Some Finalities

I am not exaggerating when I say things like "the French love butter/jam/cheese/yogurt. Sometimes I wish I was. Displayed above is a whole row in the Frigo of confiture. They LOVE this stuff. And they have so many different flavors too. In the fridge at that moment there they had fig, rhubarb, cherry, and prune for sure. I am not so sure about the others.

When Leo was a child Fred used to wear an outfit with black pants, a black shirt, and the hat seen in this photo. One day Fred told Leo he had a secret that Leo wasn't allowed to tell anyone. The secret was that Fred was Zorro. As the story goes, months later Leo cam out of his room wearing his own black pants and shirt, with his Dad's black hat and said "I am the son of Zorro." Fred says he was shocked silly because he didn't think Leo would remember that. That's when Fred had to tell Leo that he was not really Zorro and that is also when Leo busted out into tears. If I were Leo I would have wept too.


I think that by far the raunchiest photo that I've taken here is of this statue. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!? I feel like my eyes need to be shielded. This half woman half horse is making out passionately with this man who is twisted over the top of her horse back all the while exposing his male parts. I'll let you ponder that.



There are far too many inappropriate and bizarre statues in Lyon to count. I really like to get in on their action too. I can only hope that because I am so fond of the statues here, and because I spend so much time hanging out with them, that one day Lyon will build an inappropriate statue of me. Or maybe if I spend enough time cuddling with them I'll just become one. Either way, I am content.

We had a final dinner last night for the program with students, parents, teachers, and a random Brazilian student. It was a train wreck. It was a very expensive dinner, served on the banks of the Soane river. I guess the expense was in the location because I sure hope the fried fish I ate for dinner weren't worth that.




I was told many times by Sipe that this was a fancy dinner. When they brought out an empty white plate for me I got really excited thinking, oh what fine French cuisine will they be putting on this? When the man came out with a giant silver tray of little fried minnows and told us all to share it I was sure that it must be some kind of special French appetizer that the Bourgeoisie pretend to eat when they have soirees, but I was wrong. That was our whole meal. And the poor fish were still looking at us, and frowning. And if I looked at them from a distance without my glasses they looked like little french fries. It was so depressing, I don't even know how else to put it.
Also at the dinner there were some awkward moments. Some people gave some speeches. Some of them were nice speeches that others did not appreciate, others were drunk speeches, which I really appreciated. I felt like I was at a wedding gone wrong.
One student stood up to thank his parents and his host Mom interrupted him and said she didn't appreciate him being loud at three o'clock in the morning and that she didn't appreciate when he came in drunk.
Someone else got up to give a special thank you to some people, including the assistant, who he had been having relations with over the past six weeks. Everyone got quiet for a second, and then there were lots of outbursts of laughing.
Like I said, it was comparable to a bad wedding.

I really appreciate the love Lyonnais love for scooters and bicycles. They do everything by means of bike and scooter. Please, take a look.




Those two with the guitar were having way too much fun. I wish I could have joined them on their romantic date. The same day I encountered these two yahoos I was also followed by a boy on a bike who kept pointing to his lips and saying, "Freench Kees! just one, just one! Freench Kees!" I had to walk on the grass so he would stop following me. I told him I had herpes on my mouth and that he didn't want a kiss from me, but then I realized the only english he knew was French Kiss because my words weren't ringing any bells. Also...The family who rides scooters at the zoo together sticks together. I don't know why Mom never took us to the Zoo with our scooters.

I'm a user of illegal drugs.

THE SALE OF LACTAID IS ILLEGAL IN FRANCE.
I went to the pharmacy yesterday looking for it and the girl kept trying to sell me hearburn medication. I mean I have a lot of problems, sure, but heartburn is not one of them, and a remedy for that sure as heck isn't going to help me break down lactase. Anyway she was getting really irritated with me because I kept explaining lactose intolerance to her, and she kept pretending to understand and shove those heartburn tablets at me. Eventually we got on the internet and she searched lactose intolerance in France. That's when we came to the realization that indeed so few people have the intolerance that there is no market for the sale of a product like lactaid in France, and therefore it is not allowed. If someone does happen to be lactose intolerant they have to have someone from the U S of A ship it to them. Astounding is it not!? My mind was boggled. I am lactaidless.

Daily Routine

Today was my last day to go through my usual, daily routine in Lyon. That is wake up, eat, commute, have class. I am very sad for that because I enjoyed my daily routine. I found it to be quite relaxing and I will really miss it when I leave. Over the weeks I've tried to document bits and pieces of my routine along the way. This is my attempt at threading them together in a logical order:

First things first, a very French breakfast for a very French girl. When they left the room I took a picture of what I get served for breakfast from time to time. This is baguette with lots of butter on it and some kind of jam. If I were really french I would also probably have a bowl of milk to dip this in.

leave the house

walk past Louise and Antoine's house (our house is built in the backyard of Martine's parents.

Open the gate and venture onto the Point du Jour

Lollygag down the rue

turn the corner

oogle at the grocery store and boulangerie




Cross the street, walk past the bread and breakfast and marvel at how there are so many old men smoking out on the patio in their pajamas, sit at the point du jour bus stop and stare at people as they go in and out of the other boulangerie across the way.

Pick a good bus seat and count down the stops as they pass by until we get to St. Just. Exit the bus, swipe my card in, and wait for the Funiculaire to take me down the hill.
Stare out the window as the funiculaire drops me down through the old renaissance buildings of Vieux Lyon and listen to music and write.



Go down the longest escalator ever. If you stand on it and don't walk at all it takes four minutes to get down. I often times see people napping, reading, doing the crossword puzzle, and sitting on this in the morning. It's a nice time to unwind or push the snooze button on your alarm clock one more time if you are into that. Then again there are always the people with their bref cases and scooter who go flying down the thing and run to the Metro like Godzilla is chasing them. One morning I decided I wanted to experience the rush so I followed a man in a tan suit with a brown brief case on the chase. It was rather disappointing, not as exciting as I thought it would be.

Follow the Metro Line D signs, the green line, under the tunnel, down the stairs, and to the chairs to sit, wait, and people watch for two minutes or less.



Don't miss the Metro. Get onto it when the doors open and squirm your way into a snug corner for a ten minute ride underground.
Get off the Metro at Sans Souci. The name of this stop means without worries. Encouraging right? I am glad I don't have to get off at the Guillotiere everyday, wouldn't want to ge my head chopped off. I much prefer the name of my stop.

Get greeted by the gas station. Hello to you too.
Be wooed by French advertising or "pubes" (only pronounced more like poobs) as they call them. What the heck is even going on here? I found my love in a field of cows too.

Oh hey sciences-U! Time for class. Guess I should take the elevator to the 7th floor.
The happy room awaits us....
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Everyone feels pretty good about failing their civilization tst, especially the creepy dummy who hangs out over there in the corner from time to time. Do the very American thing intbetween classes and visit the vending machine. Do the very French thing and visit the espresso making vending machine. Don't worry about Jeff's wardrobe, this is what happen when your alternative pair of shoes get wet the night before and your host parents have forgotten about your laundry. We all have these days.


OH how I will miss the ever so thrilling ritual of commuting to school in the morning in Lyon. It has become so soothing...

Le Quatre Juillet

Pre-gaming on the 3rd of July: Elliott's English class sang a song at an American festival on Saturday. I entered into the event with a clear mind and no preconceptions seeing as I just simply did not know what to expect at an American celebration in France. I was blown off my feet when I realized that the French had more American pride than I've ever seen at one place in the USA. I felt so at home that it was mysteriously uncomfortable. There were white tents set up everywhere selling cowboy hats and cowboy boots-naturally because all of America is a rodeo-and people were wearing American flag purses, skirts, hats, suspenders, earrings, capes. It was the epitome of festive.
I asked Fred how to say suspenders in French. I saw the man below and pointed. He told me their name, I can't remember it exactly but I know it starts with a b. Then he reciprocated and asked me how to say the word in English. He then giggled and told me that this was another Faux Ami. The direct translation of suspenders into French is a jock strap he told me, and also a bra strap, because they suspend your part he said as he made a cradling motion. Good to know.
We watched Elliott and class mates sing. They sang a country music song written by his professor. Let's be blunt here, it's impossible to understand a mass of children when they are French and they are trying to sing in English with a southern accent. Something about that just doesn't click unfortunately and I had no idea what they were saying. By the look on Elliott's face he didn't really know what was going on either. He was wearing his Native Pride hat though which he purchased on their trip to the US. It's is favorite hat and rightly so I think.

This is the first time in my life I've ever spent the fourth of July not in the United States. I must admit, I was a bit bummed to not be on NE 79th street setting everything I own on fire and blowing up cones, but then again I am in France so I really can't complain, because I spent my fourth of July in the Mountains and still got home in time for a festive, patriotic celebration.
Today was the first day in Mom and Pop Jouaret history that all three boys we gone from home at once. No thanks to me though, Mom and Pop Jouaret still have a birdy in the nest and that birdy is me. In the words of pop Jouaret they traded three boys for one girl-I'd say it's a fair trade. And they were still kind enough to tote me 2 hours away to the absolutely astounding town of Annecy- A potential candidate for the 2018 winter Olympics- a true beauty.
I am proud to say that I wore my American flag socks to celebrate the day. I don't think many Americans can say that they celebrated their fourth in Annecy however I was not alone. I know this because as I was picknicking in the park with my parents there were two American men squabbling in their wet boxer-briefs. I know that they were American because they were loud and because they spoke with a slight southern twang, I know that they were men because there boxer briefs were very wet. Made me even more proud to be an American. I also know that there were other Americans because there was a huge international triathlon happening that day too. It made me slightly jealous and now I really want to participate some day as an excuse to go back to the Lovely village of Annecy.Martine was cheering them on out the window, which brought back memories of my OPXC days and also made me wonder what kind of cross country watching parents Martine and Fred would be. I think Martine would be one of those parents that got extremely worked up for her child to the point of tears and Fred would wonder around calmly in one of his numerous hats and snap photos with his SLR. Perhaps I will come back to participate in the Annecy triathlon if only to see what kind of corwd participants Mom and Dad Jouaret become. In summary, it was a great day for Americans to celebrate the fourth in Anncey. We took a stroll around the turquoise lake. I was very surprised when I realized that not all lakes were brown and sludgy. I guess that's the misconception that growing up in Missouri will plant into your brain though. We had a romantic picnic for three on a blanket. And we enjoyed basking in the fresh breezy air that Annecy had to offer. That stone building is an old jail, I found it interesting and also very pretty.
That night Danny's host Mom had a massive fourth of July celebration for all of the American students. It was a mix up in my annual routine, but then again, change is good right? I didn't set anything on fire at the party, although when the cherry pie came out with candles on top I was really tempted to burn the star bandana that I had tied around my neck. That wouldn't have been very polite though would it? As usual I was doing my best to look as tacky and American as possible while most of my other class mates tried for the classy look. I guess I didn't get the memo.
If anyone else was on board with the tacky American it was Steven. He was afterall wearing those boots. He started out with jeans. He was asked by some of the girls if he would turn them into jorts, he refused at first, and then after having them cut he begged to go shorter.
alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490476256862906338" /> We were supposed to prepare and bring an American dish to the American Party. I decided to prepare Jell-O which seemed like a good idea, however my hot body melted it on the bus ride to the festivities so then it got put into the freezer. It was never quite the same after that. The Jello-O wasn't a big hit with the Americans but it caught the interest of the French. After coaxing a few of them into trying it they responded with words like, "bizarre," "interesting," "different." I guess I can count that as a success. I also spent a good portion of my evening stalking Laura's host family for her. She said she wanted pictures of them but felt weird asking. I am also secretly glad she set me on the mission of stalking her host family because her youngest host brother, Andeole, it probably the cutest child I've seen in a good while. He is wearing Birkenstocks and has a bowl cut. You are welcome Kimmy.
When it came time to leave the party I entered into the house to thank Danny's mom only to find that nobody was actually in the house but there was porn playing on the TV. That's when I scooped the remainder of my Jell-O onto a plate to leave there and took my casserole dish and left.
I was given directions to my bus stop but unfortunately I never found it in the dark. I walked down the street it was supposedly on multiple times and only found bus stops for my bus going to other direction. After aimlessly wandering I found a map and decided to try and retrace my steps back to the point du jour until I found a stop to wait at. As I was doing so I saw my bus, bus 42, barreling down the road in front of me headed toward St. Just-my direction. I began jumping up and down, waving, Jello-O remnants in hand, because I was desperate to get home. It was late and if I missed that bus I missed al buses. I felt momentary relief as I made eye contact with the bus driver and then panic as the bus driver took a sharp turn to the left a street ahead of me. I took of in a dead sprint as I jumped/waved/flailed my dish. I chased the bus driver about three blocks until he got stopped at a red light. Right as I began to catch up the light turned green and the bus driver started to go again. In my mind I was thinking to myself that even if he didn't stop I could attempt to follow the route home. He must have felt really guilty though because as he began to start he stopped, then went, then finally stopped again and let me lunge onto the bus. By the time I arrived home it was July 5th and I was still out of breath. I'd say I lived a fairly lively July fourth 2010, and I am happy to say that I still came out alive the next day.