inside, and then walked in the adjacent woods. They were stunning! I hadn't realized how much I missed seeing green, natural plant life after living in Princeton and Paris. Walking down a beautiful path along a vine-glazed, cracking stone wall, I could almost see remnants of history coming toward me--a WWI survivor of the nearby Battle of Amiens, a fifteenth-century noblewoman escaping the confines of the chateau. We followed this path until its end (somewhere outside of Chantilly, because the signs showing the way to the center of town pointed in the wrong direction), then came back to the chateau, where people were already starting to reserve their spots for the fireworks (by the way, like everything in France, it seems, these fireworks were enormously expensive to attend if you wanted a decent spot on the grounds).

Of course, though, no visit to the region would be complete without a sampling of creme Chantilly, an incredibly rich, yet extremely tasty vanilla-flavored whip cream invented by the maitre d' of the castle in the 17th century. I tried it on a pistachio ice cream cone. While the quality of the ice cream was, well, somewhat lacking (good flavor, but not smooth at all), the quality of the creme was merveilleuse (marvelous)! Kathryn, the other PIF-er, had it on a gaufre, or waffle, with sugar--also tasty.

So, while it was disappointing not to get to see the wonders of the inside of the chateau, which include a collection of French portraits second only to the Louvre (thank you wikipedia!), the day was not a complete loss at all.

Alas, I have to go! I am being kicked out of the computer room--it's closing time.

Until next time, au revoir!