Rouen

I am very glad that I spent a week in Rouen before I went to Clermont-Ferrand. I am ready to embark from here to Paris, and then tomorrow from Paris to Clermont, and I am well rested, showered, and a little more comfortable with my French than I was a week ago. Plus, this week was rich with little French delicacies and a lot of friendliness on the part of my French host families and friends.

I tried for most of the week to not look like a tourist. The key, I’ve found, is to look directly down at the ground and to walk very, very quickly, even if I was in fact out for a tour of Rouen and not in any sort of rush. You can always tell a tourist because they amble, which is very understandable, and they gawk, mouths open, as they look up, up, up to the wood-framed row houses, and at the gargoyles and the crackling stone on the old, grisly church. The problem is that I am a tourist; something I’m having a hard time coming to grips with. I was able to support myself as such because I only took hard, quick glances at my favorite Rouen masterpieces—the giant clock, the fountain at city hall, the towering spire of the cathedral—quick enough that I hoped a Rouen native might think that I was simply another townsperson remembering how beautiful my beloved city was. A benefit of the walk-fast-look-busy approach is that I could admire the cobblestones and avoid dog poop. I think my tactic worked, I mean that I think I looked like a French woman as I marched swiftly, racing against an imaginary clock, because a tourist took my picture as I whirred past. How disappointed he would be if he knew I was an American!

I had two encounters with the French personality that I found very amusing during my spirited ambling around town. First, was Sunday. Sundays are still sacred here, despite the predominant laicism in the country as a whole (or so I’m told by my French Civilization class). I went for a stroll in the late afternoon and was actually able to do my gawking and ambling because no one else was out. The streets were barren except for the occasional scraping of a plate or the whisper of Sunday chatter spilling from the open windows. The windows were framed by default with red geraniums. Why red geraniums, I wonder, when it could have been any other flower? Second, my favorite “Frenchism” of the day, was the parked delivery van that was marked only “Votre urgence est le notre” or something like that. It means “Your need for speedy delivery is our middle name.” For the French on a Sunday, however, neither speed nor your delivery is really very important at all. 

Most of the week I spent worrying, needlessly of course, about my apartment in Clermont-Ferrand. I have yet to find a place, and I am somewhat limited in my abilities to look while I’m not in town. I’m doing my best to be patient, but I’m failing miserably. I’m sure I’ll be provided for, and I have to remember it’s not always in my best interest to be omniscient (much to my dismay.)

But I did manage to stop thinking about the apartment crunch from time to time. Once I was interrupted from my stressing by the clic-clac of high heels across the street, moving in time with my custom-fit walking shoes. How could she be going faster than me in those pumps? I wondered to myself and kept abreast so that I wouldn’t be beat around the corner by a pair of heels. No use; her impossibly long strides won the race with a sort of effortlessness only the French woman can master. I looked beside me to catch a glimpse of her, hoping she was at least sweating mildly: she wasn’t. She was smoking a cigarette.

After her clic-clacs faded away to the north, I headed down la rue Cauchoise hoping to distract myself. I popped a piece of green, minty French gum into my mouth and thought about Alice and Wonderland for a long time and whether those “eat me” cakes tasted like pistachios or fruit cake. I decided fruit cake, because in Wonderland, the only cake that made sense was something that doesn’t make sense, and that is fruitcake. Though for some reason,  that weird gelato flavor, what is it.. stromboni? Strumoni? spumoni? the one with the funny pistachio flavor,  might be a perfect compliment.  I'll bake fruitcakes with pistachios until I find the perfect, most disjointed flavor combination possible. Then I’ll cut them into little petit-fours, make a white fondant icing (even though I generally snub the use of fondant) and write “eat me” in grey curly-cue frosting. I think the only “drink me” drink conceivable for that would be absinthe. And no, I will not be trying that during my stay in France. ;)

I digress. I eventually succeeded in distracting myself for four days, and in between Rotarian dinners and spending time with the Ridels, I was able to not stress too much about the apartment. The Rotary invited me to their Monday night club meeting where Mr. Martin (host dad #2) incessantly teased me about Clermont-Ferrand and the ferocious winters there. He hoped I had brought gloves, mittens, and boots because I may have to climb glaciers to get to school in winter. According to him, too, there are penguins in Clermont. It was all in good fun of course, and I love how I actually understand jokes now. I’m passed the “laugh because he’s laughing” and unto the “laugh because I’m so happy I understood the joke!” stage. I have been receiving a fair amount of teasing, so I’m glad I have enough French to recognize it. Apparently, Clermont is a little more… country than Rouen, but I don’t mind. My goodness, this is still France! And frankly, I think I’m going to enjoy some simple living. I’ve heard the region is full of magnificent hikes, skiing spots, and scenery.

Tuesday, the Martins invited us to a great big dinner that I thoroughly enjoyed. Scalloped potatoes, red meat, a bottle of vintage wine, and artisan baguettes---I was in heaven. And that doesn’t include the appetizers, the cocktail, cheese plate and desserts that came before and after the main course. Pear tart and fresh blackberry-apple crumble… ooo la la.

Wednesday, I dined with les Pernins, a lovely French couple from the Rotary that has helped me immensely in getting contacts in Clermont. We admired the view from their balcony, and I got a final panoramic view of Rouen before we headed out the next day (today) for Paris.  Dinner chez eux was homegrown tomates with balsamic vinaigrette and parsley, baguette (always), hors d’oeuvres, cocktails, vintage wine, a cheese plate, mushroom-mustard pork, and apple-flavored sorbet for dessert. We finished elegantly with an espresso. :)

So walking served two purposes this week: burning calories and creating a distraction from being needlessly worried. I am on the train now, with my lovely host sister, Agathe, and this weekend is going to be wonderful. I have another Rotary dinner (and by then, I’ll have my running shoes from my other suitcase to work it off!) and an appointment to visit two different apartments. I’ll make it in the end.