Tag: France

Oh, the Conspiracies

Eh. I just can’t do today. I spent some time today watching the Olympics that are in Paris. That’s in France, a country in Europe. Many Americans, me included, have ancestors from there. France has a long history, including a revolution where a red, white and blue flag got waved around.

This is French. It’s what they fought for, liberty, eat, and brotherhood. From Pexel.

You knew this, right? The French are famous for wine, cheese, fashion, and long loaves of bread. They are not famous for fried potatoes.

Wine and cheese. From Pexel.

I was baffled to wake up this morning to find people I know very upset with the Opening Ceremonies, admittedly a confusing extravaganza of Frenchness, and saying it was a Satanic ritual sent out to corrupt them. Do people think their little American demographic is so important that another country would forfeit their chance to highlight their culture in favor of upsetting people on the other side of the world?

Are they on shrooms? (The hallucinatory kind, not ones that look like nipples.

Yow. Now I know some folks don’t think it worth their time to learn about places outside of where they live. They have other stuff to think about. I get it. My head is full of bird calls, so it’s running out of space, too.

My head is also full of yarn. I’ve been crocheting something.

But gee whiz, the world isn’t out to get you, your interpretation of a deity, or your beloved future leader, who today promised you’ll only have to vote once more, so that duty can be crossed off the list.

I’m the spider in this scenario.

Surprise: All those other nations out there all think THEY are the most important one, and only care about you if you try to pick a fight. So France wrote an Olympic Opening Ceremony that they felt represented themselves, their history, and their culture. It might confuse non-French people, but rather than assume the worst and invent conspiracy theories. another option would be to try to learn something about France.

That French bread is a baguette. That’s French for long loaf of bread. from Pexel.

You might still think the French are weird, but that’s okay; they also think we’re weird.

I doubt anyone who reads this needs education about France or believes Satanic forces control the Olympic organizers. And, since I’m me, I must point out that we’re all entitled to our beliefs, rational or not. So you be you. I get to be me.

Book Report: A Year in Provence

Rating: 3 out of 5.

This is certainly not the kind of book I usually read, but it’s what the Bobcat neighborhood book club chose, and I want to stay in the book club, so I read it. As many of you who read this book years ago already know, A Year in Provence, by Peter Mayle, came out in 1989 originally. The copy I have contains an update from ten years later.

Much wine and pastis are consumed in this book. And why is that doomed fox smoking?

This would not be a beloved best-selling novel if it didn’t have its charms, and Mayle most assuredly can paint a picture of a culture in just a few words and a few bucolic tales of the neighbors and neighborhoods. I think any Francophile would just love the little vignettes and word portraits of the people in a remote area of Provence and how their activities and non-activities change from season to season.

There’s the problem. I’m not, alas, a Francophile, even though I once married one and have beloved friends who adore France. Too many years of watching French cinema could be a cause. Or it could be the particular set of grumpy, chain-smoking French people with strong superiority complexes I’ve known. (Before you rebuke me, I realize there are plenty of people in this continent who could be characterized similarly.

I didn’t find the way the contractors working on the house just disappeared for months with no warning nor any explanation (this may be because our pool workers have done the same). I didn’t find the smelly, mean-spirited neighbor, who Mayle seemed totally enchanted with, at all fascinating. He reminded me of half of Milam County, Texas.

And I know he was a sweet old man with much going for him, but Mayle came off to me as someone with more money than he knew what to do with, and no ability to make his own decisions. He just went along with everyone else and their ideas and timetables. Oops, I hope I didn’t just describe myself. I may have described how I must come across sometimes (I assure you; I do NOT have more money than I know what to do with–each horse and swimming pool expenditure comes with sacrificing something else and with the sad bonus of annoying my dear spouse).

This book review is not about me, it’s about Provence, an area of France where it gets quite hot and is often very windy…much like Milam County. Maybe I found too much of my own life in this book to find it a real getaway.

Oui, c’est un gros trombone – I did not know paperclip was “trombone” in French.

And also, I’m a linguist and all that, but I didn’t know what a lot of the words in the story meant. I’m not ignorant in French, but I wish more context from which to figure out the meanings of some of the liberally sprinkled French words and phrases had been included. Some of us studied Spanish, you know.

Still, anyone will enjoy some of the little bits you learn about Provence, the stories of grapes and mushrooms, and learning about how hunters of over thirty years ago a lot like the ones are today (they need their modern conveniences!). At least there is a lot less trash on the side of the road after hunting is over in Texas. You can enjoy a few days with this book and not get upset, angry, or bored, so it’s worth a shot.

Monsieur Renard is not happy about what is happening to the fox on the book cover.

My favorite part of reading A Year in Provence, though, was that I got to use my new bookmark that I got in Breck. It’s a cool fox, or dare I say, renard, on it. Its little face looks “très amusant” peeking out from the top of a book. I can’t wait to use it again.