Cultural Saturation as Converse to Cultural Fatigue

There is always an upside to things that go poorly, or almost always, just as there is an inevitable drop from any summit that we reach. The polarity of our emotions and the things that happen for us is actually somewhat predictable to the extent that it seems random, that is to say that our swings in mood and fortune are entirely normal and we can expect them like we can expect the weather to change at a moment's notice, without given reason or explanation.

So it goes that what happened after reaching an apparent rock bottom, being unable to speak to anyone in French except with rudimentary words and grammatical structure, lots of gesticulation, and more than a little bit of stress. Lots of drinking involved, lots of seeking out English speakers, and then a sudden realization that I should probably not actually be doing either of those things to the extent that it was happening, because studying abroad is not intended to be speaking drunken English abroad, like so many of the assholes from Tufts that study in the region are so eagerly willing to demonstrate. Our decisions to go to Geneva and Germany coincided with precisely all of those things and are not as accidental as they initially seem to be.

So we left both times, each time stepping into the car feeling like complete relief from the monotony and downturn of Annecy. What I was not expecting was that when we got back from Germany (another day, another post, blah blah blah), something happened to change everything, and suddenly I found myself conversing fluidly with momma having nothing but strong coffee in my system. No aperitif or anything. It was a first, and then it kept happening. A brief conversation without any major hitches, and then an order placed in French without the French person getting frustrated about foreign French. The cashier at Zara switching back into French after I found myself instinctually speaking relaxed French (and only French) with her in the middle of holding an English conversation. The people on the street never assuming that I didn't speak French when I encountered them by myself. So many little instances of being integrated just a little bit more into the language, sinking a little further into the culture, as though the words were all in there before but just needed something there to arrange themselves properly.

And that's the thing. I have no idea what that something is or was, but something happened after we spent roughly a day in an area where I know absolutely none of the language surrounding me. Perhaps the synapses in my brain needed down time to allow themselves to rearrange to fire more efficiently. Perhaps my chakras lined up correctly ("lawl"). I don't know. What I do know is that I came back and suddenly everything was not so bad anymore. I didn't need to be sick of France anymore, because finally I could connect in it again. I call it "cultural saturation", because that's what it feels like. There's no sharpness to the transition, I just sort of woke up one morning and there I found myself. All of the stress of the previous week or two was not necessarily lifted, but the little things were certainly for their part not nearly so irritating. Once again I could be elated in the rare moments I had to myself and feel as though I was, in fact, in elysium, and that this could not possibly be real. Reality has come back a little more in the period afterward, but it was a breakthrough that there's no coming back from.

A pinch later, and this is real.

The Day the Food Died and Other Reflections

Sometimes, things work out brilliantly well in life, you feel like you're on top of the world, nothing can go wrong, you have the best contacts and plans for life, you're going places, everything is amazing. Sometimes it all comes crashing down and you feel like you're actually a living dead person, in other words, a zombie. We go through these ups and downs fairly routinely in life, but when you spend time getting habituated in a foreign country, these ups and downs are significantly more acute and bipolar, happening with such frequency that you end up incredibly stressed out and you have no idea what you want or what to do.

I was having a bit of a down week with my cultural fatigue and N was starting to get a little burned out as well. We went to a cheese factory in the morning with our host director Babette (do you love her name already? because I do.), which is awesome for all of the lactose intolerant people in our group. I swear, there's something about CU students and studying abroad in France that just synergizes with being totally incapable of digesting lactose. Useful! So N tried the cheeses that he could and I tried a little bit of everything, it smelled abhorrently foul, we got some free souvenirs and take-home cheese, and then we left to get lunch and hang out for a bit. It's not that the cheese factory wasn't really cool, but it was a little underwhelming, and thus not the point of this post.

So that's when our day soured as we settled into a flamboyant café for, well, a café. We got two absurdly bad coffees so typical of France in general, but particularly Annecy, and sat in the sun, so it was a little less than ideal. The quality of the coffee was perhaps the worst in the whole city, but you know, sometimes you can't let the little details get you down. So after a couple of minutes of coffee, N finishing his, me choking mine down in desperate need of caffeine, he threw his newspaper at me, saying "I think there's a tennis article, why don't you read it?" and proceeded to run to allow his lactose intolerance to take its inevitable course. Brilliant. Twenty minutes of almost blinding myself trying to read an article in the sun without sunglasses on (quel jour to wear regular glasses) later and N sits back down, and we proceed to wait approximately forever to pay. The café manager/owner didn't come back out again, so I ended up going inside to pay, wherein I discovered that to compensate for the awful coffee, they only charge people half-price for it. That works, sort of. Not that I would go back.

So then we started to wander around Annecy looking for something to eat, none of the sandwiches we passed looking particularly appealing, with both of us hungry and a little hypoglycemic. N was getting particularly sick of being a ringleader, that is to say making decisions, and so we ended up sitting at a crêperie that had a decent-looking menu but was unfortunately situated on the most touristic side of the river. Oh well, lunch was to be had. So we took our sweet, sweet time trying to find something palatable on the menu to eat and finally ordered. Without really paying too much attention, as happens when I get too hungry, I ordered a Danish crepe, and N ordered a Niçoise salad. Now, here's the deal, in France, normally a Danish crepe means that you have salmon, a light, tasteless cream sauce, and citrus in your crepe. We got our food to discover, lo and behold, that N's Niçoise salad was actually a cream dressing-covered monstrosity and that my crepe was perhaps the worst piece of food ever. It was death on a plate.

Let me describe this for you. Imagine you are eating a crepe. Now imagine that crepe to be just a little bit too thick, a little bit rubbery, and a little bit spongy all at the same time. It's probably not extremely fresh, or was simply not well looked after while cooking. It's a little too brown. You've squeezed a healthy amount of citrus on it, expecting it to add the perfect, fresh zest to your bite. You bite into the crepe, only to discover that it is the textural equivalent of the combination of insulation packing foam and flan, has a mild hint of lemon mixed into an almost untraceable cream sauce...followed by the saltiest black caviar ever known to man. We're talking more salt than the Dead Sea here. One bite and you might go into cardiac arrest because of your blood pressure.

It was bad. So bad, in fact, that I managed to con N into taking a bite, which he physically gagged on. We had a moment of understanding without looking at each other and knew that we could not possibly eat that food. There was no way. The problem with this is that sending the food back was also not an option, we were going to have to pay for it and leave, because there was no turning around. This is extremely rude even in America, the land of the nagging asshole customer, but an almost ideological affront to French culture. You're offending everyone and everything by doing so. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting in almost maniacal laughter, we finally got the waitress, who was every bit as displeased as we had anticipated she would be. We weren't necessarily anticipating our bill to be thrown at us, but we could accept it. We paid, N left a 7€ tip, something unheard of in France, and then we ended up getting a sandwich anyway.

Lesson learned.

Lyon, or Why Must I Hike Unexpectedly?

There was another IFALPES-led excursion to a major city that I have yet to visit in my limited experience out in the world, so naturally for the cost of 36€, there was no way I could turn up the opportunity to go to Lyon and a medieval village for the day. There was going to be a big group of 25+ people going, but ultimately IFALPES didn't get enough people to sign up in order to rent the larger bus for the day, leaving the group at a humble 8. Our first stop was in a charming, but cold, medieval city called Pérouges, so named for the Italians from Perugia who settled there for quality of life reasons several centuries ago but who also wanted to retain their identity of place. It was interesting, it was small, I tried a flat cake (gallette) from the town, and it was a little boring. It's nice to see, but the differences between that medieval village and, say, Yvoire are superficial at best. Perhaps we could say that about cities in general, given the sense that occurs to people who spend their lives traveling around that everywhere is roughly similar and people want and do the same things.

Things changed, however, upon our arrival in Lyon. Or at least, upon waking up and seeing that we were actually in a large city. For real. Civilization! We arrived not far from the river in a square that is apparently rather large and historic, but the details of which I don't really remember. Oops. So we arrived and were promptly advised to go eat lunch and discover the city, which is when the world's longest lunch happened. First it took a while to find a place that would work for 6 people, and then we spent two hours sitting there and eating. Two. Hours. What the fuck? So it wasn't ideal, and left us with just enough time to rush through discovering the city ourselves. I was a little bit disappointed, but not overly so, because the vibe I get from Lyon is one that I don't completely click with. The city is rather nice, and perhaps it was the group dynamic, but there was something about it that didn't feel quite like it suited me.

Don't let the bitching fool you, I had fun.

What we did see of the city I enjoyed, however, and we took a tour through a pedestrian zone so familiar to so many: the pedestrian street mall. We have plenty of examples in the Denver agglomeration, notably 16th St. downtown and Pearl St. in Boulder, but they exist pretty much everywhere and are not special unless there is good shopping or dining to accompany them. The shopping on offer in Lyon, however, is incredible, and definitely something worth seeing (and doing) if you have the resources for it. We went through the streets of the city quickly, but what we did see was nice.

One thing to note: Lyon appears to be a less-heavily touristed city than others that I have seen on this séjour, all of the tourists appeared to be either of French or random Asian origin, neither of which being a good indicator of the popularity of the city with tourists. I'm sure they exist, but they certainly don't make themselves visible, and that's perhaps a good thing. The city is beautiful, historic, and ...a place that the locals "profitent" of for themselves. Bien.

So we rushed back to the square where we had arrived so that we could take the promised walking tour à la Genève and ended up being approximately 11 minutes late. This I blame on the member of the group who was late arriving, prolonged the restaurant selection process, and ended up with disgusting food and thus prolonged our lunch. Not that I'm saying he's existentially late, but I'm saying he's existentially late. The walking tour was great, consisting of visits on the other side of the other river in town, thus through the center of town (dating to circa 19th century) and into the old town (dating older), including the traboules, or secret passages, a quick peek in a museum of miniature things, and so on. What followed was a surprise hike, announced by our guide who so helpfully put it "Now I hope you're in good shape, because we're going to walk up 500 stairs!" In the fresh heat of the afternoon.

Great.

We complained to each other until we looked behind us and realized what a magnificent view we could enjoy on the stairs of death of hazard.

No shit, seriously. It makes the thigh burn hurt so good.

So we somehow made it to the summit and were rewarded by the basilica of the city and the most magnificent vista in all of France. The view would only be better if there were the Alps in the background for it.

Voilà.

There wasn't a lot more substance to the rest of the trip, other than retrieving a bottle of water for 2€, feeling somewhat comical taking pictures inside of a church, and then getting back into the oven minibus to go back to Annecy. Another day, another city. After a nice nap, we arrived back into town, thanked Philippe for guiding us, and got ready to go out later that night.