Back in France after just over a year, back to blogging, and it feels great. I'm an incredibly lucky human: timing worked out beautifully in that I was able to come over early for a 3-week internship at the World Equestrian Games (les Jeux Equestres Mondiaux) before moving south to Digne for a year as a teaching assistant. Here comes my first post, covering my first days in Caen and working with the Fédération Equestre Internationale (International Equestrian Federation). Sorry if it's long--just have to get caught up, and from here on out I'll be concise. Or just use pictures, since I seem to be photographing everything.
Day One-Wed/Thurs, 20/21.08.2014:
Depart Washington DC on Wednesday, August 20, 2014: 9:25 PM. Fun fact: AirFrance is the best airline I’ve ever flown. I flew economy premium and it was super classy; if anything, I had too much room. Also, my flight attendant was a DAB—didn’t even blink when I asked for red wine and champagne (to be fair, I was trying to exchange the former for the latter, but he just gave me both. I did not argue).
Arrival in Paris CDG on Thursday, August 21, 2014: 11 AM
Baggage retrieval, Find bus stop and buy ticket, bus to Opéra, 9e: 1 PM
Walk to Gare St. Lazare, nearly mow down every single pedestrian and shopping-bag laden tourist ogling the window displays at the Galleries Lafayette. Spotted: SNCF boutique; grab ticket and wait to be called to the window. Purchase a Carte Jeune discount railway pass & a ticket for a train to Caen, France. Train departs in 10 minutes. Ask if I have time. “Oui, oui…uh…maybe hurry a little.” Proceed to haul it to train. Quiet rumbling stomach: 1:45 PM
Fall asleep on the man next to me repeatedly: 2-4 PM
Arrive in Caen, hail cab to hotel, over tip the driver (severe fatigue>basic math), and check in. Half-heartedly unpack in hotel room, but mostly just sit in one place, then a new place. Inertia: 5:30 PM
Get wifi info from front desk, do a YouTube workout in hotel room to avoid falling asleep, half-heartedly check email..discover you have a work meeting and dinner, and your ride will arrive at 6:30. Freak out and shed clothes at rocket speed: 6:05 PM.
Shower, improvise an outfit that says “I speak French, but I’m also fluent in business casual.” Feign calm, cool, and collectedness while waiting in the lobby. Meet coworkers, who are infinitely Frencher and more appropriately dressed, en route to venue. Proceed to learn the ropes at the pavilion, then at the restaurant’s private room where a three-course meal is held and the meeting conducted…over the next 3 hours. Try not to pass out in your café au lait: 6:27-11:30 PM.
Write highlights to remember the whirlwind of day one. Pause to appreciate life, because it has its moments. PASS. OUT. ASLEEP. 11:50 PM
Friday, 22.08.2014:
I’m fairly certain I didn't even move in my sleep last night, but pretty must just died where I lay. In all of the five hours I’ve been “at work” today—in the pavilion at the Parc des Expositions, anyway—I’ve been assigned two major tasks: find the commissariat general and ask about getting a few bikes authorized for our team, and order lunch. Yup, I’m pretty important.
My first task was largely a failure. I started by getting lost in the Village, in the rain, and confusing pretty much everyone I spoke to. The lady behind the desk of the C.G, when I did finally manage to find her, told me to ask my boss. When I told her that was exactly who sent me, she told me to ask them…again. I spoke to a few more people, and bikes are on the agenda, although it seems as if I do not have the authority to handle the task. Oh, well.
Sandwiches, on the other hand, were a success. It involved a 10 minute phone call to a boulangerie nearby, in French. Fun fact: “cash” is not a globally-accepted anglicism. À la fin, I successfully organized a delivery of various lunch options (savories, drinks, and desserts, thank you very much) for the 10-person team on site. The biggest victory? I played it safe by ordering one tuna sandwich in case the sole vegetarienne should happen to come in (she had not been at the venue all morning). Guess what? She did show up, absolutely famished. I also showed her how the water-dispenser works. I am all-knowing.
And yet…since lunch, no one has had any idea of what to do with me. I have mostly sat and tried to look inconspicuous but, should anyone glance my way, not totally incompetent.
Sunday, 24.08.2014:
Yesterday was a big one: the opening ceremony of the Games, but first, the opening of the Games Village to the public! I truly got to test my role when 11 AM rolled around, the gates opened up to the general public, and I was sent to man the front desk, along with Greg, the most wonderful man I have ever encountered; that man has it all—a beautiful French Swiss accent, nice European mens’ footwear, and a great head of hair. It was love at first sight. It was entirely one-sided.
Anyway, we killed it at the welcome desk (see the photo below!). The fact that we sold 84 “sac de carottes” at 1 euro apiece pretty much says it all, especially considering that it was day one! To be fair, Greg personifies the French verb “bavarder,” which is difficult to translate to English…sorta like the idea of schmoozing, or chit-chatting lightheartedly with randos. The ladies loved it. One young French chick timidly giggled as he went through his spiel with the carrot sack, before ambling off with her friend. Surprise, surprise—she returned just minutes later asking to buy the bag. Greg was tied up (with another smitten woman, most likely) so she turned to me and joked, “Does he come with it?”
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| The welcome desk at the FEI Pavilion, where I work, the day before we opened to the public |
After a looooong day—my coffee intake in France thus far is truly shameful; the country will soon have a massive shortage—a group of us escaped to the opening ceremony at the Stade D’Ornanos just down the road. Actually, I imagine it was just down the road, but we got lost quite a bit so it took a while. We caught the tail end of the national teams’ procession, but we made it in time for the speeches and the rest of the spectacle. Think light shows, oodles of horse riding and horsey tricks, and music and dancing. It was essentially a showcase of the some of the disciplines of the game (vaulting/voltige, jumping/saut d’obstacles, dressage, and reining) in a condensed, flashy version. Completely new to me, so absolutely breathtaking. I had no idea horses could be ridden like that. The show’s organizers also sought to impress the audience by making use of holograms with the lights, like one of a giant winged unicorn. It was all comically lost on me and a couple other FEI team members, though, because we were in the front row and too close to the scene to see what was projected, though it was clearly displayed on the giant screens for the non-VIPs. (Plebeians).
End of my big day and night was sublime, and I swear to you I won’t leave anything out. It went like this: my head hit the pillow.
Sunday
Back to the desk, sans Greg (call Dr. Burke; my heart is in pieces. Yang will suffice). The rest of yesterday’s crew, Hugo and Dan, rolled up though, so I wasn't completely desolate. Quick profiles coming:
Dan- a Brit. Did you know they say “Take a pew” instead of “Have a seat?” Also, “pissed” is “drunk” and never “mad.” I knew the latter but thought that it could be either (drunk or angry) depending on the context. Alas, this led to some confusion. He has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Basically, Dan makes a lot of trips to the local Carrefour super shopping center for things like cables, which he doesn’t mind, because they have self-checkout. Dan. the poor bugger, doesn't speak a word of French. This makes for some discomfort since his job is essentially to stand near the front welcome desk (essentially babysitting the pavilion itself). Several times a day, people mistake him for another information person, and sling some questions his way in rapid-fire French. His response is generally to widen those beautiful blue eyes in fear, and point towards the nearest FEI Francophone. I quite enjoy Dan’s presence here at the games, but I get the feeling he’d give anything to be back in the U.K.
Hugo- I was told early on that some bizarre laws require that we have our own firefighter. So I guess that’s Hugo, even though he comes dressed every day in a black suit and red tie, and seems more like a security guard (a poorly chosen one, since he is rather slight in build, and only 18 years old). The first day, he simply stood by the door to the private rooms behind the public part of the pavilion, opening it whenever FEI members approached. It took me the better part of the morning to figure out that his role was not simply Door Opener.
Anyway, back to work. For those who don’t know, France DIES every Sunday. I don’t think people even leave their house, and if they do, I have no idea where they go or what they do, but I wouldn’t mind being invited. It’s boring. Everything is closed; you can't even get groceries, or even a bottle of wine. I get really worked up when I can’t have cheap, delicious French wine when and where I want it.
The lull extended to the FEI Pavilion, where things were slow. Most people coming in did not have questions about the federation, but questions such has, “Where is the tent for the breeders of American sport horses?” Um….I don’t know what those are, much less where they are, lady. These questions kept coming, so we sent Dan to the information booth nearby to grab some maps of the Village we could put out for these confused humans. He came back empty-handed, explaining that they didn’t have any, but that it was possible they did and simply didn't understand him because they had seemed refused by his request. I got sent over next—the maps were prominently displayed, and I brought a few back with me. Valiant effort, Dan.
I ended up being released early, and walked around the Village for a little bit to check out the other exhibitors now that everything was open. That’s a lie, I walked straight to the stand “Produits de Normandie” and stared at the jars of confiture de lait (dulce de leche, aka thick spreadable caramel) so intently that the young woman there approached me to make a sale. No dice, but we did start chatting, and decided the proper thing to do was to simply switch lives: she had just studied abroad in Baylor, Texas (….) and was desperate to get back to the United States, find a job, and live there permanently. She couldn't believe I would leave the U.S. behind for France! That kind of thing is always funny to me. The U.S. holds so much wonder for people in France (everyone tells me they are dying to visit one of three places: “la Californie,” New York City, or “la capitale”), which is exactly how I feel about l’hexagone. Grass is always greener, I suppose. But French grass has cute, cheese-producing cows. Meu.
With my newfound freedom came new responsibilities, namely getting myself back to my hotel (my home for 18 nights), rather than catching a ride with a co-worker. This meant taking a free shuttle to a large shopping plaza in town, crossing the plaza and taking an underground passage to the train station, and coming up through the train station to wait for the tram on the street outside (and then taking a tram in the direction of my hotel).Though time consuming, the journey sounds more complicated than it actually was, although there’s no way I could have accomplished any of it if I didn't speak French.
By the time I got off the free shuttle (the navette), however, it was already time for a break. As I drank my tiny coffee (“As much milk as you can fit in there please”) in a Subway--shameful to visit an American chain in France, but I needed a restroom and it was the only thing open in an entire shopping complex-- I chatted with the boys and asked them some questions about the city. They were sympathetic to my frustration with the Sunday dead zone rule in France, but when I asked what you were supposed to do on Sundays, the cashier thought for a second, shrugged, and said, “Nothing. Sundays are for doing nothing at all.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from informing him that they are actually for a long morning run, brunch with friends, and a proper nap. “But you guys aren’t doing nothing—you’re working!”
He smirked (not unkindly) and got me right back: “Yeah, but fast food stores always have to stay open, because that’s the idea. Thanks to you Americans.”
Ah, yes. Thank you, beautiful one. As if your face alone wasn't reason enough for me to leave the motherland. You have to remind me of our international legacy—fast food. France-1, US-fat.
After I tore myself away and made it to the tram stop (which I had to circle twice in order to read and understand all of the signs—I swear to God people were laughing at me), I finally boarded the tram. Nothing beats the feeling of boarding a train or bus and spending the entire trip praying (and seriously doubting) that you are headed in the right direction. Mercifully, I was. When I walked through my hotel lobby about two hours after leaving work at the pavilion, I wanted high-fives from everyone as well as compliments on my navigational brilliance, but I restrained myself. Instead, I went up to my room, changed into running clothes, and hit the streets yet again.
Running has never felt so wonderful. A few days in France take their toll faster than you’d think, what with cheese offered—and if you’re me, eaten—at every meal. Plus, I just get a little stir crazy. Voici my first revelation: there is more to Caen than the train station, the Parc des Expositions where the Games Village is, and my hotel. There’s a whole city! So I ran all around it. Only in France do you think you’re going to just jog around the city center and instead end up at an old castle. Straight up, there’s a castle in the middle of the goddamn city. WHAT.
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| Quartier de Vaugueux-from what I can understand, it's a historic neighborhood that today is just a long string of restaurants |
Lost myself, found a crêperie. It was adorable, with an entire wall covered with crowded bookshelves. I stopped to peer in the windows and take pictures so that I could remember it and return, when a man in his early sixties emerged from a car parked just outside. “You like the décor of my crêperie?” As it turns out, the man owns the crêperie; he’s 63, has run 25 marathons, and makes homemade caramel au beurre salé for his dessert crêpes. Basically, he’s awesome. Also, his little dog—the same kind Charlotte has on Sex and the City—Caramel.
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| My best discovery in Caen so far (la crêperie L'îlot Jardin) along with Caramel, the owner's dog! |
P.S. Somehow, Shaun T. made it to France as well (I wonder if he had to check his quads before he got on the plane?). It’s insanity time once again, people.
Tuesday, 26.08.2014
My day began with a trip to a superstore Carrefour, essentially the French Target (and we know how I love Target). Dan picked me up, and the adventure began. He’s been sent to Carrefour almost every day since he’s been here (“You can buy anything there-it’s brilliant!”), but I like to think that I made the trip easier, since I was actually able to ask where things were. The store is enormous, and Dan revealed that he usually just walks around until he finds it. Alternatively, he gives up. (Dan’s linguistic mishaps provide me with endless amusement…I’m an awful person).
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (wow, that idiom actually works quite well here, since the FEI Pavilion was designed with the aesthetic of rustic stables in mind), I spent the day with the usual suspects in my post behind the front desk. I took advantage of our “Selfie Stable,” as did other visitors. (We make sure the beautiful people end up on Facebook, on the FEI’s official page).
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| Yup. It's a tough job here at the FEI Pavilion, but someone has got to do it. |
The day alternated between pleasant periods of sunshine, and scary gray skies and pouring rain. In my mind, I have since changed the name of Normandy to Normandie Sous-la-Pluie. Still, it’s a pleasant job to have, being in the front of the house. Plenty of interesting characters pass by—like tiny ponies!
P.S. I recently got to go for a walk around Caen’s city center, and I have just one question: if you’re going to commit to pet ownership and get a dog…why not get a goat?
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| I don't even know. |
