How to Measure A Year.

How do you measure a year? In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee? In inches, in miles in laughter and strife?
– Rent the Musical, Seasons of Love

My contract teaching English in Toulouse is for exactly a year. I arrived early last July and was welcomed to a muggy and hot Toulouse. As the days of June fly by this year, I am realizing that my time here is almost over and thinking about what this year has meant to me.

I spent my first night in France sleeping on the kitchen floor of the apartment sobbing. I had arrived the same morning after a 23-hour flight from Sacramento, visited the semiconductor production site where I now work, and walked the streets of Toulouse. Nothing was as I had expected it. I already missed people back at home. I was certain it had been a mistake to come.

The apartment I had already signed a lease on was the most apparent problem – on arrival I realized it had no windows and the balcony I had expected did not exist. The only shower was in my bedroom – and I would be sharing it with an as yet unknown roommate. Toulouse, perhaps already deserted for the summer, seemed gray, drab and unfriendly –I saw only shuttered windows and empty streets.

On the first day I was shown my new office which I would later call “my dungeon.” It is separated from all other employees, has walls built in cinder block and also has no windows. In addition to this isolation, the work site is located in gloomy urban sprawl that is at best uninspiring and at worst depressing to walk through in the heat, rain or otherwise. Between the dungeon, the site location and the cold industrial feeling of the building, I was convinced that I would be spending my workdays secluded, lonely and uninspired.

On arrival, my French was awkward and clunky after two years of disuse. I had brought The New Yorker with me and read it on my way to work the first week. The difference between the beautifully crafted English in the magazine and my childlike phrases in French almost brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to crawl into my dungeon and never speak French again.

Seen from the kitchen floor that first night, a year in Toulouse seemed an eternity – I would start the job search again and find something else.

I didn’t and two weeks later I was ready to face the thought of a year in Toulouse. After getting some sleep and finding a new apartment, the proposition of living and working in Toulouse seemed much more fruitful than the week before. It might even be fun.

During that week, I stumbled upon the song Seasons of Love from the musical Rent which gave me some insights on how to think about how long a year was – according to the song a year is exactly 525,6000 minutes. When broken down into minutes a year seemed more manageable; anyone can handle a minute of something even if it is bad. I also saw 525,600 opportunities for finding new adventures, meeting new friends and having new experiences.

I am now walking to work counting down how many more days I have left and sadly realizing they are coming to a close. In the end, I have loved my year here and I am glad to have resisted the impulse to run away from the unknown. Despite my initial hesitation, most everything has worked out well. I found a great apartment in the middle of town and I will miss the color, charm and liveliness of Toulouse. My job has turned out to be satisfying and has given me the opportunity to speak with people of many different ages and opinions. What I feared would be an unfriendly work experience has in fact offered many opportunities for socializing: a large cafeteria where everyone eats together, dance classes, oenology courses, ski trips, and sports facilities (all subsidized by the company so not too expensive).

I now have eight days left of teaching. Having such definite bookends as “arrival” and “departure” helps me realize how determinedly time runs forward, and how important it is to jump in before it runs its course. The year’s speedy passing reminds me that I have but a short moment to grab on, try, connect, experience and learn - before the chance is gone.

I recently decided to go to New York to get a Masters degree in Journalism and I am now, again, waking up at 5:30 trying in anticipation of what a year in New York will bring. A year ago I was in exactly the same state of uncertainty and expectation regarding France. One thought that quiets my emotions is the realization that after the unknown becomes known, it is usually difficult to leave it behind. The pain becomes lessons learned, the joy memories to hold onto, and the new rhythm comforting.

The song from Rent says we can measure time in love. I would say my year can be measured in lessons learned, ideas challenged and friends made. But what is perhaps more essential than finding a measure is the realization that time is slippery and will quickly leave us - and to take advantage of opportunities accordingly.

Mold Gold

Roquefort cheese

Moldy food is not always the best candidate for the trash bin. Sometimes, it's precisely the mold that makes something taste good.

The original Casanova once called a moldy, creamy cheese his favorite aphrodisiac.

It was love that helped a young shepherd in Roquefort, a village in southern France, discover this Casanova favorite centuries ago. Unfortunately, the shepherd discovered this green gold too late to entice his own sweetheart.

Legend has it that the young shepherd was watching his flock near the caves of Roquefort when suddenly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen appeared on the grassy hill. He approached her but she wasn't about to test her chances with this young man and ran. But he pursued her in an impassioned fit, leaving his flock. This continued for days, but the young man never caught up with her. Days later the shepherd returned to his cave in Roquefort broken-hearted and hungry. To his dismay, the slice of cheese and bread he had left in the musty cave was covered with dark green mold. Ravenous with hunger he ate it anyway. Surprisingly, the cheese had a captivating pungent flavor to it that he had never tasted before. He shared the information with others and they started figuring out how to make the cheese.

There are similar blue cheeses like Roquefort produced in different countries under different names; England makes Stilton, Spain produces Cabrales and you can find Maytag Blue from Iowa. Today, Roquefort is still produced much as the young shepherd's version. Bread is induced with spores from mushrooms that grow in the caves of Roquefort, and then left until it has grown into a fungus called penicillium roqueforti. This penicillium powder is added to vats of sheep's milk which curdles, and is molded into large white rounds of cheese. The rounds are then aged in the caves under the supervision of master cheese makers, finally emerging after three months ready for market.

If you visit the town of Roquefort, I highly recommend the tour at Société, one of only seven producers of Roquefort. The hour-long Société tour costs three euros and is surprisingly entertaining, informative and includes a tasting of the three Société Roquefort cheeses. You can keep all cheese for about three months in the fridge without a problem. Cheese gets more flavorful as it ages and normally the older it is, the better it is by French standards.

And if you want to get the sense of what the young shepherd must have gone through to chase his lover, you can also climb the cliff behind Roquefort. There is a hike that leaves from the tourism office. The views of the hills, cliffs and plateaus that make-up the surrounding countryside are stunning. You’ll burn almost enough calories on this hike to justify eating a quarter round of Roquefort for the next three months.

View from the hike.

Barcelona

One of the many benches to sit at in Barcelona.

I am suddenly realizing that my year in Toulouse is almost over and have begun experiencing a bitter sweet mixture of sadness that I will soon leave France, and excitement over moving to New York. This year has been extremely fulfilling and I will miss my relaxed French lifestyle, the adventure of working in a French company and the illuminations that come with living in another culture.

However, my trip to Barcelona last weekend helped remind me that much of what I love about living in France can be found anywhere in the world – the chance to explore, to open yourself up to new people and customs, the pressure to get the most out of your short stay in a place (three days, a year, or hey, why not a lifetime?) and the chance to express yourself in new ways to new people– which in my case this weekend was a very botched Spanish, I didn’t try to butcher Catalan.

A door at the La Pedrera apartment building that Gaudi designed.

Barcelona is about three and a half hours from Toulouse by car, but last weekend was my first time going this year. Despite the proximity to France, I was impressed by the differences between Barcelona and Toulouse, or even Paris.

Barcelona is funky, colorful and vibrant where Paris is more classy, contained and refined. In Barcelona I particularly loved the abundance of bright colors, the diversity of the architecture and the extroverted and exuberant people. At the same time, Barcelona isn’t intense and moves at a relaxed, rolling pace. The wide, tree-lined ‘ramblas’ encourage strolls throughout the city and benches are an inviting way to read a paper or talk friends.

Fresh squeezed juice at the Boqueria Market.

The food I ate in Barcelona was less highly polished than the French fare but very good – I ate lots of cured ham, small tapas and of course, beer is everywhere and olive oil on everything. I loved the traditional slices of toasted bread scrubbed with olive oil, garlic and smashed tomatoes. They can be found everywhere and are a college student’s dream for being cheap cheap. I also full heartedly enjoyed a particular chicken dish I ordered at a high-end restaurant. To my surprise, a soup bowl of olive oil arrived with small shredded pieces of chicken breast floating in it. Despite my initial fears, I have to say the tapa was excellent – the oil had a lemon flavor and was light and fine.

Another memorable food experience was the “Marcat Boqueria,” an immense food market with everything from fish stands, to chocolate, to organic and meatless paella. The fresh squeezed fruit juice for under 2 euros was a yummy and an inexpensive breakfast. But the most memorable experience I had was watching a butcher cut up a chicken. While he butchered away, he casually talked with his customer as if he saw her every Sunday. After about five minutes, he had in front of him the typical breast and thigh cuts that usually arrive under plastic in American supermarkets. I had never seen a chicken cut up in front of me, and it was fascinating to see how the process works. I wish this custom would come to the US as it seems both very hygienic and a good way for people to be more conscious of the meat-ness of meat. Seeing the full carcass and the cleaning and cutting process made me re-think every having thrown away chicken that had gone bad because I had not cooked it in time.

Una bruja!

And of course, going to Spain meant I got to dust off my long dormant Spanish, which was incredibly fun for me and probably very painful for anyone I was speaking to. I had many opportunities to practice as I drove to Barcelona and back in a car full of Spanish speakers, including some who spoke neither French nor English. A good sign of my level is this conversation I had in Spanish: a Spaniard (or should I be saying Cataluynian?) in the car told me that my Spanish was good, and I responded in Spanish by saying, “Yes, the Spanish (people) are great” thinking he was benefiting from my Barcelona enthusiasm to make a joke about how great all Spanish people are. This led him to laugh and inevitably modify his statement about my language level.

But, a few misunderstandings and all verb conjugations aside, I was happily surprised that many Spanish words have stayed with me from the days of singing with Señora Farr and Señor Jimenez en Español. I am solid on colors, food groups, days of the week, animals and physical descriptions. (If speaking to me in Spanish please stay within these topics.) However, now that the Spanish language part of my brain has been activated, my French has been infiltrated by incoherent sounds and words that are in no language at all.

All in all a great weekend and a wonderful city to visit.

French Easter Lunch

The shells on the far left are bulots.

Toulouse the week before Easter. Unfortunately, Easter Sunday was rainy and the "Bells" couldn't hide the chocolates outside.

Last weekend was Easter and I was lucky enough to get an invite to an Easter lunch at a co-worker’s house complete with grandparents and small children. As expected, the event was a culinary adventure.

Within five hours we had woven our way through a first course of oysters slurped up with lemon, shrimp still in their casings, bulot dipped in homemade mayonnaise (bulot is a rubbery and salty shell food that reminds me of escargot), home-made foie gras (goose liver that is cooked and resembles pâté), a tomato salad, lamb and green beans, green salad, a plate of about seven different cheeses, homemade ice-cream cake swimming in cherry sauce, a dry Algerian cake and Easter chocolates. The alcohol procession included Porto, oyster wine, sugary white wine called Muscat de Rivasaltes, red wine and champagne. Luckily, the lunch was long and filling to counter-act all the bubbly.

The largest difference between my usual American Easter lunch and the French one I experienced is the reutilization of the meal in France. In more formal meals here, everything is eaten in a certain order and one at a time. Not even the children at the table dared interrupt the order of dishes. The eleven-year-old girl ate absolutely no sea food or juice and waited to save as much room as possible for the very filling, very caloric foie gras. She also interjected quickly to stop my naive spreading of foie gras over my slice of bread, that wasn’t done. I had to cut a thick slice of foie gras and eat it that way – go big or go home. She was right, it was better. She was also probably right to tame it down on the previous courses.

This meal also shows how diverse the meat options are in France. For someone like me who started eating red meat for the first time around the age of 18, dishes like foie gras took some getting used to. Shockingly, the 20-month old at this Easter table didn’t seem to have any qualms about the stronger tasting French food. He happily lapped up oyster juice and sucked on Roquefort cheese asking for more. I was a few years behind him and only started swallowing down the foie gras reluctantly at age 21 to be polite. But after the Christmas rush of foie gras in Toulouse this year, I realized that it was actually not too bad. Now I’m over the mind block of a stuffed goose liver and it is decidedly delicious. Which is probably the right opinion to have in southwest France where foie gras is especially adored.

To top the meal off, we had chocolates that the “Easter Bells” had brought for the children. There were no plastic eggs filled with jellybeans or hard-boiled eggs dyed multiple colors. The bunny rabbit didn’t seem to be as prominent either and was nowhere to be found in the decorations at this particular house. Instead, there was a huge chocolate egg that opened up and was filled with smaller chocolates molded into different shapes like shells, bells and fish. This was truly delectable chocolate. Maybe bells are better than rabbits at making chocolate? Who knew?

My American friend and I left on the train reeling from five hours of eating. It was such a pleasure to see another version of Easter. Many thanks to our French hosts who were kind enough to open up their home to us and show us how to sip oysters and slab on the foie gras.

Going to the Doctors

I’ve recently made another trip to the doctors as a result of the bad economy. I’ve been leaving Toulouse every weekend this past month to take advantage of having Fridays off. The lack of sales has forced my company to shut down to save on employee pay and energy costs. Taking advantage of three day weekends, I headed to Spain to go skiing, Paris to stroll down the Champs-Elysées, and the Côte d'Azur to go boating …. and finally my body said no more. While in Cannes I came down with a flu that has morphed into bronchitis. A body ache, sore throat, and runny nose made made me slow down.

Realizing that I was loosing my voice and coughing to the point where conversation courses were no longer desirable, I headed to the French doctors. I’ve commented before on the informality of the French doctors. Instead of sterile, bright white facilities the French doctors offices have more of a dingy, comfy homespun feel. I went in yesterday, paid 22 euros to have the doctor check me out and declare that I have bronchitis and then got a list of four medicines to take including antibiotics. He took my Carte Vital which identifies me in the “sécurité sociale” system and tells the system to reimburse me at 70 percent of the cost. The reimbursement will come directly into my bank account. He also filled out a piece of paper that declares me sick so that I can stay at home and not go to work. If you miss work in France for health reasons you need this little piece of paper. I later found out from my flat-mate that I am actually obliged to stay home for the total days that the doctor prescribed, which in my case is two. Otherwise the company will be held responsible for any health problems that might happen on the job.

My doctor hand wrote a list of medications and told me to take it to the pharmacy. I was surprised that anyone could read the scribbles, but the pharmacists managed just fine. The total price for the medications (cough syrup, Advil, an expectorant, and an antibiotic) was about 10 euros. My job does not give me the full coverage health plan called a “mutual,” so I pay 30 percent of any medical care and medications. For about 20 euros out of pocket after re-imbursements I paid for my doctors visit and medication.

I did however have to go to three pharmacies before I found the antibiotics. At one I got the typical French response – no they didn’t have the medication and no he couldn’t tell me where I might be able to find it. I had to take a deep breath and try not to get upset at the old man. Even pharmacists will not go out of their way to give you useful information! It is the customer service rule of no customer service. I imagined myself expiring on the doorstep and it being this pharmacist’s fault, and then I pulled it together and went to the next pharmacy where I found the medication.

Interestingly enough my doctor seemed pessimistic that the French system would survive. I can see why it might run the tax payers into the ground and the system has a tendancy towards over-medication. The French consume huge amounts of prescriptions and are the world leaders in anti-depressant usage. I have one acquaintance who takes so many medications that the they are doing more harm than his other issues. But despite the oversight issue, the French system makes medical help possible for someone like me on a tight budget. And merci bien for that! I wouldn't want to think about the costs in the US for similar treatement.

How Do You Talk About Race?

I just listened to an NPR Talk of the World podcast called “How Does Your Country Talk about Race?” Don Gonyea of NPR asks a worldwide audience if the election of Obama has changed the way people in other countries discuss race, and if so how.

The piece is fascinating for me because it focuses heavily on the race conversation in France and illustrates many of the differences between the U.S. and France concerning this topic. As always, I’m a huge fan of NPR and suggest the podcast.

Living here in France has helped illustrate for me the influence of culture on the way people analyze issues and think. You might hope you analyze situations independently, but move to another country and you realize how deeply your cultural upbringing dictates what you think. One of the areas where I see this in France is the resistance to acknowledging any racial or ethnic differences as a means of creating equality.

The French, in theory, want everyone to be equal, and so refuse to recognize racial differences at the political level. In France you cannot ask someone to identify their race, ethnicity or religious affiliation. Thus, there are no hard statistics in France that include any of these categories.

However, as Pap Ndiaye, a historian, professor and guests on Talk of the World points out, non-white French citizens are routinely discriminated against in France. There are no statistics to prove it, but you will find very few Algerians or Africans (or people from other non-white ethnicities) in high positions in government or business in France.

The belief in “egalité” is held to with such vigor in France that people become offended when race is brought into the conversation at all. Recently, a French student of mine who works with me to learn English became livid during a conversation that brought up cultural differences. We were reading a short article describing how Athabaskans, a North American language group of Native Americans, dislike speaking when meeting a stranger. The article said that when an Athabaskan speaker is uncertain of the relationship she should have with a stranger, she prefers not to speak until the relationship becomes more clear. Thus, “introductions” are rather silent affairs where nothing much is said.

After my French student read this he could barely speak, he was so frustrated. He threw down the paper I had given him and exclaimed that the article was completely racist. He explained that for him, saying that Athabaskans speak less is racist. Clearly, my student thinks it is wrong to generalize based on ethnicity.

This summer I was trying to explain to a different student why I liked Obama over Hillary Clinton, and one of my many reasons was that he was black. My student became visibly angry and upset by what I had said. So, I explained again: yes, I think it is important that Obama is black and that I think his race changes what he can do for the country. My student vehemently argued that a candidate’s race should not change the way you think about him, that I should want a good president and should ignore everything else. I argued that, all else being equal, a good black president could do more for race relations in our country than a good white president.

Obama has been and still is extremely popular in France. This is not because he is black. I personally believe Obama is loved in France for one very simple reason: he is not Republican like the much hated, much ridiculed George W. He is adored here for that reason as well as for his charisma and the sense of honesty he emits. Although the French are hesitant to dwell on his race, Obama’s election has indeed sparked a conversation about the absence of non-whites in French politics. The thought that the U.S. – a country the French consider fundamentally racist – could elect a black president before France has caused shock waves here and a bit of introspection. There is now also more talk about “positive discrimination,” the French way of saying affirmative action which has been fairly taboo up until now. This change can be seen with the recent appointment of Yazid Sabeg, a supporter of affirmative action, as Commissioner of Diversity.

Of course, differences do exist and people in France remark racial differences and discriminate accordingly. In the NPR piece, an English instructor working in Paris talks about how his students with Algerian roots will describe themselves as “French” only to have a white French student correct them by saying, “no, you are Algerian.” The first student will then respond that he is a French citizen, that he has always lived in France, and that he is indeed French. As in this example, the adjective “French” is often reserved for people who have historically resided in France. French thus means “white” French.

Differences exist. They are not always good - it is not a good thing that Africans are discriminated against in France nor African-Americans in the United States. But if you don’t acknowledge differences you can’t acknowledge systematic abuses taking place, nor celebrate diversity.

I dislike being judged as a certain way simply because I am American. No, I don’t eat at McDonald's all the time, no, I do not think we should have gone into Iraq, no, I don’t always think about money. And yet it is helpful to talk about “American tradition,” “American culture” and “Americans.” I often make general comparisons between French and American cultures because they are fundamentally different, even if each individual is particular and unique. For example, there is a very different conversation about race going on in the two countries, and a different approach on how to discourage racial discrimination.

A Christmas Dessert - Bûche de Noël

The Bûche de Noël I made this Christmas. The white shapes sprouting from my yule log? Meringue mushrooms of course!

If I had stayed in France, I would have wanted apple pie at Christmas. As I instead flew to Sacramento, California for the holidays, I wanted to bring back a taste of a French Christmas. So, I decided to make a Bûche de Noël, a traditional French dessert that we would call a yule log cake.

Around mid-December, Bûche de Noël began to appear in the pastry-shop windows of Toulouse. "Bûche" is the French word for log. They are small, cylindrical jelly roll cakes shaped and decorated as yule logs. These otherwise simple, brown cakes become a slice of woodland wonderment with little forest figures, sprigs of holly and a heavy frosting of powder-sugar adorning them. Small dear, a lone ax and mushrooms often complete the woodsy look.

Making the cake is a bit tricky for beginners. You have to roll a sheet of baked sponge cake into a cylinder shape, let it cool, and then go back and ice the curling cake carefully, trying not to brake it. Then you cover the entire log with frosting and add your woodland details on top. When the cake is cut, there is a spiral of frosted cake reminiscent of the rings in a log.

The most difficult part of my cake-baking experience was the meringue needed for the mushrooms and frosting. The Julia Child recipe I used called for meringue mushrooms and crystallized caramel cobweb decorations, two things that are normally beyond my pastry talents. I had to throw out two trail batches of meringue gone bad before I got it right! One tasted horribly burned and the other was too stiff. I decided to ditch the sugary cobweb, although I've never had a cobwebbed cake and it sounded tempting. But Christmas Eve dinner was fast approaching I had been yule logging most of my day away, so my cake was cobweb-less.

But, a culinary experience with Julia Child is bound to be worth it in the end. I was ultimately happy with my meringue mushrooms. They look very impressive once on the cake! And the bûche got many compliments which I should thank Julia for.

Of course, my family didn’t give up the apple pie tradition, and we ate a bit of both pie and bûche. However, I can see visions of yule logs dancing in our future Christmas Eve’s!


You can see more on how to make a “Bûche de Noël” here

The recipe I used was Julia Child's and can be found in the recipe book Christmas Memories. She makes it with an almond sponge cake and rum flavored frosting and I'm a fan.

Home. Which One?

I just got back to Toulouse after a two-week vacation in my hometown in Sacramento, California. Over vacation, I realized “home” was getting to be a tricky word.

While sipping coffee at Java City café just blocks from the Capitol in Sacramento, I mentioned to a high school friend that I was going “home” just after New Year’s. “Wait, you mean back to France?” she asked. Yes, exactly, home. After living in Toulouse, France for six months, my idea of home fluctuates constantly between France and California.

My friend also now lives far from Sacramento. She pointed out that we both use the word “home” to refer to the home where we are not. Sacramento is home for me when I am in Toulouse, and France is home when in California. For my friend, it is the same, except with New York.

Maybe this tendency to refer to the home where we are not is acknowledgment that we always feel slightly out of place these days in either home. We think we know our old hometown, but it seems unfamiliar at the same time. My friend used to go to cookie outings at this very same Java City with her mom when she was ten. But now she knows the cafés better in New York and has trouble finding her way around downtown Sacramento, where Java City is located.

Coming back to Sacramento after living in Toulouse was a bit of a shock for me because everything is the same, but seems different. The town, streets and people were familiar, but I also saw them with the French equivalent freshly imprinted in my mind. This made the familiar novel and absolutely intriguing.

The streets in Sacramento were amazingly expansive after getting used to the treacherously narrow “pathways” of streets in downtown Toulouse. They are so big in Sacramento that sometimes it felt a park had been covered with cement and road markings. I could see the sky stretch out forever above me while waiting for the light to change to green, and it was strangely awesome.

After months of thinking of coffee cups as the size of a shot glass, the immensity of the Venti at Starbucks in the US was breathtaking. We drink these tubs of coffee? This is the size of 50 French coffee cups. However, the taste of coffee with chocolate, milk and whip cream in it was a welcome one, this such a good idea, no wonder it comes in Venti!

My brother and I drove to the grocery store one night to pick up a few things. In Toulouse, most groceries close by 7 pm. But my brother and I waltzed into the one near our parents house at 9pm, and this wasn't one of the small, over priced stores that are open late in France, this was the full blown supermarket. I also didn’t have to lug my bags home as I usually do here in Toulouse, because, we had a vehicle! What a relief. When checking out I had a moment of doubt, should I help the bagger bag my groceries, or would that be rude? I decide to help bag because I’m now in the habit of it. I don’t think anyone has bagged my groceries since I’ve been in Toulouse, and absolutely no one has asked to help me out to my car. I probably should have accepted the help out in Sacramento just for the novelty of it.

Cheering at New Year’s was incredibly awkward given my new habit of looking directly in peoples’ eyes as I clink glasses. How strange that all my American friends avoided my stare! I felt very distant from them and a bit hurt until I reminded myself that looking deeply into another’s eyes while cheering in the US is more a sign of passionate love than friendly good wishes.

Returning to Toulouse felt comfortable and natural, which was also unexpected. The streets are still decorated with holiday lights and I was happy to be back to what now feels like home. Tomorrow I am going to the prefecture for the third time to get my provisional visa paperwork updated. This is a horrendous experience and probably the task I dread most in France. I will have trouble controlling my frustration over the lack of organization and the rudeness of the government workers. I will undoubtedly curse the French system and wonder why they can’t implement a more efficient one, like we have back home in the US. But for now, it is nice to be surprised by the novelty of my hometown of Sacramento, as well as the ease with which I re-enter my new one in Toulouse.

Release Party, Beaujolais Nouveau

The third Thursday of November in France is the nation-wide release party for this year's batch of French wines. Today, grapes harvested in August and September appeared for the first time transformed into wine with labels sporting the year 2008.

The Beaujolais nouveau celebration is one of mediocrity. Does anyone actually love the Beaujolais nouveau? No. Do people love celebrating with wine? Yes, always. So, on this day one week before Thanksgiving, French are out in restaurants and cafés tasting this year's vintage. Does it taste like raspberry? Banana? Does it matter? Like Christmas, birthdays and Valentine’s, the expectation created by the event might overshadow any enjoyment of the wine itself.

Beaujolais is a light, fruity red wine with little tannin. It comes from the region north of Lyon in central France. Part of the charm of this wine is that it can be drunk immediately and is easy to drink. It is not expensive and is better and more fruity the younger it is. Which is why it is ready right now, just after being bottled, to be quaffed by the thirsty.

My own opinion? Pas mal this year. Raspberry? Banana? Maybe some smoky traces? Does it even matter? You can use it as an excuse to get together with friends, be joyful, complain about the bad wine or just hang out and mark the passage of yet another year.

Dessert in Disguise

This is not a hamburger. . .



. . . this is the dessert my Grandfather ordered while in Toulouse. How very Franco-American of him. The French love presentation, Americans love hamburgers. This dish could help ease cultural misunderstandings between the two countries.

The "coca-cola" is iced coke in a very very miniature glass, the fries are cookies garnished with raspberry "ketchup's" sauce, the "bun" is a macaroon cookie, the "cheese" caramel and the "burger" chocolate. The concoction falls squarely between sounding yummy and awful, no?

Obama Wins Election

Living in France without fellow American expats in my social circle, I had a very different kind of election night.

I was awoken just after 5 AM today with news of the election in the US. Friends, who were nine hours behind me in California, called full of excitement to say that YES!, Obama had passed the 270 votes needed, and, Don’t worry, you can now be proud to be an American abroad! These words proved true almost immediately and it didn’t even take Bush being shoved off the playing field to happen.

Obama’s acceptance speech fed into the deep-rooted values and expectations that define how we as Americans understand ourselves. His climb to the presidency seems to affirm the American dream that we so strongly cling to, that we as individuals, communities and a nation have the power to become something better through hope, energy, and hard work.

Watching Obama speak live in Chicago, I was struck by the power of these values to create change in a positive direction. Far away from the frenzy and awe in Chicago, I burst into tears of relief and joy that we as a country had chosen a black president. I cried because we had chosen someone who includes gays, Hispanics, Asian-Americans and the disabled in his acceptance speech. And I sobbed because we had chosen someone who highlights the need for compassion for others and service. From far away, the dream of moving in a forward direction towards a brighter future seemed kinetic, alive and possible.

I also shed a few tears because I was suddenly aware that I identified so strongly with the unyielding hope that is sewn into our cultural personality, and I felt a part of that hopeful American community. My optimism for Obama and the US put me in strong contrast to the general French perspective. In France, to be optimistic is to be ignorantly blind to the catastrophe that will ultimately arrive. Ask your average French person if he thought Obama would be elected prior to the elections and you would have heard a resounding no, the US is fundamentally racist. Talk to the same person now that Obama has been elected and he will be doubtful that Obama can orchestrate much change before he is assassinated by a gun-wielding backwoodsman.

Hope might not have been a good campaign slogan in France. And yet the words "hope" and "change" have been all over the French media for months thanks to the extensive coverage of the elections. The breadth of this coverage has been astounding by American standards; it is very much everywhere, everyday and puts our coverage of any other country's elections to shame. However, many French have had their fill of such ubiquitous coverage and are relieved to get Obama in office and off the airwaves and news pages.

Despite their lack of hope for the American electorate’s ability to elect Obama, the French do see him as a positive change and are generally Obamamaniacs. Around 85% of the French wanted Obama to win the election! And yet there are some very strong differences between the left here and Obama’s version, and many French might not realize how Obama might not be everything a French leftist party would be. Two differences are Obama’s support of the death penalty, and the French self-proclaimed socialism, a nomenclature Obama avoids.

The question of Obama’s race plays an even larger role in France than in the US. I find France a deeply racist country, but the French think of American racism as more widespread and far-reaching than their version. Thus, the French feel Obama’s election marks a shocking turn away from traditional American racism and is significant mainly for this reason. Obama’s race is part of his appeal for many in the US, while a reason not to vote for him for others. His race actually energized many people, both black and white, to vote for him, a fact that is lost on French cynicism. In the US the fact that he is part Kenyan and black helps him encapsulate the American dream of progressing towards a more ideal version of ourselves. It is just a shame, and ironic, that it took Bush to push us towards Obama.

Fear and Loathing of the “Intello”

A few years ago while living in Paris I was confronted with an American cultural value I hold that, upon closer inspection, is counter intuitive. I was listening to a radio program and heard the guest speaker describing himself as “an intello.” I was left repulsed and revolted by the statement. He was calling himself an intellectual! After my anger at this unknown “intello’s” self-importance calmed down, I had time to evaluate my reaction. His arrogance deeply bothered me. I don’t feel the same anger when faced with a self-described “laborer.” So what was so horrifying about someone identifying himself as a thinker?

In the US, we are nursed by a culture that fears and loathes pretension and elitism. This intello dude represented both. In the US, you should be educated, but should refrain from dangling your knowledge over others in quotes, figures and, most importantly, unfamiliar words. You should be rich, but you have to earn it through hard work and street smarts; the harder you work for your fortune, the better. In the US, it is almost as detestable to be a moneyed pedantic as an unemployed alcoholic. At least the alcoholic is helplessly dependent. The academic has the choice to stop quoting Shakespeare ad nauseum!

Anyone who is too eloquent, too knowledgeable and too polished is considered a threat to the hardworking, straight-talking American. Such traits must mean this person is conniving and capable of malicious activity, not the next-door neighbor type that you can sit down and have a beer with after a long day of work (bring a six-pack and Governor Palin might come along ta chat with ya!)

In France, the “I’m an intellectual” comment is not exactly common either and verges on arrogance. However, there isn’t the same resistance here to looking to writers, academics or philosophers for insight and answers. Being an intellectual in France doesn’t diminish the value of your opinions and doesn’t necessarily place you out of touch with real life and real problems. In fact, being an intellectual might mean you can think questions through thoroughly, contemplate nuances and communicate ideas coherently.

American resistance to public displays of knowledge might account for the past 8 years of jumbled English coming directly from the White House. W. doesn’t sound like the elite he comes from, and we Americans like that. But then of course, he doesn’t speak as well as your average middle-school child, and that is a bit more difficult to swallow.

I’m going to let Maureen Dowd wail away at the speaking style of Pappa Bush, son W. and newcomer maverick speaker, Sarah Palin. But after you stop admiring just how exquisite Dowd's English is and your laughter (or anger) at her cutting jabs at Republicans has calmed, you might consider where our anti-intellectual values lead us. Is this path really the best road for the pragmatic American to take? Eloquence doesn’t necessarily make a good president, but then again, neither does your next door neighbor. Even if she does enjoy a six-pack.

A French Cultural Lens Turned on the US

Picture taken from "Le Monde"

From the French perspective, “Americans are reckless optimists, incurably blind to the tragedy of life, to the weary convolutions of history and thus to the need for lengthy August vacations and financial regulations.” So reads “The New York Time’s” “Memo from Paris” from earlier this week.

This article, titled “Gazing at America, the French Still See a Wild Frontier,” gives an interesting and funny counterpoint to an American point of view. We Americans all know how to pick out the French: they are the well dressed snobs, smoking away in the corner of the world party as they philosophize about the grandeur of their (lost?) Culture.

Seeing ourselves from their eyes is more difficult. This “Memo from Paris” helps Americans turn the cultural lens on ourselves. We thought we were hardworking, practical, honest and energetic. But we emerge from French scrutiny looking like boorish, over confident and under knowledgeable upstarts from the backwoods. Add our perceived ignorance and our superficial capitalism, and the French aren’t surprised by the current economic crisis in the US. Hey, it might even teach us a lesson.

The “Memo from Paris” also illustrates the French interest in US elections. Let’s not confuse this with an affection for the good 'ol US of A and especially not our government. There isn’t any. But that being said, news about the US is constantly playing on the radio, printed in the newspapers and sprinkled in French conversations. The French know what is going on in the US, though news is inevitably written from a French point of view.

As the representative American, I am constantly asked the question, “Who will it be, McCain or Obama?” Often my interlocutor has two things to say after I posit the response that I think it will be Obama. First, Obama will not be elected, the US is too racist. Second, it is a shame that Obama won’t be elected. He would have been a good president. I have not spoken with a single French person that is excited about "McCain the maverick."

French pessimism for Obama’s possible ascension to the presidency shows a little something about French optimism. Don’t they know that one of the Obama themes is “Hope”? It also helps show how influenced people are by their culture. The cultural lens through which we understand the world is large and strong, and most people have a hard time seeing without it.

Parisian Eye-Candy

Above photos from the "Paris Breakfasts" blog.

Want a taste of something classically French? Check out the beautifully artistic eye-candy on the blog Paris Breakfasts. It is ex-New Yorker Carol Gillot's watercolor and photo adventure through Parisian pastry and chocolate shops. "Paris Breakfasts" offers up the fantasy side of Paris full of pastels, delicious edibles and beauty. I love the gritty side of Paris as well, but Gillot's blog is delicious!

Thanks to Maitresse for posting her top 10 Paris blogs which led me to "Paris Breakfasts."

Become a Fan of French Toast!

You can now become a fan of French Toast! This helps me see who likes the blog and helps you keep updated.

Click on "Follow this blog" at right. There you can create your account in Google or use one you already have to receive updates when I post something new.

The Award Winning Film "The Class" and the Differences it Shows Between the French and American School Systems

“The Class” came out in France last week and has been generating much hype and debate. It is a film about a French teacher’s struggle to engage, teach and discipline a class full of 14-year olds from different cultural backgrounds. “The Class,” in French called “Entre les murs,” was the winner at this year's Cannes Film Festival, and will be coming out in the States later this year.

The film is particularly interesting because of its flirtation with documentary. There are no professional actors in the film. Instead, the roles are played by school children and teachers themselves. François Bégaudeau, who plays the insecure but good intentioned French teacher, taught French in a Parisian middle school for several years, wrote a book about his experience and then went on to co-direct the film with Laurent Cantet. Cantet auditioned students at François Dolto middle school for the student roles, a so-called “difficult school” in a rough Paris neighborhood that has a culturally diverse student body. The newly minted actors agreed to come in on weekends to film throughout the course of the year. The amateur acting is amazingly good, and the film is all the more powerful for the fact that it is a direct creation of the environment it represents.


This film gives the viewer access to a French classroom, and the differences between the French educational system and the American one abound. A general difference between the two systems is the educational philosophy on how to best prompt children forward. The French get out the stick of chastisement to motivate students, while Americans tend to pull out a carrot of encouragement.

Teachers in France are supposed to have power and to flex it. At one point in the film, the principle chastises a student for sitting before being told to and tells the student to stand only to then hae him sit back down again on the principle's orders. We can see exactly who needs to be in charge and just how little voice French students are supposed to have.

This love of hierarchy can also be seen in the first lesson taught in “The Class.” The primary lesson here is one of discipline and control. We see the teenagers coming into the classroom like teenagers: they laugh, they hit each other, they talk, they don’t settle down. Teacher Bégaudeau thus begins his first course of the year with a long monologue berating his students on their rowdiness. His class will start on time, not 15 minutes late, no exceptions. Unfortunately for Bégaudeau, a plucky girl quickly reminds him that no class in the school starts on time. We see how Bégaudeau’s power over the class is much more tenuous than he would hope.

My French friend was shocked by the disrespect of the class as they came into the room, and uttered a few gasps of disbelief at the nerve of the children. I was shocked instead by the teacher deciding to start the year off with chastisement. My educational experience would say that Bégaudeau should begin his first class with an attempt at an inspiring introduction to the material to be covered that year. Throughout the following classes, Bégaudeau is prone to chastise and tease students who cannot get the right answers despite the fact that Bégaudeau is clearly dedicated to his students and wants the best for them. This kind of chastisement from the good intentioned teacher seems entirely out of line from an American perspective.


Another major difference between the two school systems is the French acceptance of publicly discussing students’ success or failure. At one point in the film, teachers hold a meeting to discuss student results and progress. During the course of this meeting Bégaudeau says that a particular student is a lost cause and is worthless. This shocked me, especially because he made these comment in front of two students who had been nominated to attend the teachers' meeting. Word eventually gets back to the difficult “Souleymane” in question, and Souleymane is hurt by his teacher’s poor opinion of him and eventually acts out as a result.

Apparently, students in teacher meetings is a common practice in French schools. Children are nominated to attend teachers' conferences in order to hold teachers accountable for what they say. In the US, this type of public discussion of students is considered highly detrimental to the educational process. According to an American viewpoint, if a student knows that he or she is either at the top or at the bottom of a class, the student will not try as hard nor be as inspired. Americans would (ideally) give constructive criticism and encouragement directly to the student and only talk about student failure to the student, the student’s parent and peer teachers.

One challenge in the film is highly relevant to both French and American cultures : when does discipline go too far? Souleymane is one of Bégaudeau’s most difficult students. He is a tall, handsome boy full of barely contained rage and belligerence. For most of the year Bégadeau has difficulty making Souleymane participate in class. Part of the problem is that Souleymane, who is the son of Malian immigrants who do not speak French, has difficulty writing and reading. Souleymane only becomes inspired when Bégaudeau encourages him to “write” his autobiographical essay with photos instead of through an essay. But Souleymane’s hostile attitude and constant challenge to Bégaudeau’s authority finally get him kicked out of class. The major conflict of the film turns around whether or not Souleymane will be expelled. This leads to questions of the benefit of discipline: Is it better to punish and expel, or to pass over a student’s bad behavior? Should a 14-year old be held responsible for difficult behavior and to what point? What if a school’s decision to punish will result in the student being cut off from the education system completely? (In Souleymane’s case, we are led to believe that if he is expelled, Souleymane's father will send him back to Mali). These questions are not answered in the film, and both arguments for and against towing the discipline line are introduced, discussed and challenged.

"The Class" puts the subject of the French classroom under a lens and brings up many questions of how best to educate children as well as the challenges of the children of immigrant parents. It is a thought provoking film and relevant wherever you live. Go see it when it comes out in the US later this year. Until then, you can write your reactions and responses to this post below.

Staying Skinny in France.

While living in Paris I took the Metro often. This meant I had to walk up and down a lot of steps and stare at the legs of people in front of me. I was constantly struck by the same thought, What skinny legs they have! This was an especially painful thought when I realized the stick legs in front of me belonged to a man. I am all for women loving their bodies at any size, but seeing a country full of men smaller than you is depressing.

Men and women in France are skinnier than in the US. This is not just a stereotype, it is really true. I am constantly stopping myself from assuming that the incredibly thin women I see on the street are anorexic because the men look this way too. An entire country can’t be anorexic, so what is going on here?

The skinny condition in France can be baffling. At the cafeteria at my work I am constantly shocked by the austere whiteness of the just-eaten-off-of plates filing down the conveyor belt to the kitchen. Almost every single one has been eaten sparkling clean. French co-workers eat away plates of steak, veggies, dessert, breads and coffee, and many have thrown in a fruit or yogurt for good measure. The good eating / skinny body paradox makes you wonder, Is the French government putting a weight loss drug in the water?

No, that is one thing the French government is not paying for. France culture does, however, encourage a different relationship to eating than Americans are used to. This is good news for Americans tired of the same arduous get-slim-quick diets that seldom work. If you play by the French rules you get to eat better food AND win the calorie game for an entire lifetime. Here are the three major differences that help the French stay slim and eat all that cheese :

#1. Savoring Food.
French food is great. The country is overflowing with wonderful bread, cheese, wine, meat, sauces and tarts. In order to take advantage of this, the French won’t be seen eating and doing anything else. This means I stick out like a sore thumb when I eat and walk in France even though I have no problem doing so in the US. In the US you constantly see people eating and driving, but this would not fly in France. Here, there are meal times in which you sit down and eat, and then there is the rest of the day with only coffee to pull you through. (And in my American opinion, the French do not consider breakfast a meal as they eat like birds, nibbling on a few crumbs of bread or a sliver of cake and drowning down yet another coffee. You can say "adieu" to your four-stack of pancakes and your eggs and bacon if you come to la France.) These eating boundaries give people the time to enjoy food and also stay cognizant of how much they consume as their attention isn't taken up with something else. No snacking and no food on the run means that at meal times the French can eat rich food and not gain weight.

#2. Eating smaller portions.
In the US we have instituted the doggie bag to help deal with the excess of food on our plates. In France, no such thing exists and waiters would have no idea what you are talking about if you asked for one. Throughout the course of a French meal you enjoy several different food items, but in much smaller quantities than in the US. Small portion sizes make it possible to enjoy a variety of food without getting too full. Almost all portions are surprisingly small in France. I recently baked a cake to take to work and was horrified to see how small it was; my French recipe made what looked to me like a loaf for two people. It ended up being enough small pieces for about eight co-workers, so go figure!

#3. Walk!
Towns built before the age of cars means you can, and sometimes must, walk. Unlike our suburban sprawl in the US, French towns are designed for people to get around on foot. Bakeries, grocery stores and cafés, everything is concentrated in the same area in a French town and you’ll see both the young and very old walking around at all hours of the day. This provides great exercise. In Paris, getting to school for me meant crawling through dark passageways underground for 30 minutes, or speed walking for 40 minutes along boulevards and parks. I choose the open-air route. This meant, like it or not, I had almost an hour-and-a-half of exercise per day. In Toulouse, the grocery store provides me with my bi-weekly work-out as I have to hike my heavy bags 20 minutes back to my apartment and then up three floors of stairs. Pas mal comme exercice!

Transferring French eating values back to the Starbucks induced US can be tricky. But remembering that the calorie war can be won while still enjoying good food is heartening. Take it from the skinny French : quality trumps quantity and walking works.

Toulouse. European Capital of Culture 2013?

Children hide their ears near Place du Capitole as firecrackers attempt to blast Toulouse to cultural fame and fortune.

A dragon-dressed firework dancer.

Festivities continue with costumes straight out of Harry Potter.

Place de Pont Neuf fireworks illuminate the night.

Free concert by Cali on the Garonne River with Pont Neuf lit up in the background.

Bordeaux, Lyon, Marseille and Toulouse have been competing this year to become the European Capital of Culture in 2013. Tomorrow night the decision will be made by a jury at the Musée d'Orsay and three other cities will be given the cultural axe. The city ultimately picked will benefit from increased cultural funding as well as greater publicity for the year 2013.

Toulouse is a possible candidate and has been preparing for some time. The pictures above were taken during Toulouse's two week long "Festa Europa" in early September. The purpose was to showcase Toulouse's cultural spirit to jury members as well as entertain Toulousians. Pictures above show one of the parades held Saturday night, September 6th. The free evening was sprinkled with drummers, street fireworks, art shows and dragons. Other events to be enjoyed along the banks of the Garonne River included live organ music, a firework spectacle (which was a very well done live music, theater and firework show combined) and a concert by the French artist Cali.

My analysis of the night? A little too many ear-blasting street fireworks by event coordinators and not quite enough festive-spirit by the Toulousains themselves. Maybe getting the prize for European Capital of Culture would heat up some positive street energy in the future. We'll have to see if Toulouse gets that chance.

Get Ready for the WOW! The Music Hole of Camille.

If you haven’t yet heard the French singer “Camille,” get ready for a WOW. Her music is bursting with creativity and life and will make you remember how interesting, inspiring and funky music can be.

I just bought Camille’s new album “Music Hole” and I can’t stop listening. It’s one part irreverent body slap, one part a capella heart song, one part funky beat and one part animal yelp. Camille’s goal was, in her own words, “to mix the storytelling ‘chansons’ feel from musicals with something more tribal: body percussions, minimalist trance, sub bass and throat singing.” The result is an audio explosion of new sounds.

“Music Hole” is a shift from the 30 year-old Parisian’s former style. Her first two albums, “Le sac des filles” (2002) and “Le Fil” (2005), fall into a more classic “French” music genre: poetic lyrics in French and wistful, melancholic undertones. You can already start to see Camille’s uniqueness in these two albums. She uses her body as an instrument. Her arms, chest and the lung cavity become drums, while her mouth is used as a noise-maker to create popping, whistling and clicking sounds. “Le Fil” is also interesting in that it is based around the idea of a connective “fil” or "string.” This can most notably be heard in the droning note that is present throughout the album.


Watch “Ta Douleur” film clip from “Le Fil”
Listen to “1,2,3” from “Le Sac des filles”
Watch the body percussions in “Le sac des filles”


“Music Hole” is a slightly different beast and represents some fairly significant shifts in Camille’s musical style. First of all, it is mainly in English and you won’t get a traditional French sound from this album (for more on the French love of music written in English check out my previous post). Secondly, “Music Hole” is more boisterous and adventuresome than Camille’s former work. It gets you going in multiple directions; it makes you want to laugh, clap, get up and walk around, sing and in between all of this contemplate life. And sometimes it makes you stop and think, that’s some funky noise. I, for one, appreciate the unique mixture of a beautiful voice, animal noises and a whole lot of body percussion.

Here are some examples from "Music Hole." This album is better the closer you listen. My advice is to get out the big headphones. Plug them in. And let Camille feed your ears.

“Money Note” makes me simultaneously laugh and dance every time I listen to it. It’s a spoof on both Mariah Carey’s singing style and the money-making music industry. The song starts with the clinking of coins and then gears up with increasingly complex layers of money talk, beat boxing, and percussion instruments. This money-making machine of voices marches on until Camille tells everyone to:

Everyone get up now
Get ready for the WAOW
Move your arms up in the sky
I’ll hit the money note

What’s she’s after?? Camille says it best: “I just want to beat Mariah, Oh! Let me deserve that raise.” If Camille can just reach that piercing note Mariah Carey proved possible, if not desirable, the bling bling will start rolling in. Camille’s going to give it a try and you have a front seat for the show.

When she does, she hits it right on the money with a screech that would make a blackboard cringe. ENTER AIRWAVES: OVERPRODUCED ‘SEXY’ MALE VOICE with confirmation of Camille’s success, “YEAH……SHE HIT THE MONEY NOTE – YEAH THE MONEY NOTE. (…) AND IF SHE HITS C EIGHT, THAT WOULD BE REALLY GREAT.” You can’t help but laugh. The song is a satire, has a wealth of innovative sounds, and gets you dancing. What a piece of ear candy. (Watch the video)

Where “Money Note” gets the body moving, “Sanges Sweet” is a contemplative reflection on the vastness of life:

I can’t believe what I have done
Been to the moon, been to the sun,
Of all the dreams I’ve had
Not one of them has come true the same night

The song draws out the ideas of lushness and loss. Again, Camille puts us in a rich audio-bed of sounds – this time loops of bells, clappers, piano, breathing sounds, and a myriad of different voice tones. “Sanges Sweet” falls squarely between joy and sadness and is easy listening. (Listen to the song)

“Gospel With No Lord” is an upbeat and joyful spin-off on Gospel music and has a Walt Whitemanesque, “Song of Myself” message. The music also reflects this with the body itself becoming the main music and percussion instrument in the piece. (Watch the video)

Want more? Get it from the Music Hole herself in this video. She’s funny, sweetly irreverent and speaks in Franglophone (Video is in English after the first 5 seconds).

Do you Have to Sing in English to Rock Out?

French singer.

The first French I learned as a child was an innocent little line straight from the honey-coated lips of Patti LaBelle "Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?"

The scene was all-American. I was at a UC Berkeley football game with several different families. (For anyone French we’re talking about the kind of football where you mostly use your hands. Think helmets, dogpiles and very long pauses in between plays. Football is not to be confused with the other “foot” game you actually do play with your feet called soccer.) Anyways, my 12 year old self and a girlfriend of mine decided the post-football game mayhem was a perfect time to start singing at the top of our lungs. Whey not join in the fun? Somehow we landed upon the "voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir" line from "Lady Marmalade." We of course had no idea what the sounds we were mumbling meant.

We soon learned. Our French performance sent my friend’s dad into stitches. He couldn’t stop laughing at the two of us. In between chuckles he explained that we were asking every slightly tipsy football fan around us to sleep with us. We were just old enough to understand this probably wasn’t a good thing to do.

Musical language confusion rarely happens to us Americans as we have very little contact with music in other languages. It was actually a stroke of luck that I even had one line of French to fumble my way through. Sure, you can catch Manu Chao on the radio from time to time, but you certainly won’t hear French hitting your ears in the form of a rock song.

Interestingly, it is not all that different in France. You certainly have a lot more musical choice than "Lady Marmalade" and "La Vie en Rose." But about half the songs playing on French radio are in English.

The strangeness of this phenomenon hits you when you realize the wealth of obscene English words played out across the airwaves in France. Aren't people shocked and offended? Well, no. Hardly anyone understands the lyrics they are hearing! I am sure many a French girlette has sung English lyrics that would make American ears burn, but no one here seems to realize.

What’s up with the French love of music in English? A recent article in the French paper "Le Monde" says that more and more French artists are singing in English. Seventeen out of 130 artists at the all-French “Francopholies” festival in July sang exclusively in English this year, a big shocker for a country that loves its language and has attempted to stop the infiltration of English words in the past.

Many non-English speaking French artists are turning to English as a way to reach farther and rock harder. The first reason is logical : English is more effective for musicians who want to make it big internationally. The second reason gets more interesting. English, apparently, rocks.

The French singer Sébastien Tellier holds this second opinion. Tellier represented France this year at the annual Eurovision song competition. The song that got him there, "Divine," is in English. Why? As Tellier explains, “Un Français qui chante du rock, ça fait nul.” Well, he doesn’t really speak English all that well, but if he did he might say Rock sung in French ain’t got no soul. Tellier says rock, RnB and rap all grew out of American culture and so when sung in French can’t have the same feeling. To counteract this, Tellier’s solution is simple; choose a few English words that sound good, throw them together, go on "Google translate" to be certain you are actually saying something in English and voilà! Suddenly he has a little English ditty to tempt the masses with.

The innovative French singer Camille has a different reason to sing in English; the language sounds are just more “funky.” In an interview for her new album “Music Hole,” Camille says English is more rockin’ because there are more vowels. French on the other hand has a lot of consonants, especially when sung. Camille says that when she created "Music Hole" she felt like dancing and she does rock it pretty good. She ended up with a much more joyful and energetic album then her previous French language albums. It is much less contemplative than her former style though just as innovative and interesting. Maybe there is no connection between the increased energy of her newest album and the language it is sung in. But it holds true that the French tend to rock out in English.

With more and more French music being sung in English, I’m starting to wonder if any other American children will even have the music material to "voulez-vous??" their way into trouble.