Things on my mind:
My favorite yogurt flavor so far is coconut, but pineapple, letchi, and mango are close behind.
I live here!
Water is really important to the human body. Like, really important.
You can't soak beans indefinitely. They go bad.
America is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
Reunion is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
I miss being busy, and using an agenda planner. Yes, it's true that I don't use one here. True.
I really like French.
I brought too many shoes.
Saturday was a sortie scolaire (a field trip) with my culture class. We went to this guy's house where his kids played with land tortoises (as much as you can play with one) while he taught us how to string a traditional drum. He played some freaking awesome music with his son. Then, we went to a Hindu temple (living color, smooth statues, a peacock [!], well-worn bare feet, chilis and roses in the garden), followed by a park for lunch. I went for a walk with my cornet de glace (ice cream cone) and did some yoga before heading back on the bus for a visit to La Vierge Noire. It's a statue of the Virgin Mary on a site where both Catholics and Hindus come to worship, leave hair shavings from exorcisms, dip their children's hands in the streams, and mash little intentions scratched on paper into the rock wall that supports Her. I decided to pray, or talk in my head, or get more confused there for a little bit. So I did, and it was pretty alright.
In Reunionais cemeteries, their rectangular graves have neat little white pebble walls and are packed with flowers, herbs, and color. That's what I'm talking about.
I don't have anything really awesome or exciting to add. I'm in a semi-weird feeling right now. I cannot believe I'm actually here- I've waited and worked my whole academic life to get here, and now that I have two months left, I'm tredding water. Go, go, go! I'm seeing more places, meeting more friends, and simultaneously planning my life once I get back home. It's awesome and bittersweet and inevitable- I have a life to return to, after all and yet so much more to learn here. It's a limbo that extends across the planet, two languages, two countries, two very different cultures, and the ambitions and evolution of a young adult. Pretty damn cool, n'est-ce pas?
Skype: chelseacbarker (I'm on the Maryville, Tennessee network)
Email: chelsea.barker@my.maryvillecollege.edu
Mailing Address:
BARKER Chelsea
Chambre 628
Cité Internationale
Université de La Réunion
15, Avenue René Cassin - BP 7151
97 715 Saint-Denis Messag.9 Cedex
LA REUNION
FRENCH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
I love you all very much.
Chelsea
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Chicken and Lava Flows
Just a week ago, Katie, Stephanie, and I had a really good day. You know when you wake up and you're a little bit tired, but you have this awesome day in front of you? So, no matter what, it's all going to pan out? It was a lot like that.
On Saturday evening we checked our emails (sitting outside various academic buildings stealing wi-fi because it NEVER works in our dorm) and found that Sylvie, a woman who works with international students, had invited us to go explore the eastern coast of the island with her two cheek-pinch-worthy kids, Ocean (Oh-sae-ahn) and Mathieu (Mah-tyu). We really like Sylvie. She's always so glad to see us, and apologetic for calling us into her office again for the fourth copy of our passport, or our signature on this, our resumes, our birth certificates... always something. It's such a pain to go there, mainly because we would rather they just scan these documents so they can print, copy, and fax them to their hearts' desire without bugging us. But having Sylvie makes it all worth it. Always accommodating, always willing to help, always looking out for us.
Of course, we jumped at the opportunity to spend a day speaking with a 5 and 6 year old who can blow our French out of the water, and getting a mini-van tour of a part of the island we haven't seen. So, somewhat bleary-eyed and waiting for our great day to happen, Sylvie picked us up and brought us back to her nearby apartment. We finished packing the picnic and watched some French cartoons ("Lucky Luke," based on the pioneer days of the American West), and hopped in.
She showed us the sugar cane fields, parks, and pools. We wound down the coast stopping at gorgeous old churches and a suspension bridge, a waterfall (Cascade Niagara), and a Hindu temple. We took turns sitting in the front and speaking French (she says mine has improved! I gave myself an imaginary gold star for that) and sitting in the back and listening to the kids giggling at nothing at all. We stopped to eat lunch at a beautiful park on the ocean (Anse des Cascades- Cove of the Waterfalls). We wound down a steep hillside into a forest of palms freckled with colorful Creole families sprawled on the ankle-high grass, spending their Sunday together. Old men sitting around and women watching their brood. There were waterfalls trickling down the night-black rocks, accentuating the absurd amount of green. My rods and cones could not handle it! We enjoyed a crab-cucumber-tomato-corn-lemon juice salad, macaroni and cheese (made with Camembert, not Kraft American cheese-ha!-as if), poulet grille (amazing rotisserie chicken that you only buy from shacks or roadside vendors), and fresh pineapple juice. An enormous fresh baguette was a given. It was the best lunch I've had in a long, long time, and definitely the best one I've had since being here. Homey, refreshing, complete.
We also were lucky enough to see the lava flows from Piton de la Fournaise, which is the very active volcano on the island. We saw a church called Notre Dame de la Lave, Our Lady of the Lava. After an eruption in 1977, lava flowed all the way down the mountainside and stopped about two feet from the foundation of this tiny church, and flowed around it. Needless to say, it's a pretty important landmark for the faithful of Reunion. Then, we drove by the lava fields and saw the vast expanse of craggy black with tiny shoots of green, the first stages of primary succession. We even saw lava cooling from an eruption that happened last year!!!!! Yes. And it was as cool as it sounds. Sylvie was a gracious tour guide and pulled off to let us snap a million photos of her beautiful island.
We finished the trip by going to a natural pool by the sea and watching a rainbow extend from the green jungle to the endless horizon. On the way home, we pulled off and mimicked the locals, and picked goyaviers. They look like tiny pomegranates, with flesh the texture of tomatoes, guts like passion fruits, and a taste like a spicy apple. They're about the size of ping pong balls, and oh-so yummy.
I told you it was a freaking awesome day.
On Saturday evening we checked our emails (sitting outside various academic buildings stealing wi-fi because it NEVER works in our dorm) and found that Sylvie, a woman who works with international students, had invited us to go explore the eastern coast of the island with her two cheek-pinch-worthy kids, Ocean (Oh-sae-ahn) and Mathieu (Mah-tyu). We really like Sylvie. She's always so glad to see us, and apologetic for calling us into her office again for the fourth copy of our passport, or our signature on this, our resumes, our birth certificates... always something. It's such a pain to go there, mainly because we would rather they just scan these documents so they can print, copy, and fax them to their hearts' desire without bugging us. But having Sylvie makes it all worth it. Always accommodating, always willing to help, always looking out for us.
Of course, we jumped at the opportunity to spend a day speaking with a 5 and 6 year old who can blow our French out of the water, and getting a mini-van tour of a part of the island we haven't seen. So, somewhat bleary-eyed and waiting for our great day to happen, Sylvie picked us up and brought us back to her nearby apartment. We finished packing the picnic and watched some French cartoons ("Lucky Luke," based on the pioneer days of the American West), and hopped in.
She showed us the sugar cane fields, parks, and pools. We wound down the coast stopping at gorgeous old churches and a suspension bridge, a waterfall (Cascade Niagara), and a Hindu temple. We took turns sitting in the front and speaking French (she says mine has improved! I gave myself an imaginary gold star for that) and sitting in the back and listening to the kids giggling at nothing at all. We stopped to eat lunch at a beautiful park on the ocean (Anse des Cascades- Cove of the Waterfalls). We wound down a steep hillside into a forest of palms freckled with colorful Creole families sprawled on the ankle-high grass, spending their Sunday together. Old men sitting around and women watching their brood. There were waterfalls trickling down the night-black rocks, accentuating the absurd amount of green. My rods and cones could not handle it! We enjoyed a crab-cucumber-tomato-corn-lemon juice salad, macaroni and cheese (made with Camembert, not Kraft American cheese-ha!-as if), poulet grille (amazing rotisserie chicken that you only buy from shacks or roadside vendors), and fresh pineapple juice. An enormous fresh baguette was a given. It was the best lunch I've had in a long, long time, and definitely the best one I've had since being here. Homey, refreshing, complete.
We also were lucky enough to see the lava flows from Piton de la Fournaise, which is the very active volcano on the island. We saw a church called Notre Dame de la Lave, Our Lady of the Lava. After an eruption in 1977, lava flowed all the way down the mountainside and stopped about two feet from the foundation of this tiny church, and flowed around it. Needless to say, it's a pretty important landmark for the faithful of Reunion. Then, we drove by the lava fields and saw the vast expanse of craggy black with tiny shoots of green, the first stages of primary succession. We even saw lava cooling from an eruption that happened last year!!!!! Yes. And it was as cool as it sounds. Sylvie was a gracious tour guide and pulled off to let us snap a million photos of her beautiful island.
We finished the trip by going to a natural pool by the sea and watching a rainbow extend from the green jungle to the endless horizon. On the way home, we pulled off and mimicked the locals, and picked goyaviers. They look like tiny pomegranates, with flesh the texture of tomatoes, guts like passion fruits, and a taste like a spicy apple. They're about the size of ping pong balls, and oh-so yummy.
I told you it was a freaking awesome day.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Le Chaudron
Vendredi, le 20 Mars. Mon Balcon. 4:06pm
I have chosen a very exciting time to study abroad in France, it seems. At least, in La Reunion. Not that it wouldn’t ordinarily be exciting, but as you may or may not have heard, general strikes have found their way to French Overseas Departments. At first they were only in Guadaloupe (lasting for 44 days beginning around January 20th, blockading the island and killing one person), but on March 5th, the strike came to Reunion. The protests were different from the University strikes that I had been experiencing. “Oh great,” I thought. “As if it weren’t difficult enough to get to class during a University strike, what’s it going to be like when the whole island shuts down?” Well, little white suburban Chelsea soon experienced what it was like to be in a civil uprising.
Before I get to the exciting part (for my friends, the scary part for my adult friends), let me tell you why French Overseas Departments are rioting. Guadaloupe, Martinique (in the Caribbean), French Guiana (South America), and La Reunion are DOMs (Departements Outre-Mer, or French Overseas Departments). I don’t remember if I’ve explained this, but they are like Hawaii is to the USA- all the rights of a mainland state, just farther away. Well, they may have the same political rights, but in fact, life here is structured quite differently. For Reunion, the unemployment rate is something like 50+%, compared with about 18% in métropole (mainland France). Also, there’s a built-in 57% sales tax on all products, which makes life here, as you can imagine, quite expensive. I also need to explain about being a civil servant in France. Any state job- bus driver, teachers, professors, magistrates, etc- have a pretty sweet deal. They get paid pretty well and they get good benefits. That’s all fine and well, but for the rest of the island that’s employed, many are on minimum wage and trying to live on what I imagine to be, less than a living wage. Hence, the protests. After throwing an enormous hissy fit, blockading the island, rioting, and using all their gas, food, water, and energy, Sarcozy finally caved and decided to give those living on minimum wage a 200 Euro a month increase. Sweet. Except, that’s only Guadeloupe. So, what kind of example does that set? Naturally, Reunion said, “Oh, well they protested and got a raise? Well we will, too.” So here I am, sitting on my balcony on the second day (albeit not consecutive) of the General Strike. Fliers are all over campus trying to attract the youth population, and yet somehow classes are still going on (save for my surf class.. grr… I can’t exactly pick up where I left off in Maryville..).
So far, things aren’t as bad as they were on the first day, but who knows. It could get bad by tonight. Let me recant to you how it went down last week. After Steph and I got out of class last Tuesday around 3:30, we kept hearing muffled booms coming from somewhere nearby. As we went for our weekly visit to the International Student Office, Sylvie and Sophie (the tiniest, nicest women ever) informed us to STAY INSIDE tonight- “Don’t leave campus,” they warned. Those booms we were hearing were tear gas bombs being launched in the neighborhood just down the hill. Apparently the protest from the town center had marched all the way to our part of St- Denis and was now agitating the police and army enough to warrant tear gas bombs. Cool.
By dinnertime, it had not abated. In fact, there was a pretty good view of it from our cafeteria by nightfall. So, what do sociology students do? They go check out the riot. Minutes later, Steph, Richard, Ivan, Chaz, and I were walking out of campus and down the hill toward the market and grocery store I frequent about once every two days. Le Chaudron, as the neighborhood is called, is also home to a big bus depot. It’s a busy place. We were immediately greeting with enormous garbage cans overturned and burning in the streets. Gradually we crept closer and closer. At first, it was (and I’m quoting Steph here), a lot like the 4th of July. People were out with their families and children looking at cars maneuvering around the burning poubelle and listening to the shouts of rioters and booms of bombs. Ten police cars passed, and a few army cars passed too. They all had huge shields and the two soldiers on the end of each truck had their rifles out. We moseyed down the street, crossing a soccer field and heading to a side street. More burning garbage, and the sounds got louder. Eventually we could hear the shouts and yells of the rebel men, battling the police. Rocks, bricks, and Molotov cocktails against tear gas and trucks. We were joined by a few of our Creole friends and another Brit, Becky, so the huge group of white Anglophones didn’t look as conspicuous. We still stuck out, though. Steph, Becky, and I were the only women around at this point. Men were stalking by, marching with long, deliberate stomps. They were baring their chests with tshirts swaddled around their faces to protect their lungs from the piercing tear gas. At this point, the bus depot (a small building where you can buy tickets) had burned to bare boards, and stood steaming. Stranded cars fell prey to the masses and were overturned and burned without a second thought. Ivan, Chaz, and I dared to go closer; Stephanie and Richard and Becky hung back, displaying far more sense than I allowed myself to have. I kept thinking how I wanted to document this all, send it to the media, and all the while memorize every detail- I can’t help my sociology leanings sometimes. “Les yeux, les yeux” cried Steve, our native Reunionais friend. Apparently you don’t have to run everytime you see something launched- it may just be a warning shot. Watch it. It may be a bomb of tear gas, the force of which you can feel on your back when the explosion moves the air around you. At this point, a slight drizzle was leaving an itchy film on my skin and making my toes slide in my Chacos. They reminded me once again of how I must stick out. The American white girl in a French uprising. Amazing, amazing experience, but still so bizarre. Not only have I never been exposed to anything like this- Hollywood doesn’t count, but looked scarily similar - but this is my quiet little neighborhood where I buy mangos and potatoes on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. When we saw men sprinting forth from the fog of smoke and tear gas, we ran in the same direction. That’s a rule of a riot; you don’t want to have people behind you. That means you’re on the front line. If you see people run towards you, do a 180 and get moving. Ask questions later. When the bombs launched, we ran. The rain, a silent and almost unnoticed actor in the fiery evening made the whole ordeal ironically more dangerous. We were slipping around while running and looking back. Enough was enough, and the crowds certainly weren’t going to defeat the police force. We returned, blood pumping, chattering because of the adrenaline and marveling at the sites we saw.
Later, a helicopter swooped and hummed low over the city, illuminating the clouds of tear gas and the stronghold of rioters in its beam. Things were quiet just a kilometer up the hill on my pretty campus. By morning, the tear gas bombs were few and far between. 16 arrests, a few injuries, an evening to remember.
Studying abroad- wow. Please know that my parents and brother scolded me well enough for getting so close. I never felt as though me or my life was threatened, and I’m no worse for wear. Just another exciting experience to add to my study abroad adventures.
I have chosen a very exciting time to study abroad in France, it seems. At least, in La Reunion. Not that it wouldn’t ordinarily be exciting, but as you may or may not have heard, general strikes have found their way to French Overseas Departments. At first they were only in Guadaloupe (lasting for 44 days beginning around January 20th, blockading the island and killing one person), but on March 5th, the strike came to Reunion. The protests were different from the University strikes that I had been experiencing. “Oh great,” I thought. “As if it weren’t difficult enough to get to class during a University strike, what’s it going to be like when the whole island shuts down?” Well, little white suburban Chelsea soon experienced what it was like to be in a civil uprising.
Before I get to the exciting part (for my friends, the scary part for my adult friends), let me tell you why French Overseas Departments are rioting. Guadaloupe, Martinique (in the Caribbean), French Guiana (South America), and La Reunion are DOMs (Departements Outre-Mer, or French Overseas Departments). I don’t remember if I’ve explained this, but they are like Hawaii is to the USA- all the rights of a mainland state, just farther away. Well, they may have the same political rights, but in fact, life here is structured quite differently. For Reunion, the unemployment rate is something like 50+%, compared with about 18% in métropole (mainland France). Also, there’s a built-in 57% sales tax on all products, which makes life here, as you can imagine, quite expensive. I also need to explain about being a civil servant in France. Any state job- bus driver, teachers, professors, magistrates, etc- have a pretty sweet deal. They get paid pretty well and they get good benefits. That’s all fine and well, but for the rest of the island that’s employed, many are on minimum wage and trying to live on what I imagine to be, less than a living wage. Hence, the protests. After throwing an enormous hissy fit, blockading the island, rioting, and using all their gas, food, water, and energy, Sarcozy finally caved and decided to give those living on minimum wage a 200 Euro a month increase. Sweet. Except, that’s only Guadeloupe. So, what kind of example does that set? Naturally, Reunion said, “Oh, well they protested and got a raise? Well we will, too.” So here I am, sitting on my balcony on the second day (albeit not consecutive) of the General Strike. Fliers are all over campus trying to attract the youth population, and yet somehow classes are still going on (save for my surf class.. grr… I can’t exactly pick up where I left off in Maryville..).
So far, things aren’t as bad as they were on the first day, but who knows. It could get bad by tonight. Let me recant to you how it went down last week. After Steph and I got out of class last Tuesday around 3:30, we kept hearing muffled booms coming from somewhere nearby. As we went for our weekly visit to the International Student Office, Sylvie and Sophie (the tiniest, nicest women ever) informed us to STAY INSIDE tonight- “Don’t leave campus,” they warned. Those booms we were hearing were tear gas bombs being launched in the neighborhood just down the hill. Apparently the protest from the town center had marched all the way to our part of St- Denis and was now agitating the police and army enough to warrant tear gas bombs. Cool.
By dinnertime, it had not abated. In fact, there was a pretty good view of it from our cafeteria by nightfall. So, what do sociology students do? They go check out the riot. Minutes later, Steph, Richard, Ivan, Chaz, and I were walking out of campus and down the hill toward the market and grocery store I frequent about once every two days. Le Chaudron, as the neighborhood is called, is also home to a big bus depot. It’s a busy place. We were immediately greeting with enormous garbage cans overturned and burning in the streets. Gradually we crept closer and closer. At first, it was (and I’m quoting Steph here), a lot like the 4th of July. People were out with their families and children looking at cars maneuvering around the burning poubelle and listening to the shouts of rioters and booms of bombs. Ten police cars passed, and a few army cars passed too. They all had huge shields and the two soldiers on the end of each truck had their rifles out. We moseyed down the street, crossing a soccer field and heading to a side street. More burning garbage, and the sounds got louder. Eventually we could hear the shouts and yells of the rebel men, battling the police. Rocks, bricks, and Molotov cocktails against tear gas and trucks. We were joined by a few of our Creole friends and another Brit, Becky, so the huge group of white Anglophones didn’t look as conspicuous. We still stuck out, though. Steph, Becky, and I were the only women around at this point. Men were stalking by, marching with long, deliberate stomps. They were baring their chests with tshirts swaddled around their faces to protect their lungs from the piercing tear gas. At this point, the bus depot (a small building where you can buy tickets) had burned to bare boards, and stood steaming. Stranded cars fell prey to the masses and were overturned and burned without a second thought. Ivan, Chaz, and I dared to go closer; Stephanie and Richard and Becky hung back, displaying far more sense than I allowed myself to have. I kept thinking how I wanted to document this all, send it to the media, and all the while memorize every detail- I can’t help my sociology leanings sometimes. “Les yeux, les yeux” cried Steve, our native Reunionais friend. Apparently you don’t have to run everytime you see something launched- it may just be a warning shot. Watch it. It may be a bomb of tear gas, the force of which you can feel on your back when the explosion moves the air around you. At this point, a slight drizzle was leaving an itchy film on my skin and making my toes slide in my Chacos. They reminded me once again of how I must stick out. The American white girl in a French uprising. Amazing, amazing experience, but still so bizarre. Not only have I never been exposed to anything like this- Hollywood doesn’t count, but looked scarily similar - but this is my quiet little neighborhood where I buy mangos and potatoes on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. When we saw men sprinting forth from the fog of smoke and tear gas, we ran in the same direction. That’s a rule of a riot; you don’t want to have people behind you. That means you’re on the front line. If you see people run towards you, do a 180 and get moving. Ask questions later. When the bombs launched, we ran. The rain, a silent and almost unnoticed actor in the fiery evening made the whole ordeal ironically more dangerous. We were slipping around while running and looking back. Enough was enough, and the crowds certainly weren’t going to defeat the police force. We returned, blood pumping, chattering because of the adrenaline and marveling at the sites we saw.
Later, a helicopter swooped and hummed low over the city, illuminating the clouds of tear gas and the stronghold of rioters in its beam. Things were quiet just a kilometer up the hill on my pretty campus. By morning, the tear gas bombs were few and far between. 16 arrests, a few injuries, an evening to remember.
Studying abroad- wow. Please know that my parents and brother scolded me well enough for getting so close. I never felt as though me or my life was threatened, and I’m no worse for wear. Just another exciting experience to add to my study abroad adventures.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Le Jardin
Last night at about 1 AM, I was gazing at the ocean- not unusual for me. However, it was such a dreamy night. The moon was so bright that it was casting shadows, even though where I live is pretty well-lit. It was also shining on the ocean, which was something I’ve never seen before. I was mesmerized. If you think back to my post about the sunset, you’ll remember that I try to find exact colors for things- I think it’s so I’ll be sure to remember it when I’m old and far from the memory. So, as I was taking the visual snapshot of the moon on the ocean, I decided it was an ethereal kind of color- definitely not a one-word Crayola color, either. It was gray and green-blue and silver all at the same time, but it moved. The closest tangible thing I could relate it to would be, perhaps, the color of the ripples in a White-out patch after it’s been photocopied. Except slightly greener. Anyway, it was a living color, and it was beautiful.
Then, my eyes wandered to the scene below me. I live on the sixième étage (6th floor), just right of the center of the building, as you look out (ie: looking at the building, my room is slightly to the left). I have a spectacular view of both the mountains and the ocean and the city growing inbetween. I can also see all of the foot traffic that goes in and out of the building. The entrance is actually on the third floor, which holds the front desk, vending machines (where you can get passion fruit flavored soda and hazelnut chocolates), the computer room, and several multi-purpose classrooms. On the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 6th floors are where the students live. But, I digress. On the same level of the first floor is “le jardin” or the courtyard (literally, the garden). I really love to look at it. As I said, I have a good view of the right side of it, as it is divided by the walkway that comes from campus level (the third floor). So, it’s like a sunken courtyard. I hope you can visualize this.
The walkway/parking/hangout area out front connected to the walkway makes a giant “T” with the stem of the T leading to the front doors, and the top of the T making one face of the enormous patio out front. Making sense? Good. So, I want to tell you about what I think about my little view of le jardin.
I find it simply charming. I have no idea who tends to it, who planted it, or really what to think of its existence. On the right side in the corner, next to the door, there are two banana trees (a big bunch of them will be ready in a few more weeks!) and several bushes. They all are shiny and very chlorophyll-y. I imagine that the rich volcanic soil and the endless sunshine make for very happy plants. At least, I’d be happy and well-fed if I were a plant here. A few weeks ago, the banana tree nearest me made a new leaf. At first, it was a long, booger-colored baton, extending from the center of all the other fronds. Then, slowly, it grew longer, and greener, until one morning, after a night of fairly turbulent storming, I saw that it had unfurled and begun to fan itself in the early breeze.
To the right, growing in a crack in le trottoir (sidewalk), is a tangly mess of an impatient plant. Impatients are the little colorful, 5-leaved flowers that my dad used to let me pick up at the Agway when I was 6 or 7 or 8, to plant in my own garden. Imagine seeing the actual plant growing wild in its natural climate, and not in a 6-pack of black plastic. Pleasantly surprising. Its arms are long and have several white blooms at each juncture of stem and leaf. It sort of looks like the land squeezed a pore and out squiggled a flowering plant!
In the middle of the grass, there’s a stump. The tree was cut down a long time ago; the weathered leather-brown color of the middle matches the color of the remaining bark and roots. I wonder what kind of tree it was. Probably coconut- they’re as ubiquitous here as maples and pears are back home. The stump is hatched like the top of an apple pie, or like the back of a piece of clay when you score it to attach to a bigger piece of pottery. The lines are surprisingly exact, and they make me want to trace my fingers through them. Or, stand on it and declare something, like the Lorax would do.
When I first arrived, I used to lean over my railing and watch a Mother Cat and her one Baby live like tigers dans le jardin. The mother is a pale orange, and the baby is gray like a rain cloud. Mother Cat would nap under a shrub, and Baby would creep up in front of her and practice her pouncing skills. Later, Baby would feed, and the two would stalk around like the plants needed patrolling. Naps, playing, feeding, repeat. Now, I hardly see them together, and Baby is nearly the size of Mother Cat. I still want to know how they get in and out. It seems like such an isolated little hide out, but cats are crafty like that.
To finish what I can see from my balcony: just under me there’s a line of bushes with smalls blooms the color of coral. Also, there’s a plant with shiny green and red and yellow stripes. Those abut the sidewalk. Across from them climbing up the wall of the “T” (where the stem of the T and the top of the T meet) are various kinds of vines. Some are alive and some are dead. If I were a snake I’d wind myself up and down in them all day. One can hardly see the faded white fall behind them, and I’m reminded of The Secret Garden or Harry Potter. In front of the wall is the grass patch (with the Apple Pie Stump).
My favorite part of the courtyard is actually what inspired this post. Down in my right corner, there is a rose bush. It’s probably three feet tall and has one main stalk and two smaller ones. It’s interesting, because one of my professors was saying how roses can’t grow here because it’s too hot. Well, the thing about courtyards and roses is that the roses usually don’t just appear there, nor are they abundant enough to make me believe that a seed landed there. So, someone knew that that section of the garden would get just enough light and just enough shade to grow but not scorch the delicate flower. Just four days ago, I spent a good amount of time just staring, partly in disbelief, at the fact that there was a beautiful, perfect bloom on my rosebush. The plant is positioned perfectly so that at night, the light from the stairwell between the ground and first floors is illuminates it. She puts on a show for anyone who has the view and happens to notice. The bloom was a beige-peach color, and I imagined what it smelled like. Like a rose in the US? Probably not, but who will ever know?
On Saturday morning, the flower had dropped all of its petals, and the plant blended back into the green background of le jardin. Who planted that bush, I wonder. The thing about roses is that they are so stereotypically French-romantic (to me, at least), and I stereotypically love them. I am always reminded of the rose character in Le Petit Prince. So, it seemed trite to write about a rose I saw this one time in France, but I couldn’t help myself. If you had seen it bloom, you would have to write too.
I’m not posting a picture, because by now, you all have an image of what it looks like in your mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin your imagined jardin. We all need to use our imaginations from time to time. Have fun exploring the courtyard with yours.
Then, my eyes wandered to the scene below me. I live on the sixième étage (6th floor), just right of the center of the building, as you look out (ie: looking at the building, my room is slightly to the left). I have a spectacular view of both the mountains and the ocean and the city growing inbetween. I can also see all of the foot traffic that goes in and out of the building. The entrance is actually on the third floor, which holds the front desk, vending machines (where you can get passion fruit flavored soda and hazelnut chocolates), the computer room, and several multi-purpose classrooms. On the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 6th floors are where the students live. But, I digress. On the same level of the first floor is “le jardin” or the courtyard (literally, the garden). I really love to look at it. As I said, I have a good view of the right side of it, as it is divided by the walkway that comes from campus level (the third floor). So, it’s like a sunken courtyard. I hope you can visualize this.
The walkway/parking/hangout area out front connected to the walkway makes a giant “T” with the stem of the T leading to the front doors, and the top of the T making one face of the enormous patio out front. Making sense? Good. So, I want to tell you about what I think about my little view of le jardin.
I find it simply charming. I have no idea who tends to it, who planted it, or really what to think of its existence. On the right side in the corner, next to the door, there are two banana trees (a big bunch of them will be ready in a few more weeks!) and several bushes. They all are shiny and very chlorophyll-y. I imagine that the rich volcanic soil and the endless sunshine make for very happy plants. At least, I’d be happy and well-fed if I were a plant here. A few weeks ago, the banana tree nearest me made a new leaf. At first, it was a long, booger-colored baton, extending from the center of all the other fronds. Then, slowly, it grew longer, and greener, until one morning, after a night of fairly turbulent storming, I saw that it had unfurled and begun to fan itself in the early breeze.
To the right, growing in a crack in le trottoir (sidewalk), is a tangly mess of an impatient plant. Impatients are the little colorful, 5-leaved flowers that my dad used to let me pick up at the Agway when I was 6 or 7 or 8, to plant in my own garden. Imagine seeing the actual plant growing wild in its natural climate, and not in a 6-pack of black plastic. Pleasantly surprising. Its arms are long and have several white blooms at each juncture of stem and leaf. It sort of looks like the land squeezed a pore and out squiggled a flowering plant!
In the middle of the grass, there’s a stump. The tree was cut down a long time ago; the weathered leather-brown color of the middle matches the color of the remaining bark and roots. I wonder what kind of tree it was. Probably coconut- they’re as ubiquitous here as maples and pears are back home. The stump is hatched like the top of an apple pie, or like the back of a piece of clay when you score it to attach to a bigger piece of pottery. The lines are surprisingly exact, and they make me want to trace my fingers through them. Or, stand on it and declare something, like the Lorax would do.
When I first arrived, I used to lean over my railing and watch a Mother Cat and her one Baby live like tigers dans le jardin. The mother is a pale orange, and the baby is gray like a rain cloud. Mother Cat would nap under a shrub, and Baby would creep up in front of her and practice her pouncing skills. Later, Baby would feed, and the two would stalk around like the plants needed patrolling. Naps, playing, feeding, repeat. Now, I hardly see them together, and Baby is nearly the size of Mother Cat. I still want to know how they get in and out. It seems like such an isolated little hide out, but cats are crafty like that.
To finish what I can see from my balcony: just under me there’s a line of bushes with smalls blooms the color of coral. Also, there’s a plant with shiny green and red and yellow stripes. Those abut the sidewalk. Across from them climbing up the wall of the “T” (where the stem of the T and the top of the T meet) are various kinds of vines. Some are alive and some are dead. If I were a snake I’d wind myself up and down in them all day. One can hardly see the faded white fall behind them, and I’m reminded of The Secret Garden or Harry Potter. In front of the wall is the grass patch (with the Apple Pie Stump).
My favorite part of the courtyard is actually what inspired this post. Down in my right corner, there is a rose bush. It’s probably three feet tall and has one main stalk and two smaller ones. It’s interesting, because one of my professors was saying how roses can’t grow here because it’s too hot. Well, the thing about courtyards and roses is that the roses usually don’t just appear there, nor are they abundant enough to make me believe that a seed landed there. So, someone knew that that section of the garden would get just enough light and just enough shade to grow but not scorch the delicate flower. Just four days ago, I spent a good amount of time just staring, partly in disbelief, at the fact that there was a beautiful, perfect bloom on my rosebush. The plant is positioned perfectly so that at night, the light from the stairwell between the ground and first floors is illuminates it. She puts on a show for anyone who has the view and happens to notice. The bloom was a beige-peach color, and I imagined what it smelled like. Like a rose in the US? Probably not, but who will ever know?
On Saturday morning, the flower had dropped all of its petals, and the plant blended back into the green background of le jardin. Who planted that bush, I wonder. The thing about roses is that they are so stereotypically French-romantic (to me, at least), and I stereotypically love them. I am always reminded of the rose character in Le Petit Prince. So, it seemed trite to write about a rose I saw this one time in France, but I couldn’t help myself. If you had seen it bloom, you would have to write too.
I’m not posting a picture, because by now, you all have an image of what it looks like in your mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin your imagined jardin. We all need to use our imaginations from time to time. Have fun exploring the courtyard with yours.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Strikes and Iguanas and Anti-Climactic Vanilla Cooperatives
Sorry for my absence. Things have been sort of busy around here, what, with me actually going to class on a regular basis. Also, as you know, internet connections aren't the best, so I'm happy to be able to post. And now, time for a brief-ish rundown of my past 10 days or so.
I know I promised a blog on the stike that was happening/is happening/will continue to happen on campus. Well, as you know, the French love to strike. To them, the government is always to blame. So, naturally, when the Minister of Education proposed sweeping changes to the national university system, everyone freaked. It is actually kind of a big deal, because this is the first time that the schools have held wide strikes. I think at its height 70 universities were shut down (it's around 50 now). You see, professors are civil servants (and get fairly good benefits), so if they strike the government doesn't care because they don't have to pay them. Unfortunately, now that everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, they can't really ignore it. Way to go strikers!
So, I must confess that I'm not actually sure what they're protesting. I am fairly certain it involves the following: cutting professors' benefits, cutting/altering research funding, changing the way the poor get scholarships. Again, I can't be too sure, but that is what I gather from my professors. Regardless, the strike has come to Reunion. Here's what's happened so far: in the second week of school, class kept being interrupted by polite students that quietly knocked on the door and asked the professor for a few minutes. They explained that there was strike and here's why they were striking. They professor promptly stopped lecturing and sat back, giving these complete strangers the floor. As I said the French love and respect their strikers. The same week, the students started to protest and march around campus one morning. There were a few hundred, so it looked cool. Of course, the sociology major in me was immediately attracted to the French Culture happening, so I followed like a bug to a lightbulb, and resisted the urge to take along a notebook for my records. Our large group ended up in front of the administration building, locking themselves between the builiding and the street. Meanwhile, the crowd blew horns, beat drums, smoked weed, threw some fruit and blocked traffic. It was pretty cool. Then, the leader said they were breaking for lunch and would resume later. So French. They love their tuna and corn sandwiches on baguettes, too.
After that, the campus would be sproadically closed. One day, I woke up to find that students had torn down lampposts and put them in front of the gates so profs couldn't get it. That week the President completely shut down campus for a day. Since then, it's been completely closed one more time and half closed (lampposts blocking cars and students only allowing foot traffic) about three times. It may sound cool, but it's actually sort of annoying. I'm here to get a formal French education. While I am learning a lot about the culture, not being able to go to my French translation, culture, and grammar courses is frustrating. I only have four more months, after all! Still, I'm sure those of you out there who know me are saying, "geez, Chels, quit being such a nerd and enjoy not having class." Don't worry- I do. It just highlights the difference that the French and Americans place on education. Everyday I learn something new, and for the most part, class has resumed as normal.
At first I thought I wasn't going to be able to get credit (if I don't have class I can't have homework and I can't get a grade! Ahh calm down, Chelsea). But now, it's pretty evident that there's only a small group of students that are totally gung-ho about it. This past week they made a paper-mache Sarcozy to BURN (yes, burn-- if students did that with Bush [or Obama], they'd be shot or lynched or dragged behind a truck or something) but I'm not actually sure what became of it. Campus is scheduled to be closed to cars tomorrow (read: the students striking voted to put the lampposts in the road), so who knows if class is actually on. It's impossible to tell which professors are striking, too. Even if they aren't, enough students to hold class might not show up, so class still may not happen. Sigh. Campus may be totally closed on Thursday, though.
On a completely unrelated note, the ENTIRE ISLAND may be on strike this Thursday because of all of the economic changes Sarcozy wants to make to French Overseas Departments (Guadaloupe, Martinique, French Guiana, and Reunion). You may have heard that there were some pretty serious protests in Guadaloupe in the past two weeks. Basically, Sarcozy appeased the crowds (sort of) by promising them 240 more Euros a month (to civil servants), but he failed to promise the same for the other three overseas departments.. cough cough.. Reunion. Now the mindset is, "well, Guadaloupe got the money, so if we strike, we will too!" So, now, if the University isn't striking, the island will be. My translation professor told us to expect the worse, stock up on food, and if possible, go downtown to watch the protests at the prefecture. Oh so cheerily she offered: "Yes, wear your tennis shoes, and if they start throwing rocks, the riot police will respond with tear gas, and you can just walk down a side street and be out of it!"
France. Love it.
I'll let you know how that goes. In other news, this blog post is getting entirely too long, but I'm perservering because I owe you stories on seeing my first iguana and lame vanilla museums. Last weekend I went to Salazie, which is one of the cirques of the island. It's beyond gorgeous. The cirques are ancient collapsed volcanoes, so once you're in, you're just surrounded by an impenitrible wall of verdant tropical life. Team Anglophone (the Americans and the British) searched for a cascade (waterfall), but failed. Instead, we had a great time trekking around on a trail, stumbling upon adorable Creole homes and gorgeous vistas. I swore that I was going to see a terradactyl fly over the canyon. The plants were so big and we were so far from people that I swore I was in the Mesozoic Period or something. Amazing. So worth it. Anndddd on the way out, we were stopped for a water break and we saw an iguana! He was so cool and orange and striped. I would have liked to have had a conversation with him, perhaps about his opinion on paperback books versus hardcovers. I think he'd have been into it. I refrained from asking, and we hastened to get back to St. Denis and get ready to go to a rave (techno music all night long, yes!!!) and sleep on the beach. Success. Team America (Me, Katie, and Stephanie) dominated that weekend.
This weekend was just a good one. Saturday, Stephanie and I spent the day with our German friends and spoke French the whole time (yes!!!). We were searching for a Vanilla plantation/museum, but it was in the next town over, so this really nice woman took us in her tiny French car. The museum ended up being kind of lame, but I did learn some good things about the plant. For example, did you know that the vanilla plant originated in Mexico? Also, that it doesn't self-pollinate and that it must be done by hand in Reunion? I sure didn't. Yesterday we went to the beach and got supremely sunburned. Good thing I just got an enormous shipment of aloe from my parents (thanks Mom and Dad!). I was so worried I wouldn't have a use for it! Haha. At the beach, I snorkeled for about 45 minutes and saw the most INCREDIBLE sea life, including my favorite fish for the first time ever!! (http://blog.nesthostelsvalencia.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/long-fin-angel-fish.jpg). I don't know why I like it so much, but I think they're gorgeous. I saw about ten, and one was about the size of my head! So cool. I obviously didn't take the picture, but y'all get the idea. Thanks, Google Image.
Well, I hope your eyes aren't stinging from reading my short novel. As always, please keep in touch and tell me about what you're doing! If you send me your address, I will send you a postcard or letter. Stay warm in the crazy storm. I'll eat a fresh pineapple and think nostalgically about what winter feels like...
Bisous!
I know I promised a blog on the stike that was happening/is happening/will continue to happen on campus. Well, as you know, the French love to strike. To them, the government is always to blame. So, naturally, when the Minister of Education proposed sweeping changes to the national university system, everyone freaked. It is actually kind of a big deal, because this is the first time that the schools have held wide strikes. I think at its height 70 universities were shut down (it's around 50 now). You see, professors are civil servants (and get fairly good benefits), so if they strike the government doesn't care because they don't have to pay them. Unfortunately, now that everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, they can't really ignore it. Way to go strikers!
So, I must confess that I'm not actually sure what they're protesting. I am fairly certain it involves the following: cutting professors' benefits, cutting/altering research funding, changing the way the poor get scholarships. Again, I can't be too sure, but that is what I gather from my professors. Regardless, the strike has come to Reunion. Here's what's happened so far: in the second week of school, class kept being interrupted by polite students that quietly knocked on the door and asked the professor for a few minutes. They explained that there was strike and here's why they were striking. They professor promptly stopped lecturing and sat back, giving these complete strangers the floor. As I said the French love and respect their strikers. The same week, the students started to protest and march around campus one morning. There were a few hundred, so it looked cool. Of course, the sociology major in me was immediately attracted to the French Culture happening, so I followed like a bug to a lightbulb, and resisted the urge to take along a notebook for my records. Our large group ended up in front of the administration building, locking themselves between the builiding and the street. Meanwhile, the crowd blew horns, beat drums, smoked weed, threw some fruit and blocked traffic. It was pretty cool. Then, the leader said they were breaking for lunch and would resume later. So French. They love their tuna and corn sandwiches on baguettes, too.
After that, the campus would be sproadically closed. One day, I woke up to find that students had torn down lampposts and put them in front of the gates so profs couldn't get it. That week the President completely shut down campus for a day. Since then, it's been completely closed one more time and half closed (lampposts blocking cars and students only allowing foot traffic) about three times. It may sound cool, but it's actually sort of annoying. I'm here to get a formal French education. While I am learning a lot about the culture, not being able to go to my French translation, culture, and grammar courses is frustrating. I only have four more months, after all! Still, I'm sure those of you out there who know me are saying, "geez, Chels, quit being such a nerd and enjoy not having class." Don't worry- I do. It just highlights the difference that the French and Americans place on education. Everyday I learn something new, and for the most part, class has resumed as normal.
At first I thought I wasn't going to be able to get credit (if I don't have class I can't have homework and I can't get a grade! Ahh calm down, Chelsea). But now, it's pretty evident that there's only a small group of students that are totally gung-ho about it. This past week they made a paper-mache Sarcozy to BURN (yes, burn-- if students did that with Bush [or Obama], they'd be shot or lynched or dragged behind a truck or something) but I'm not actually sure what became of it. Campus is scheduled to be closed to cars tomorrow (read: the students striking voted to put the lampposts in the road), so who knows if class is actually on. It's impossible to tell which professors are striking, too. Even if they aren't, enough students to hold class might not show up, so class still may not happen. Sigh. Campus may be totally closed on Thursday, though.
On a completely unrelated note, the ENTIRE ISLAND may be on strike this Thursday because of all of the economic changes Sarcozy wants to make to French Overseas Departments (Guadaloupe, Martinique, French Guiana, and Reunion). You may have heard that there were some pretty serious protests in Guadaloupe in the past two weeks. Basically, Sarcozy appeased the crowds (sort of) by promising them 240 more Euros a month (to civil servants), but he failed to promise the same for the other three overseas departments.. cough cough.. Reunion. Now the mindset is, "well, Guadaloupe got the money, so if we strike, we will too!" So, now, if the University isn't striking, the island will be. My translation professor told us to expect the worse, stock up on food, and if possible, go downtown to watch the protests at the prefecture. Oh so cheerily she offered: "Yes, wear your tennis shoes, and if they start throwing rocks, the riot police will respond with tear gas, and you can just walk down a side street and be out of it!"
France. Love it.
I'll let you know how that goes. In other news, this blog post is getting entirely too long, but I'm perservering because I owe you stories on seeing my first iguana and lame vanilla museums. Last weekend I went to Salazie, which is one of the cirques of the island. It's beyond gorgeous. The cirques are ancient collapsed volcanoes, so once you're in, you're just surrounded by an impenitrible wall of verdant tropical life. Team Anglophone (the Americans and the British) searched for a cascade (waterfall), but failed. Instead, we had a great time trekking around on a trail, stumbling upon adorable Creole homes and gorgeous vistas. I swore that I was going to see a terradactyl fly over the canyon. The plants were so big and we were so far from people that I swore I was in the Mesozoic Period or something. Amazing. So worth it. Anndddd on the way out, we were stopped for a water break and we saw an iguana! He was so cool and orange and striped. I would have liked to have had a conversation with him, perhaps about his opinion on paperback books versus hardcovers. I think he'd have been into it. I refrained from asking, and we hastened to get back to St. Denis and get ready to go to a rave (techno music all night long, yes!!!) and sleep on the beach. Success. Team America (Me, Katie, and Stephanie) dominated that weekend.
This weekend was just a good one. Saturday, Stephanie and I spent the day with our German friends and spoke French the whole time (yes!!!). We were searching for a Vanilla plantation/museum, but it was in the next town over, so this really nice woman took us in her tiny French car. The museum ended up being kind of lame, but I did learn some good things about the plant. For example, did you know that the vanilla plant originated in Mexico? Also, that it doesn't self-pollinate and that it must be done by hand in Reunion? I sure didn't. Yesterday we went to the beach and got supremely sunburned. Good thing I just got an enormous shipment of aloe from my parents (thanks Mom and Dad!). I was so worried I wouldn't have a use for it! Haha. At the beach, I snorkeled for about 45 minutes and saw the most INCREDIBLE sea life, including my favorite fish for the first time ever!! (http://blog.nesthostelsvalencia.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/long-fin-angel-fish.jpg). I don't know why I like it so much, but I think they're gorgeous. I saw about ten, and one was about the size of my head! So cool. I obviously didn't take the picture, but y'all get the idea. Thanks, Google Image.
Well, I hope your eyes aren't stinging from reading my short novel. As always, please keep in touch and tell me about what you're doing! If you send me your address, I will send you a postcard or letter. Stay warm in the crazy storm. I'll eat a fresh pineapple and think nostalgically about what winter feels like...
Bisous!
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