Blue socks, castles, circus, topiary teepee

Recent doings:

Circus Adventures:

I visited circus school number 1 near Clermont, in a city called Riom (a 15 min train ride away). It’s called École de Cirque Diabolo Fraise, in English, Diabolo Strawberry Circus School. For the non-circus savvy, a diabolo is an object manipulation tool, also known as Chinese yoyo (basically two cones put together like this ><). Two sticks with a string connecting them create a path for the diabolo to roll along. Anyway, I navigated my way to the train station, hopped on the wrong train (too early), freaked out about getting caught as a stow-away with a wrong ticket, but still ended up in the right city after a confusing talk with a conductor. I got directions to the “off the beaten path” school from a woman in a brasserie, which I was unable to follow. I proceeded to get myself stranded at a Carrefour (grocery store chain) and call the program director, Stéphanie, who promptly picked me up in her car. The group practices in the free half of a large gymnasium, holding classes for children and adults alike. I attended the adult class, explaining to Stéphanie (program director) that I taught, performed, and trained with two groups in the states. I had the chance to try tightrope for the first time, and had some fun exploring corde lisse (Spanish web) and triple trapeze. I met a ridiculously strong trapeze artist named Lucy whose husband does a bicycle/ unicycle/ hand standing act for Cirque du Soleil.

It appeared that I knew a lot more than them on tissu (aerial fabric) which was slightly disappointing, because I hoped to pick up some new tricks. I ended up teaching them all a new climb they hadn’t seen before, what we call bicycle climb. As if it’s not hard enough already to give direction to someone in the air in English… J, but it was a success. I said I had been doing aerial for about a year and a half now and they were shocked, they all agreed that my teachers must have been Russian. All right, so Russians have a good circus rep I guess?

Looks like I can do my cultural project at this place if I want, but the traveling by train each time would be difficult and would get old quickly. Also, I was hoping to be with a group that also had a professional performance group, not just a school. That night, I was offered a ride home from a very nice friend of Stéphanie’s named Julie who didn’t want me taking the train so late at night. She lives in a nearby city and is very good at tight rope and juggling. She her talents in those areas along with therapeutic massage to work with mentally and physically disabled kids for her profession. Way cool. I was proud of myself for making conversation about the new license plates issued in France recently, and asking her if she’d be doing any of the patrimoine activities this weekend. I might say I felt a little French. (whatever that means).

Patrimoine activities:

On Saturday with my American Kalamazoo buds, I went to a French jazz concert at the Centre Blaise Pascal (aka Conservatoire where I may take some theatre classes). The drummer was great, used a bow to scrape the edges of his symbols (this is not scarcasm). The highlight was the chorus trying to sing in English (this is sarcasm). “Chili concarne, chili concarne LETS EAT,” they chanted. The Americans were the only people laughing (normally it’s the other way around, the French are laughing and we don’t get the joke). I’d dare to say we enjoyed ourselves. Next was the musée Bargoin, a textile/ tapestry museum that surprisingly had quite a bit of pottery and fossils. The textiles were organized according to color, and there were small glass exhibits of the plant/ animal material used to make the dyes. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take pictures of the textiles, lighting was bad, and flash wasn’t allowed. I do however have a lovely picture of a female skeleton from 4500 B.C. found near the volcanoes in this region.

Sunday, I visited two chateaux in nearby villages with my host mom and sister, along with two of my K friends, Elsa and Kristen. Once again, winding countryside roads = carsickness. Once again, French music on the radio cracks us up. In English, a woman sings, “I’d rather eat toast than see a ghost”. Once again, the Americans laugh. I translate it for the French… until they laugh too. A funny thing about driving in France is that there are no “welcome to this village” signs, but rather a sign with the village you were just in with a red slash across it, as if to say “welcome to a new place that is not Clermont-Ferrand”. Highlights from the chateau de Chazeron in Loubeyrat: evolution of architecture from the 12^th to 21^st centuries, crazy winding claustrophobic staircases, amazing views, cool stained glass windows, rain. Highlights from the 18^th century chateau in Davayat: the “jardins à la française” (gardens modeled after Versailles) that included what my friend Elsa called “a topiary teepee” (see below) that was about 400 years old, and not getting caught when I sat in a chair that used to belong to Marie Antoinette, shhhh... (yes there is also photo evidence of this, see below).

A few little [weird] anecdotes:

French grammar error NOT made by me: My host mom re-explains to me what the tour guides tells us about the history of one of the castles, she says that I can explain the same story “in American” to my friends instead of French. Haha. Score one for the Amuricans.

Cultural awkwardness: (on the topic of the beating of pets). My host dog is very well behaved. My dog in the states doesn’t listen at all unless you have chicken or cheese to give him. The reason? Beating. We don’t beat our dog in Michigan, my host family beats their dog. Do French families beat their pets? Do certain kinds of people beat their pets? You can imagine the look on my face when my host mom goes into the kitchen and returns with a small whip to smack our little King Charles terrier on the bum, when my host dad picks it up by the neck (not gently) and drags it into a room to keep the dog in one place, or when my host sister whips it in the face with her napkin! Weird thing is, the dog loves them and is incredibly affectionate. Sad? I don’t get it.

Doing laundry in France: Not a big deal, but I don’t have any white socks anymore. The washer is located in a small closet with a bunch of shoes under the staircase. Takes about 1.5 hours per load, and there is no dryer. Hence, the spare bedroom is currently wearing all my garments on bedposts, doorknobs and chairs. And my blue socks (that used to be white) are drying on a desk.

Hope everybody is doing well, I’d love to hear from you! Feel free to email (colleen.mcintee07@kzoo.edu) or leave comments! More pics at http://picasaweb.google.com/colleenmcintee.

~Colleen