l'Entrée de la Ville

One of the most vivid way to understand the history of Nevers is by studying architecture and monuments. Nevers is a city that (barring the Roman era, from which we have only archeological remains and not architectural ones) was constructed in more or less three waves: the first, in the middle ages-renaissance with the Palais Ducal and Cathedral, the second, in the second half of the nineteenth century with Hausman-style bourgeois immeubles (apartment buildings), and the third, beginning after the second world war with more suburban-style individual houses. The contrasts between the architectural styles of these periods is quite stark, especially, once one is aware of them. The division between the quartiers (neighborhoods) is nette (neat, clear, distinct), and it's easy to tell when you're passing from one to the next.

The river traverses, and thus joins, the three kinds of quartiers. In Nevers, two ponts (bridges) represent the two more recent eras of development, the romantic period and the contemporary period. For what remains of the medieval period, however, one se demande (asks oneself) how people arrived in the town. Well, one of the tourist landmarks is the Porte de Croux (literally the door of Croux-- I still haven't been able to figure out exactly what this means). This "door" is a kind of entryway to the city with an arch. The tourist plaque in front of it explains that it was a symbol of welcome to the city. Of course, the plaque goes on to say that it was equipped with all of the latest defense mechanisms for the time period, including towers, arrow holes, and speared gates. The Porte de Croux is a complex of two arches, which, during the medieval period were separated by a moat, as far as I can understand from drawings I've seen. The first arch was meant to protect against military advancements such as boulets de fonte (melting cannonballs, what I imagine to be made out of still hot iron).

While the presence of these arches doesn't explain the problem of how to ford the river during the medieval period, it does serve to mark the beginning of the medieval quartier. Once you pass through, or next to, la Porte de Croux, you have no question as to where you are. Inside the ruins of the old remparts (ramparts, or city walls), you feel the 600 year-old history of the neighborhood, which, on by means of its slopped streets, leads to the top of the butte (hilltop) where the Cathédrale and Palais ducal dominate.

A walk along the remparts down to the river never fails to take me out of my present time, worries, and projects, even if only for the short instance it takes to notice the curious and perpetual shade of grey that colors the low-hanging sky and its ever-present clouds. The other day, while walking this route, I decided to read the little tourist placards I just mentioned. While glancing over them, I made a very happy discovery: the drawing of the two arches during the medieval period is accredited to one Charles Bossu! Recognize the name? It's the man after whom my street is named! I now have a stronger affinity for Général Bossu, and aspire to, like him, one day have a sketch of mine grace a tourist plaque, ensuring me a long legacy and eternal renown. I also am feeling more and more attached to this peculiar netherworld with its doom and gloom. Although I'm leaving tomorrow for a trip to the states, I'll be looking forward, in some inexplicable way, to retrouver (go back to) this dreamworld.

Biscuits dans la poche

I have to admit that, for me, the arrival of l'hiver (winter) in Never has not been tout à fait appréciée (exactly appreciated). It's not that it's particularly froid (cold), but it does rain a lot here, and it's always gris et nuageux (grey and cloudy). That said, while the weather and the fact that I didn't know many people kept me from going out at night for a while, I'm now perfectly used to it, and a stroll at any time of day is always le bienvenue (welcome). After having had la grippe (the flu) and being scolded for wearing petite chaussures ("little shoes"- mostly ballerina flats), ça y est (there it is), I'm wearing boots, thick scarves, and warm jackets. I've learned to cover up and am now in the habit of doing it. And, if it's raining, which it often is, I'm not too proud to take the bus on occasion, granted that I have 1.10 euros to spare.

So a week ago at church choir practice, I was feeling particularly sociable, wanting to combat l'arrivée d'hiver (the arrival of winter) by giving back in some way to the community that had welcomed me. When Collette, the woman who was sitting next to me at rehearsal, thought that I didn't know "Angles We Have Heard on High," I accepted graciously her singing directly into my ear. Then, when she was asking if anyone in the group could help her watch a video using her DVD player that myseteriously wasn't putting an image on her TV screen, I immediately offered to help. I thought that I've spent maybe too much time wondering what Nevers could offer me and not enough time thinking about what I could offer to Nevers. Besides, when the cold and darkness come with winter, it is certainly the time to tendre la main aux autres (extend your hand to others, or help them out). I agreed to come over to Collette's house after my classes on Tuesday afternoon, and she said she would be around, that she wasn't going out at all. I wrote down her address and promised to see her the following day to solve her technical problem, laughing to myself since I know that I'm not the best technical engineer the world has ever seen.

The following day, it was cold and rainy, as could be expected a Tuesday in December in Nevers. I had class later than I thought, so I left the lycée (high school) at 4pm, headed for centre ville. I wasn't sure where Collette's house was, so I stopped at one of the large city maps that are posted on the sidewalk downtown and reached for the paper on which I had written her address. Mince!(Darn!) J'avais oublié le papier chez moi- c'est pas vrai ! (I had forgotten the paper at my house- that can't be true!) I scanned the neighborhood where I knew Collette lived, and managed to find her street thanks to memory recall, and I headed in her direction. I had to consult another map along the way to make sure I was sure to end up in the right place-- the area was quite nice and mostly populated not with private residences but with cabinets de médecin et d'avocat (doctors' and lawyers' offices). But, before I knew it, I had found 3, rue de l'évêché, and sonnais à la porte (was ringing the doorbell).

Colette opened the door, m'a fait la bise (gave me two air kisses, the standard and warm greeting for friends). She invited me in, out of the cold, and introduced me Marie-Josèphe, who was helping her pay some bills, or clean the house, or some other little household chore. Then, suddenly, the real culture jolt began. Nevermind the bourgeois neighborhood, the well-kept house entirely decorated in beautiful antiques, or the bises for greeting, the old-lady assessment of a young woman is something typically french. As a foreigner in this country, I have an adoptive mother in every woman I meet. Really. These women couldn't resist commenting on how pretty I was, but that my pretty outfit lacked some warmth. I pointed out my boots, socks, tights, double skirt, wool sweater and scarf, which had been topped with a hooded coat, a hat, and a pair of gloves, but they said that I was practically nude and ready to catch cold if I went outside even two minutes dressed the way I was. They of course then wanted to know my life story and listened in awe as I spoke of Florida and university in America. Marie-Josèphe was particularly astounded by my ability to speak french. She herself had never succeeded in gaining knowledge in any foreign languages.

For these ladies, everything was a cause for concern regarding my health. They asked if I could help play the DVD they wanted to watch, and when I successfully switched the TV to the auxillary channel, they called my douée (gifted). They were sure that I was a bit mentally perturbed by all of the knowledge I had. Once the DVD, a recording of a nationally televised mass filmed in Nevers this summer, was playing, it was time to s'installer (settle in) and discuter (converse). Collette offered me something to drink. I asked if she had any tea, which sent her eyes directly in search of the clock. It was 5 pm. "At this late hour? You won't be able to sleep!" I told her I didn't think it was too late, and Marie-Josèphe ironically took my side, saying, "In any case, she's young, she doesn't sleep at all." So, although Collette would rather have served me an alcoholic apératif, I got a hot cup of tea. Well, a cup of hot water and my choice of about 10 varieties of tea. While waiting for the tea to cool down, Collette put herself to work being a host. She went to search me some cookies, even though I told her I wasn't hungry and that I had even eaten a little dessert with lunch. She would have none of my protestations, though, insisting, "Oui, d'accord, mais le dessert est déjà loin !" ("Yes, ok, but dessert was already a long time ago!"). She took out a box of cookies and I timidly put one on my saucer. I really didn't feel like having one.

As we chatted, Collette finished her tea and realized I still had some left. There was some debate as to whether or not we should make more tea, and then Collette realized that maybe I had somewhere to be, and that it was starting to get late. She asked how I was going to go home, and I assured her that I'd be taking the bus, knowing full well in my head that I preferred to take the 20-25 minute walk home. She watched as I bundled back up, and she worried about whether it was raining or if it were too dark outside. I assured her I'd be fine. Then we exchanged numbers, just in case, and I was ready to go. Or almost. Collette offered me some cookies to take with me, "pour casser la croûte" (to break the crust, or to whet one's appetite), as Marie-Josèphe said. I declined, saying that I would really be fine, but Collette insisted. She took a napkin, unfolded it, put a few cookies inside, wrapped them carefully, and tucked the little packet (package) directly in the pocket of my jacket. She then gave me la bise again and showed me to the door, telling me to faire attention (be careful) and prendre soin de moi (take care of myself). I had spent a nice hour in her little house, where at one point I was pretty sure I was never going to arrive.

In walking towards my house, I decided to see if there were, par hasard (by chance), any buses coming soon. It was actually starting to get dark, and it still hadn't stopped drizzling. As I approached l'arrêt de bus (the bus stop), the bus I needed was pulling up, so I ran to hop on. I paid my 1.10 euros and found a seat near the back. As the bus pulled away, I felt the petit packet (little package) in my pocket. I took it out, unwrapped the cookies, and ate one. I was a bit hungry, too. I watched the rues mouillées (wet streets) warm and dry from the window of the bus and thought about taking care of myself. The world, at winter time, can be a difficult place, but les gens sont peuvent souvent être gentils (people can often be nice). It's important to take care of oneself, especially quand il fait froid et la pluie est à rentrer dedans (when it's cold and the rain gets everywhere. So as Nevers brings its winter gloom-- grey, cold, and rainy-- I will be thinking of Collette and taking care of others and myself. I think that those places where the environment is the least comfortable, the people have a bigger capacity for dealing with inconveniences. My way will be having tea with cookies when I need to get warm and making sure to lend a hand when I can be of use.

Grosses bises !

Jeu de mots: Nev'hair coiffure

Okay, so I must confess I don't have much to say about this little aspect of the city. I was walking home one Saturday through the older part of town near St Etienne (pictures to follow), when I saw this sign. A combination of the French sensibility for puns, anglophilia, and general bad taste, I suppose. I have yet to passer chez le coiffeur (go to the hair salon) since I have arrived in Nevers, but something tells me I'll still be looking. Also, to appreciate the full humor, you must know that the french never pronounce the h as americans do, with un petit souffle d'air (with a little breath of air). Instead, they make a sharp, almost glottal attack of the succeeding vowel, so that the word "hair" effectively sounds like "ere". So enjoy, and more to come soon.

Gros bisous !

Ma Tasse de Thé

I'm not sure when I began to love tea. Certainly not when I was a child-- much like coffee, it was one of those very "adult" substances to which not nearly enough sugar could be added to make it drinkable. The bitterness of tea seemed a mysterious paradox to me. How could this liquid, which I associated with nice old ladies and frilly doilies, cut so directly to the deepest reaches of my tastebuds, triggering a reaction of such profound disgust? Whenever it was that I came to love tea (perhaps is was over the course of an adolescence spent drinking iced tea in the South?), present signs show no prospect of a withering of the flame of passion. A good cup of tea provides the strength to surmount any problems. Posing a challenge in itself, there's the restraint required to wait until the water no longer burns the tongue. Yet once the tea reaches a drinkable teaxture, the cooling process happens with a speed just as rapid, if not exponentially moreso. This means that after waiting patiently, one must precipitate-- gracefully, bien entendu (well understood)-- on one's cup so that one can drink the tea before it becomes icy. En outre (otherwise), the healing properties of the tea leaves themselves have been carefully observed by many cultures around the world.

Tea as a substance is of course an undeniably important part of human existance, and tea culture witnesses that. In Carlisle where I used to live, the recreational interest in colonial history had given rise to an antique-style tea parlor, Camelia's Sin, complete with oversized and outrageous hats that gave a nod to our postmodern American desire for anachronism. When I lived in Toulouse, Brititsh-style tea parlors abounded, as the French in general but Toulousains in particular had an obsession for British culture. At these parlors, instead of the full high-tea lunch that Camelia's Sin offered, there were never-ending tea menus and a short list of high-quality cakes to eat as an afternoon treat. Other towns I have visited have offered their own interpretation of tea culture, and many friends have shared their personal tea rituals with me.

In Nevers, I learned recently that tea plays into the role of high society dames bourgeoises (upper class ladies). The one American teacher at my lycée told me that in her husband's social circle, nice ladies didn't work, rather they sat around and drank tea while finishing their darning. Tea is, after all, a much more respectable boisson à consumer (drink to consume) than wine or Coke, of all things. This estimation explains the allure of the tea parlor in Nevers, called En Apar-thé. The tea parlor, which is juste à côté de (right next to) the Porte de Paris, the large arc that leads into the downtown from La Place de la Résistance, is decorated not necessarily in antiques, but certainly in overly-femenine bourgois-bohème (shabby chic) baubles. A large chanedelier hangs over a central table. Ecclectic chairs are grouped around many round groupings, creating an intimate, if not a bit crowded, atmosphere. The clientele is divided between a majority of elderly ladies and usually one table with a mother and daughter. It seems that the women who frequent the parlor have a high consideration for their appearance and are always well-dressed when visiting. Although I haven't seen any darning pulled out of sacs (bags or purses), it wouldn't really surprise me, and I'm sure that one of these winter afternoons I myself will have a knitting project in hand.

En Apar-thé has become somewhat of a destination for my friend Emma and me. We've been there maybe three times already, and the almost exhorbitant price of 3.50 for a pot of tea plus 4.20 for a slice of cake so far hasn't deterred us. I appreciate the salon's numerous green tea offerings, many of which have floral petals or fruit rinds mixed in. Emma's favorite is the Esprit de noël, with almond and spices, and which she has commandé (ordered) all three times we've been. Côté déssert (On the dessert side), En Apar-thé has a simple list of mostly classic french gâteaux (cakes), including mouelleux au chocolat, quatre quarts, and gâteau au noisettes. I've tried a few, and they're all delicious. Served on floral china with a tiny spoon or fork, they certainly invite dainty table manners, and polite conversation. That is, if the people in the parlor understand what you're saying...

All of this to say that on a rainy, grey afternoon in Nevers (where? really?), don't despair, stop in for a cup of tea and une bonne part de gâteau (a good serving of cake), et, bien sûr, de la discussion avec de bonnes copines (and, of course, good conversation with good (girl)friends).

Gros, gros bisous !

Endroit d'honneur: le Palais Ducal

The origins of the city that is now called Nevers are a bit mysterious, if only because a serious archeological investigation has yet to be accomplished in the region. Many people think that the contemporary city of Nevers is located on the site of a Roman town called Noviodunum Aeduorum, and another Roman called Neverinum provides an attractive historical trace. The names of both of these towns provide an obvious link with the contemporary names Nevers and la Nièvre, so the fact that some Roman ruins found in this general region of the Loire river tends to close the link. In any case, Nevers is a town with a rich Common Era history, to which the two symbols of power in the center of town-- the religious power of Cathedral and the temporal power of the Palais Ducal (Ducal Palace)-- give witness. Nevers has certainly known municipal difficulties in the last one hundred years. After the second world war, many neighborhoods were ravaged. Although the cathedral was repaired, it seems that even now there are buildings that suffered from attacks. Furthermore, in the last 50 years, suburban sprawl to the exterior of town has decreased the aesthetic value of the greater communal area. Yet all of that aside, in the second half of the second millenium of the Common Era, Nevers was quite a hub of activity, and the Ducal Palace was the headquaters of an industrious population.

The Palais Ducal distinguishes itself from the rest of the city by its remarkably clean and well-groomed appearance, which offsets even more its distinctive château-esque architecture. It sits at the edge of the central square, the Place Carnot and looks out over two large open spaces with a vista that extends to the Loire. In terms of building materials, the tan brick that composes the palais is also distinctive-- the rest of Nevers is fairly uniformly built of a pale stone or cement-covered stone, depending on the period of construction. Some fanatics for the city claim that the palais ducal in Nevers is the first of the famous "Châteaux de la Loire" the name given to the disparate group of renaissance-era private residences for various royal families that all inhabited the same river on which Nevers is set- La Loire. Although personally I find that appelation (naming) a bit prétentieux (pompous), it is a fancy private residence, the earliest part of whose construction dates to the 15th century. So château or not, it is on the Loire and it is the oldest one there. Also, as it is the only architecture in Nevers that is remotely noble, it dominates the city as a kind of de-facto château.

The Palais Ducal is the pride of Nevers, and the city honors it well. In 1840 it was named a Monument Historique and thus is part of the very first group of monuments preserved under France's highest classification of honor and government protection . Yet, as every part of the contemporary presentation of the palais proves, Nevers is far frompassively contented with its little monument and its sedentary history. For example, the current city blazon (insignia/crest) is a modern sketch of the recognizable towers from the palais. Furthermore, to the side of the palais is a modern tourist office with a small glass pyramid that recalls a renouvellement of a certain Parisian palace (Le Louvre and its pyramid, anyone?). And on the inside of this pyramid is an exhibit that presents the history of Nevers, from earliest times (those Roman remnants I mentioned at the beginning of the post) to the ducal era through to the contemporary period, in which Nevers is known for its Formula One race track (Magny Cours) and faïence (painted porcelin). Above all, since the restauration of the palais in the 1980s, the building is often used for official meetings and events in its many large conference and ball rooms.

If you're ever in Nevers, don't forget to visit the Palais Ducal. When I arrived in the city and was giving my first classes to my high schoolers, they mockingly said I should go visit the palais if I was looking for something to do. But it's true, it's a monument rich in a unique history. A forthcoming blog post will explain a bit more of the familial heritage and the multi-stage construction of the building. The principle families that ruled as the Dukes of Nevers were the Clamcey, Clèves, and Gonzaga, the last of which, you might imagine, had the most profound influence on the ultimately renaissance style of the southerly façade, the side that looks out onto the aforementioned places with the spectacular vista. Climbing the grand spiral staircases and looking out onto the city that shrinks into the landscape of river and hills, one understands and appreciates what it may have been like to mistreat and renounce the paysans et villageois (peasants and villagers). But I don't renounce you villageois, even if the places where we live are far and largely overpowered by the impressive natural barriers that separate us.

Plein de bisous, mes amours !

Le Conservatoire

When I lived in Toulouse, I had the amazing good fortune to take classes at the Conservatoire National de la Région de Toulouse (The National Conservatory of the Region of Toulouse). There, I took oboe lessons with two professors, one of whom had studied at the Paris Conservatory in the 1960s and had thus participated in or at least witnessed the french national school from très proche (up close). This professor, Monsieur Fussis, thus told me all about his experiences with Francis Poulenc as he was working on his Sonate pour hautbois et piano. The Conservatoire in Toulouse was lively, but certainly full of young musicians, mostly in middle and high school, who were considering the pursuit of careers as professional instrumentalists. They were at the age where, if they practiced enough, the musical talent that their teachers had identified when they were very young, could bear fruit in the professional realm. I thus played in a youth orchestra and waited for my lessons with a young high schooler- maybe he was in seconde (sophomore year)? I took my solfège (applied music theory) class with adults, but this was a bit rare, and as I never ran into my classmates at the Conservatoire, I got the distinct impression that there, musical practice revolved around the youth.

Music, Monsieur Fussis once explained to me, is considered by the french a métier (professional activity) much more than an art, so musical education in France is highly regulated. Musical instruction or activity of any kind is rare in a normal school and is for the most part relegated to the regional conservatories. These centers are operated by the state and their curriculum comes from the center of the nation, Paris, where directors decide on the exam pieces, repertory, and instructional methods. Each Conservatoire has its prizes, but the only ones that matter come from Paris. Thus, as students progress, they try their hardest to earn a spot at this renowned musical epicenter, sure that if they have their diploma from this school, they will find work. This means that although Paris is clearly in a distinctly priviledged position, it is not removed in an isolated elitist way. Paris is connected with the whole réseau (network) of Conservatoires, or more aptly, this réseau revolves around the capital. Students thus have the hope of moving to Paris one day if they have both the talent and the discipline to progress to a high level. The standards are high, but they are clear and fair-- in line with the French ideal of égalité (equality).

In Nevers, unlike in Toulouse, the musical activity radiates from an École Nationale de Musique (National School of Music). As far as I have been able to understand, this has the same legal and musical standards as a Conservatoire National except that an Êcole is found in the préfecture du département in contrast to a Conservatoire, which is located in the chef-lieu de la région. It's a bit complicated, sure, but the French love their hierarchies as a result of their extreme centralization. In any case, the Région where Nevers is located, la Bourgogne has its chef-lieu in Dijon. The Département, which is part of the région, is called la Nièvre, and Nevers is the préfecture. Think of Nevers as Gainesville, which is the county seat of Alachua County and Tallahassee as the capital of Florida. The administration works kind of like that. Since Nevers has no Conservatoire, the École Nationale de Musique is the best musical institution in the city and in the wide surrounding area. Here one finds all of the musical activity possible, including individual instruction, group practice, solfège studies: the works. And, since there is no official Conservatoire, when people refer to the school of music, everyone uses the word "conservatoire," to add imprecision to the otherwise orderly system.

As seems to be the case here in Nevers, the conservatoire's network touches many parts of the society. When I told Françoise that I sing and would like to continue studying voice if possible, she told me I needed to go see the director of the conservatoire, whom she knows personally because her children studied music for many years. I went to the conservatoire on my second day in Nevers, introduced myself to the directrice, mentioned Françoise's name, and left my number so I could be contacted when the chorale (large chorus) started its repertory for the fall/winter season. I later learned that a few of the teachers at my lycée sing at the conservatoire, including one of the English teachers, Catherine Lebrun, who volunteered to drive me to the rehearsals, since they begin at 8:30pm on Thursday nights. The rehearsals for the chorale began earlier than expected, and before I knew it, I was being whisked off into the Thursday evening darkness week after week to sing avec les potes (with friends, as they say in the Burgundy region). In all, there are two lycée teachers in the chorale, but I haven't noticed any of my students there. The people there are certainly friendly, and there is always lots of lively discussion as the members arrive for each rehearsal.

One contrast between this École and the Conservatoire in Toulouse: the average age of the people I see there. The chorale is above all an adult group. There are maybe four or five twentysomethings in the group other than myself, and the next age group begins at the cinquantaine (the fifty-year mark). Cela ne me dérange pas (that doesn't bother me), but it certainly is a change of pace to be surrounded by baby boomers and not their children. As I was discussing with Sarah, a french student of musicology and musical pedogogy who sings in the chorale, the frustrating part about the age group is that the adults, paradoxically enough, don't seem to learn their music very quickly. Compared to children, they have lost the habit of adapting to and assimilating new information all the time. The chef de choeur (choir director) usually makes us repeat a stylistic adjustment about five times before everyone in the group has made the change, and even then... enfin (oh well). The group of adults is quite mixed in terms of musical knowledge and voice training, and while a majority has a strong hold of musical expression and the use of the voice, certain hae pronounced difficulty in the sensitivity of the musical phrase. It is great for the community that the Conservatoire offers such a group practice, but I am still mystified that there aren't more young people in the group.

Sarah and I were chatting the other day about musical practice in France, and although the system seems much more strightforward to navigate than the American system, the musical profession is still extremely difficult to penetrate. Contemporary society seems not to have a need for many professional instrumentalists, alors (so) the spaces in musical schools are limited. Sarah realized after years of piano and cello lessons that she would never be a professional, so she attempted a medical degree. After one year of medical school, she had had enough and knew that she had to follow her musical passion. She went to the director of the conservatoire in Nevers to ask what course of study she could follow, and she decided upon teaching: solfège, piano, and directing choirs. She has many years of studies ahead of her, but I think the Conservatory system will help her arrive at her goal. In any case, I'm glad she's there, because she seems to be someone who is in a similar position to mine, and she is helping me understand a lot about the group dynamics in the chorale and in the classe de chant (voice class with both individual and group instruction), which makes the whole experience much richer for me. Le Conservatoire n'est pas que les vieux ! (The Conservatory isn't only for the old people!)

I'll be sure to write more about the cours de chant soon, especially once I understand a bit more about how my voice teacher, a Bulgarian, found her way to Nevers, and what her students have gone on to accomplish. There's a week of activities around a Bulgarian composer, Isabelle Alboulker, that involves many parts of the Conservatory, and that should create some activity in the city as well. But for now, I think it would be good to go sing in a practice room!

A bientôt,

Megan

Comparaison des villes: Beaune et Nevers

From Nevers, take the Bourgogne regional TRE train two hours to the north on the way to Dijon, and you'll find yourself in Beaune. It's a town that is fairly well known, even in the US, for its vineyards and general beauty. It's in the heart of the Burgundy wine region and is surrounded on all sides by very picturesque vigne (grapevines). Inside the town are other marks of the wine industry, including many wine production centers, a professional lycée offering specializations in wine making, and numerous caves à vin (the name for wine cellars that also designates wine shops). Otherwise, if you've heard of Beaune, it might be for its characteristic Burgundy-region toitures (rooftops) with colorful shingles providing decoration through imaginative geometric patterns. Or who knows, maybe the students at one of the other lycées with a tourism degree have succeeded in making their town known à l'étranger (abroad).

Before arriving in the town on the 17th of October, where I was headed for the weekend to visit fellow assistants Annie Worth, Diana Sibbald and Becca Bonthius and to attend a salon de dégustation (tasting fair, although really the translation doesn't do justice to the word "dégustation," which includes a whole spectrum of knowledge of flavors and sensitivity to their qualities and pairings), I wasn't sure what to expect. I had heard that Beaune is a beautiful place, but that was about it.

I took the train on Saturday morning after having the house to myself and almost missed the train because I didn't leave the house with quite enough time to make it to la gare (the train station). Luckily I am quite familiar with Nevers by now and know to take the short route rather than the long route to the station. I ran all the way there and arrived as the train was already in the station. Chouette (great). Luckily, I caught the train and was able to eat my breakfast in peace and read my book. The fact that I had forgotten my carte 12-25 (the discount card for passangers aged from 12 to 25 with which I had bought my ticket and which normally needs to be presented upon contrôle) didn't matter to the conductor. Everything was fine and I had a really beautiful ride through the Burgundy countryside, where the colors have started to change from the green of the fertile fields, vines, and trees to the tans, oranges, and reds of early autumn. When I arrived in Beaune, Annie and Diana were already at the train station, which compared to Nevers' is quite quaint. La gare de Nevers has a modern entrance way with silver space-aged benches out front in the middle of a gravel esplanade. In Beaune, la gare has a couple of benches, lots of book stands, and a surprising number of people bustling around. My trip was off to a brisk start, with stark differences already making it a weekend to remember.

To pass the morning, Diana, Annie, and I went to the marché in Beaune. I must admit that I haven't yet been to the marché in Nevers, so I won't be able to give a full and detailed comparaison (comparison) on this point. What I can do is describe the center of town, which is a small open place hidden in a thicket of narrow, winding streets with houses that are just a bit too tall to be friendly lining them. The path from la gare to la place goes across the circular boulevard, la boucle (the ring), I believe it was called. Just on the interior of la boucle is a grandiose entrance to the town with a large gate and neat bright green topiaries. We passed by lots of up-scale boutiques (shops) with plenty of vêtements (clothes), confisseries (candies), and, of course, vin (wine). En se promenant vers la place (While walking to the center), I already noticed the lack of panneaux "à louer" ("for rent" signs) that give life to the many vacant windows in Nevers. Once we arrived at the hub of Saturday morning activity, the market, the three of us took the time to stroll around, take in the sights, and take a few pictures. The market was especially vivant, coloré et avait des biens de très bonne qualité (lively, colorful, and had very high quality wares). After looking at les écharpes en laine, les feuilles de salade ondulées, les fromages crémeux et les fruits de toutes les couleurs (wollen scarves, ruffled lettuce leaves, creamy cheeses and fruits in every color), we decided to prepare ourselves a picnique (picnic) for lunch. I have yet to have a picnic for lunch in Nevers, probably because... nope, I don't have a good reason. We bought a baguette from a local boulangerie (bakery) after much deliberation and some cheese at the marché from a fromageur (cheese seller) who was very friendly and let us taste everything before we bought it. Then we grabbed some pommes, saucisson et chocolat (apples, dried sausage, and chocolate) and headed for a little parc qu'Annie tient à coeur (park that Annie is fond of). The park has a little pond, next to which another group of picnic-ers was already present, munching on their own baguettes. We found a table next to le manège (the carousel) and set ourselves up. This park, situated right at the edge of a vineyard, was pretty exceptional. Nevers has nothing like it, since as the city disperses into countryside the outside begins to sprawl a bit with bigger discount stores and wider highways. Nevers has one park, where there are benches and a kiosque (gazebo), but there are no tables, nor is there a pond. Compared to the bustling metropolis of the chef-lieu du département (basically the county seat) which is Nevers, Beaune felt quite quaint. Dans tous les cas (In any case), I'll have to have to faire le marché (go to the market) and have a picnic in Nevers one of these Saturdays so I can compare the experiences.

The rest of the day was spent visiting in Annie's appartement à l'internat (the apartment she has in the boarding school at her lycée) and tasting wine and cheese at the salon de dégustation, and a trip to Sunday Mass in the charming église collégiale (collegiate church). The wine and cheese event was hosted by the students in the BTS in tourism and wine agriculture in Beaune. Although au début (at the beginning) there were lots and lots of people and we ourselves were pretty interested in making the rounds, by the time les halles (the town hall) started clearing out, we were able to converse a bit with the students. They were all very friendly and were happy to explain to us their course of study, their career goals, and what they liked about Beaune. The general consensus from them was that the town was full of friendly people and had a surprisingly active night scene. This compared with the Nevers students was nothing short of incroyable (unbelievable). My students are very friendly with me, but they all seem to be a bit down about their studies and they certainly are unenthused by Nevers. They always tell me there's nothing to do here, and yet they have no motivation to travel. And yet something about the étudiants (students) in Beaune put me a bit off. They were maybe too enthusiastic? I guess the ones I met had chosen their discipline well-- they really wanted to make me have a good time during my visit!

Otherwise, to live up to its reputation as a tourist destination, the town must invest a considerable amount of money in its maintenance. As I explained to a couple of people, the town is so clean it's distracting. Instead of noticing its charming architecture, the people who se promenent (stroll) in the streets, or the beauty of the surrounding countryside, I was fascinated by the propreté (cleanliness). Of course, the mystery of little passageways, the splendor of the wide views of the valley from the ramparts (old city walls) and the simplicity of the vines climbing the old stone buildings was all charming, but there was something too nice about Beaune, too polished, too Disneyworld. French country towns are already so nice, what's the reason for inserting a restaurant with dinners at 80 euros minus the wine? Beaune seemed to me personally like a gilded lilly. And yet, when I got of the train at la gare in Nevers, I can't say I felt like I was returning chez moi (home). I think that the grounded community in Nevers, even if it takes a while to really get used to it, me plaît (pleases me) a bit more than the superficiality of Beaune. Beaune is nice to visit, but I think I'll take my time to continue exploring my Nevers land.

Old and Young

Before taking off toward Nevers, I spent some scattered moments at the end of the summer researching the ville that I would be calling home for the next année scolaire (school year, the way I refer to the amount of time I'll be in Nevers when various French people ask). One of the things I remarked in even the most cursory search of the wikipedia page about Nevers--both the English and French articles, which carry marked differences-- is the declining population. Since the 1970s, Nevers has lost about 5,000 inhabitants. This number represents one-ninth of the population at the beginning of that decade, which was around 45,000 habitants. Although this decreasing population curve was noted in the articles clearly enough, neither article proposed a hypothesis as to pourquoi (why) this might be the case.

Preparing, then, for a town deprived of vitality with a diminishing view of self, I set off to explore my Never(s) Never(s) Land. Upon my arrival, however, I found the town to be full of young people. Furthermore, the copious posters affichés partout (hanging everywhere) are the external markers of a large investment of energy in the life of the community. So why, then, the baisse de population (decrease in population)?

It turns out that Nevers, contrary to Gainesville, Florida where I grew up, is not a ville universitaire (college town). In Nevers there is an engineering school and a fac de droit (law school), the second of which has students for the first three years of an undergraduate-level law program. Otherwise, we have high schools such as the one where I teach, where l'Education National (the public education system) offers 2-year degrees called BTS, Brevet de Techniciens Supérieur, more or less the equivalent of an AA degree at a Community College. These degrees are highly specialized and geared toward specific professional formation. Lycée Raoul Follereau offers BTS in "assistant de manager," computer science, finance, and accounting. Many of the students leave the town for a 6-week long stage (internship) to get hands-on experience in their fields. And once they finish, they feel competent to search for jobs là où il y en a (where there are some).

With a vacuum of higher education and no possibility for intellectual or very profitable work, Nevers is not an attractive place for the large majority of 20-somethings. They all leave to do their studies in Paris, Dijon, or Clarmont-Ferrand, all cities with many more educational possibilities including more variety and prestige. Although it often seems that the youth of France is overly dependent upon their parents and lack life organizational skills, in Nevers this is not so much the case. All of the teachers I know whose children are college-aged, including ma chère Françoise, say that their kids have left the house and are leading exciting lives elsewhere. Although the kids claim they miss home and the comforts their parents provide, for practical reasons they don't end up coming home much during school, and once graduated, they often decide to move elsewhere and pursue the life they envisioned while studying. It's a common enough phenomenon in the US, and one that has brought Nevers to a population creux (dip).

Now, since the 20- and 30-somethings have moved to more exciting and branchés (connected) cities, the population of Nevers is left with the extremes of the demographic range: school-aged children and their 50-something parents and grandparents from one generation removed. The age gap is present in the two chorales (choirs) in which I sing: the one at the Conservatory and the one at Church. The Conservatory choir is made up of about 40 people, three of us in our twenties and the rest over the age of fifty. As far as the demographics of the Church choir go, that's another story.

The first night I went to rehearsal was also my first day teaching at the lycée. After classes, I called the choir director to let her know I was new and I'd be coming for the first time that night. She was audibly ravie (excited), repeating "qu'est-ce que ça va faire du bien d'avoir des jeunes!" (what good it will do to have some young people!) In preparing to head to rehearsal, I bet Ryan that I would be the youngest person there by 30 years. When rehearsal began and I looked around the room, I realized I had lost my bet. I was the youngest by about 50 years. All of the parish elders convened to sing songs that, while in French, were unlike anything I had ever heard in a French church. Far from the austere, arhythmic, grave refrains intoned by a solitary cantor, these were contemporary hymns with life, four-part harmony, and uplifting lyrics. The group was sympathique (nice) and acceuillant (welcoming), even if the woman sitting next to me (Danielle), who was wearing red high-heeled shoes, told me it wasn't worth introducing myself to her since she no longer had any memory for people's names. By the end of the répétition (rehearsal), one of the women had dozed off and her neighbor had to gently wake her up before we sang Notre Père (Our Father).

Leaving the rehearsal on my bike tauntingly branded "Le Jeune" ("The Young One"), I thought, "ce sera une année de basculations entre les jeunes et les vieux" ("this will be a year of tossing back and forth between the young and the old"). So far, that's been the case. Both young and old are friendly in Nevers, but so far the only real peers I've found are my fellow assistants. It seems that La recherche du temps perdu (The search for lost time) will not be the only theme of this year in France. No, it will be juxtaposed with La quête du temps futur (The quest for future time) and just might turn out to be Le temps pour tout faire (the time to do everything). After all, il n'y a pas temps comme le présent (there's no time like the present)!

Une ville collineuse

So Nevers isn't situated like a typical French city, at least as far as I learned about French cities in geography class. According to my teachers, most important and successful French cities are modeled in the same layout as Paris: they follow a circular pattern through the middle of which a river flows. This layout privileges transportation of goods and people, and puts the central source of water within easy reach of the whole population. In Nevers, however, because of a small hill on one side of the river, la Loire, only a very small part of the city conglomeration stradles the river. The centre ville (center of town) seems to radiate more from the Cathedral, which sits on top of the hill. The Cathedral, a two- part construction (one part dates to the Tenth Century and the other to the Sixteenth Century), finds itself at the heart of the city, right next door to the Palais ducal and a really stunning lawn and park. In any case, for me to get to the center of town, as I live just to the north of the peripheral boulevard that encircles the centre ville, I usually take my vélo (bike) around the boulevard down to the river and then slip in one of the side streets to the centre ville.

To explain more about a typical French town, much like Paris, many towns at one time had medieval murs (walls) to protect their inhabitants. As the murs became ruins, they fell and disappeared for the most part, but the development of towns is still strongly marked by their presence. In the mid-twentieth century, many towns connected their roads to State highways, following the outline of the old murs and ending up with convenient boulevards (wide avenues suitable for flowing traffic). That way, French cities generally have marked differences. The first of these is generally a mix of everything from sixteenth-century brick and wood houses to nineteenth-century Napoléon III design. The latter of the two is characterized by a sadder, less romantic and more utilitarian aesthetic. Furthermore, the center of town usually privileges foot traffic, whereas the exterior, much like many American cities, is made more sprawling by the combination of the desire for more personal family space and the convenience presented by the voiture (car).

As far as my placement in Nevers is concerned, the high school where I work, Lycée Raoul Follereau, is to the exterior of the boulevards, directly to the north. Françoise lives just to the east of the high school, so I spend my day time on this exterior section, and then go in to the centre ville if I need something from somewhere other than la banque, la poste, or le supermarché. Whether on foot or vélo (bike), I have a couple of different paths to choose from when heading in the direction of centre ville. Going à pied (on foot), I prefer to take a sinuous route through residential neighborhoods, as I rather like spying on people's jardins (gardens). A l'inverse (Conversely), when I take my bike, I tend to follow the major roads, as the chemin (path) is much more direct. Furthermore, the major roads have plenty of rondpoints (roundabouts), which are too fun to whiz through on two wheels. If I'm on foot, it takes me about 30 minutes to get to the Cathédrale, whereas on bike I'm there in closer to ten minutes.

The title of this post, "Une ville collineuse," means "A hilly city." As I was explaining in the beginning of the post, the Cathédrale sits atop a hill. There is one very famous street that leads directly to the side door, which climbs this steep hill all at once. There is also, however, just à côté (next to) this street, a large staircase that takes one from the bottom of the hill to the top. Having taken both paths on bike, I must confess I find the stairs more manageable, although there's something about the street, with its multiple antique shops and its nursery school, that is also quite charming. From this high point on the north side of the Loire, Nevers gains not only two picturesque inclines but also a beautiful park opposing the Palais ducal (The Ducal Palace, where lots of administrative offices are held) with an overview of the river valley.The centre ville is characterized without a doubt by this unique topography.

This hill in the town center is not the only hill in Nevers, however. Leading outside of the centre ville to the North, near my house, is another considerable rise in elevation. The town has chosen this high point as the site for its communal cimitière (cemetary). I can pass by it on my way home if I like, although its overly large superficie (surface area) is a bit overwhelming, so I think the one time I looked at it will suffice for a while. The other consequence of the hill to the north of the city is a great expenditure of energy at the end of a bike ride home. Françoise told me that she doesn't monte (climb up) the hill on her bike, she prefers to walk, but I think I'm too stubborn to get off my bike. Each time I take the last turn towards the house, I prepare to use what little force I may have left after a long day to get my way all the way up the incline. It makes for a good endurance builder, I suppose. On the other side of things, it's very exciting to start off a trip to town with a huge incline leading into a careening acceleration.

Alors (so), if you're planning a visit to Nevers any time soon, don't forget to stretch your mollets (calves) and certainly bring a camera to capture the panoramic views depuis la petite colline (from the little hill)!

A très bientôt, mes amours,

Megan

Les courses pratiques

Moving to a new city requires one to faire pleine de petites courses (run many little errands). In Nevers, I have already, as I explained to one friend, encountered all of the rencontres quotidiennes (everyday situations) for which the vocabulary would be presented in a First-Year French textbook. For example, I have already mailed a package at la poste (the post office), fait les courses au supermarché (gone grocery shopping), stopped in at la banque (you guessed it- the bank), gotten a membership at la bibliothèque (the library), and of course grabbed something to eat at la boulangerie (the bakery). All of these things help one settle in, get used to a new city layout, and fill the long days before starting work.

It's funny to do all of these little everyday chores and to y prendre tant de plaisir (find such happiness in them). Obviously no one likes going to the post office, but when I have the time to go in the middle of the afternoon while everyone else in town is at work, I don't have to wait in line. In addition, there is the little joy that comes from having a conversation with someone new. At the post office, I was sending a package to the US, which led the person who was sitting at the window next to mine to ask where I was from. Having taken for granted the fact that she understood I was from the states --why else would anyone in France send a package yonder?-- I replied, "la Floride (Florida)". I expected her reaction to fall on the usual envy that French people typically express when I give this information. Instantly the image of Miami Beach comes to mind, and they think of sun, the ocean, and supermodel Brazilians sauntering the beach in skimpy bikinis. (No, really, I've had this conversation with many a frenchman.) However, the woman did not seem to be interested in my specific hometown but rather in her surprise at the fact that I was american at all. She commented that I didn't have the accent she was accustomed to hearing from other americans. In fact, the woman who was helping me chimed in and complimented me specifically on my pronunciation of Rs. I explained to the women that I had vécu un an (lived for a year) in Toulouse. The three of us then laughed, knowing that my accent, thankfully, was far from the accent toulousain (the accent from Toulouse), which mangles the end of most words and includes a distinct, if french, twang. I sent my package with no problem, and the woman even told me that it should arrive at its destination in less than a week-- wouldn't that be un rêve (a dream)!

One other little tak that I found amusing in the past few days was heading the Conservatoire (the nationalized music school) to ask about singing in a chorus or taking voice lessons. There, la directrice (the director, who happens to be a woman) was very open and friendly and assured me that once the choir's program finishes, at the end of this month around the 25th, she would be in touch with me to give me a spot. We chatted for a while about the differences between the French and American systems of enseignement musical (musical education). In the United States, we are lucky to have a system of schools that, for the most part and for the time being, have integrated music programs. France, en revanche (in contrast), keeps their music separate from their academics, and each town or city has, in general, one conservatoire where students of all levels go to study music through a nationalized curriculum. I explained to the woman that I imagined that if I had been raised in such a system, I may never have pursued music, since my working parents had other things to do than drag me all over town for special classes. I certainly wouldn't have been able to practice music the way I did at Dickinson. Furthermore, the liaison (link) between my performance pursuits and my academic field of study, la musicologie (musicology, or more generally music history) would never have arisen-- at Dickinson I chose my major serendipitously, although definitely not capriciously. De l'autre côté, (on the other hand), I explained, if I had been in France and had begun musical studies at the age that I did in the US, I would have had a better chance to have more career aspirations in the performance realm. Since the promise of a concerted performance track never really presented itself in the conditions I was in, my performance was always more of a hobby than anything else. In any case, we agreed that the systems each have advantages and contraints (limits), and that as long as the population at large has access to music, the society is not at too much risk. La directrice also shared with me her successes in Nevers, which include bringing, only two years ago, the American composer Eric Ewazen (one of my favorite contemporary composers) to the city to coach a performance of his Concerto for Trombone. In all, she was a dame souriante, acceuillante et gentille (smiling, welcoming, nice lady), and I am excited to be able to work with her and benefit from the little conservatory structure.

Sinon, quoi d'autre est-ce que j'ai fait de beau... ? (Otherwise, what other interesting things have I done...?) Ah, yes. Yesterday le papa de Françoise (Françoise's dad) came to visit, as he does once a week, to help out with some little home maintenance things. He is 82 years old and was an engineer and team manager for la SNCF (the nationalized railroad company). Since he retired, he likes to do little projects, and as he lives à 25 kilomètres (25 kilometers away), he likes to spend time with his daughter. Yesterday, among other tasks, he tuned up one of the family's vélos (bikes) for me to use. It's red and a bit short, but I think it'll be just perfect for petites aventures (little adventures). I'm going to test it out this morning before taking a train for Dijon where I will be attending a workshop for all the foreign language assistants in Bourgogne (Burgundy, the region where Nevers, Dijon, and lots of good wine and cheese are from). I don't have any more courses à faire (errands to run) for the moment, although I guess the new issue of the hébdomadaire Courrier International (the weekly newspaper International Courrier) comes out today, so I could pick that up at la presse (the newspaper shop/stand) to have something to read on the train.

Je sors, alors, donc à bientôt ! (Well, I'm going out now, so I'll leave another message soon!)

Gros bisous,

Mégane (At how many of these places did I have to tell someone that my prenom (first name) doesn't have an e? All of them!)

Bienvenue à Nevers

The french word for "welcome," bienvenue, translates to literally the same thing in English. Coming at the French language from an exterior perspective allows me to see the two parts of the word, in French as in English. These two parts, bien or "well" and venue or "to have come," express exactly my sentiments after my first 24 hours here in Nevers.

To explain the situation a bit, you must understand that one of the reasons the French life expectancy has recently breezed by the United States' by an average of two years is that they don't exert much energy in preparing things that will undoubtedly resolve themselves in due time. That said, a week before my departure, I had no idea where I would be living. I had spent more than a few hours trolling French real estate websites looking for an affordable and desirable studio apartment to no great avail. I was somewhat unmotivated to look, since I was slightly hesitant to leave, but much worse, the ads were all exactly the same and lacked what to me was an essential element- the address. Using googlemaps, etc. I was able to get a pretty good idea of what the city of Nevers is like and where its various neighborhoods are, but I can tell you that trying to choose between two 25-square meter apartments at the same price that are on opposite, yet unknown, parts of a city I've never visited was not a task I was willing to accomplish. Luckily, though, about a week before I left, I was finally able to speak to the secretary of my high shool, Lycée Raoul Follereau, who explained to me that the school, which accomodates boarding students (although more than half of the students live at their homes in Nevers), reserves an apartment for their foreign language assistants. They charge a very low rent of 100 euros a month for this apartment, where each occupant has a single bedroom and the three flatmates share a living room (salon), bathroom (toilettes et salle de bain) and kitchen (cuisine). Not sure that this apartment would turn out to be the most desirable place to live for a year but greatly relieved that I would have a direction to head once I arrived in Nevers, I accepted that I would be living at school at least until I could find another apartment elsewhere.

Getting to Nevers was an adventure in itself. I had planned a 5-day séjour (stay) in Paris during which I would catch up with a number of friends before diving right into a ville inconnue (unknown city). After my plane landed in France early on the morning of the 23rd, my good friend Guillaume Desjardins picked me up at the airport and drove me to the house where he lives with his parents in Domont, a city situated just North of Paris. I spent the first day setting myself correctly on the Eastern side of the Atlantic, taking the morning to catch up on the sleep that evaded me a bit on the plane ride, and the afternoon ambling about Paris buying a cell phone, completely missing a rendezvous, and visiting le jardin des Tuileries, where I had somehow never managed to go. The next three days at Guillaume's house were more or less pareil (the same), except depending on the day you could add one or two visiting infants, more or fewer hours spent me ballader à (walking in) Paris, and the inverse in hours spent en lecture de Du côté de chez Swann de Proust (reading Swann's Way by Marcel Proust).
While this leisurely pace certainly put me at ease physically and mentally, I was in no way prepared to confront the practicalities of my trip, seeing as Guillaume was experiencing a temporary panne d'internet (Internet outage). After spending the first few days with Guillaume, I had plans to meet Alice, the daughter of my Toulouse host family, and her boyfriend in Paris and spend two nights in their apartment. Yet I had nothing I needed to get in touch with her, such as a phone number, address, or means to e-mail. Luckily, another good friend of mine is working as a bilingual paralegal (or something like that) in Paris, and I was able to have her look up the contacts Alice had sent me in an e-mail. Just the day before meeting up with Alice, then, I called her to let her know I was still coming and that everything was going well for me. We arranged a time to meet on Saturday afternoon, and she agreed to help me get my luggage from the métro to her apartment. Great. Lugging my human-sized bags even just a few blocks to her apartment was a bit of an undertaking, especially since I had to move them by myself from the train station (Gare du nord) through the two lines of métro I had to take to get to our meeting spot. For going up and down stairs, parisians were more than willing to lend a hand- I asked for nothing, but I had one man insist on carrying my very heavy bag himself while I insisted on carrying at least the other one up two flights of stairs and around a corner as the train arrived. Alice and I were able to get the bags to her apartment on the deuxième étage (third floor) thanks to the great ascenseur (elevator) her building has. For two days, then, Alice and I giggled, played pranks, ran all over Paris some more, cooked dinner, went to the musée d'art contemporain de la ville de Paris (Museum of Contemporary Art of the City of Paris). Then, Sunday afternoon, before attending a going away party for one of Alice's friends who was leaving for Naples, Italy, Alice, Bruno and I were lounging on the pelousse (lawn) in between Trocadéro and le Champs de Mars (in front of a fountain and with the Eiffel Tower to our left), when I remembered that earlier in the afternoon I had looked up the cell number of my contact person in Nevers and had meant to call her during the day. So I called Laurence, mistaking her for a man, to let her know that I would be arriving in Nevers the following afternoon at 16h25 (4:25pm). Laurence is the head English teacher at R. Follereau, so she insisted on speaking to me on the phone in her very quick, nervous Irish accent. She told me that there had been some breaches in contact and that she had tried to send me an e-mail that I never got. In this e-mail, she supposedly explained that the information the school's secretary had given me on the phone was not correct and that instead of living in the school's apartment, which does exist albeit with only two bedrooms, I would be living with one of the French teachers who likes to take in the English assistant. Cool, I thought, no apartment but rather a house, with meals included and no need to buy furniture! Alice and I spent the rest of the sunny afternoon walking the Champs de Mars contemplating what to do with my newfound fortune (voyages, anyone?). Au revoir, Paris meant another huge cross-city trip with the monster bags, this time with Alice to help the entire time and station-switching maximized for the use of escalateurs (escalators).

Arriving in Nevers on the train was easy. As the train got farther from Paris, the towns got a bit smaller and prettier, and the stretches of farmland between towns extended with the relative distance from the capitale. I waited a bit at la gare (train station) for Laurence, the English teacher, to pick me up, and when she did, she drove me straight to the high school where Florence, the French teacher who is housing me, had a réunion (meeting) until 18h00 (6pm). When she came to meet us in the staff lounge, I observed what seems to be her normal operational pattern, busy busy busy, done with style and grace. Françoise was widowed three years ago (her husband met an untimely death in a car accident), has four children, the last of whom just went off to Classe préparatoire à Versailles (a specific kind of higher education preparation for private business schools in the like at a boarding school in the school district of Versailles), and a large and beautiful house. It turns out that two years ago, the high school’s English assistant spoke no French at all, so after the recent loss of her husband, Françoise took in the assistant to help her learn French. She liked the company, as did the assistant, so I’m benefitting from the system has was more or less established then. Françoise is very easygoing and has welcomed me into her house, although the room where I’ll be living is currently having new flooring installed, so I haven’t completely unpacked. Tomorrow the floor is coming, and once it’s here, Françoise and I will move the furniture back together so I can properly move in. The house is very nice, and there will be many pictures of it for you to ponder on this very site.

All the people I’ve met in Nevers so far have been very friendly. Yesterday Françoise took me out to dinner with a group of women associated with the Lion’s Club (before me, Françoise was the youngest at the table by at least 15 years, and she’s got a good 30 years or so on me…), I met many of the teachers at the school, and I already went to the local Conservatoire to sign up for the choir and perhaps for voice lessons. So, bienvenue à Nevers. I have come very well to be in Nevers and feel as though the people here (and the town itself, which is very beautiful and about which I will write in my next post) have made sure of that.

Bisous et à bientôt !

Welcome to Nevers Nevers Land, the blog where I will document my (school) year of life in Nevers, France. This year will be one of growth, of exploration, and above all giving myself the time to relish in those daily experiences that coalesce into my life's aesthetic. Here you will read about unexpected sightings, incidents, people, and other surprises that fill my days here in the very center of the most ethnocentric country I can think of, France. I will post pictures, write in both English and French, and tend toward more exterior than interior experiences. If you want to know how I'm doing or reacting, please send me an e-mail or arrange a Skype date (Skype account name: adienfrance12)! If you find something interesting, please leave a quick post, and always send me some smoke signals to let me know you're reading. I love and miss you all!

Grosses Bises, (literally "fat kisses" although I think huge, wet, and sloppy might better describe the ones I'm sending your way)

Mégane