Well it’s almost midway to my last month of my journey here. Some reflections on stereotypes. Many surprisingly have merit, others none at all. Overall they’re the little idiosyncracies that make the French culture and have a way saying, ‘that’s the way it is take it or leave it’.

1. They’re cold. A group of French people will not welcome you with open arms when you walk into a party. Or find a need to randomly smile at a stranger. True. But they are extremely polite, (well most) and have all kinds of words at their disposal when thanking you for doing a good deed. And throughout my time here, despite little mishaps with one or two not so pleasant people, I have met an array of warm French people. (The first Starbucks in Lyon is exporting the city’s first helpful and friendly sales clerks). This is one stereotype I’m sick of hearing and hope that when people to come to France realize it’s not so much about being cold or warm, but more so on a different way of expressing yourself.
2. They’re anti-American. Yes and no. Yes the French are extremely politically involved, both domestically and with international affairs as well. And as I have noticed here socio-economic levels have little to do with how much you care about politics. And yes they do take in a lot from the media and inevitably learn about certain decisions taken by the current US administration that they find inadmissible, but hey doesn’t close to half the world think the same? Then there are the tourists that come to visit Paris or Nice (because, really, that’s where almost all of them go) that demand a burger in a French restaurant. But again, the fact that America out of all the countries in the Lyon exchange program is the most coveted, must say something. From the people I’ve met (who automatically think I’m American, the minute I speak English), curiosity of what lies within those borders seems a stronger contender than anti-Americanism.
3. They love their cheese, wine, bread and pastries. A million times yes. When in France in whatever capacity of time, space or money you have, profit on buying and tasting as much of the above French neccesaties as possible. No where would they be cheaper (in varying degrees) or taste better.
4. Work is merely a means to an end, and not the other way around. Strikes, shops that never seem open, lines that take forever, non-stop means to actually open during lunch. SUNDAYS WHERE EVERY imaginable thing other than restaurants are closed. Leisure time isn’t a privilege it is a right. It’s different but it grows on you. Especially, the cafes that let you lounge for hours on end, for just a bowl of hot chocolate for 2euros. Sure efficiency isn’t their forte but, it isn’t such a bad thing when you miss a metro and you realize, ehh, c’est la vie, not the end of the world?
5. They love black, wear barrets and smoke. They love wearing black. Oh yes they do. Especially during the winter. I’ll be walking down Rue de la Republique one of the city’s main shopping district and I might just be the only one in color amongst the sea of all black boots, scarves, sweaters. But as Jose, a friend of mine noticed, “you know it really isn’t as morbid or depressing as you’d think”. It isn’t. In fact the ability to create and recreate an array of outfits with just one color alone is a pretty interesting sight. As for the barrets, its more towards the older woman, but young ones as well. And the smoking?
6. There’s dog poo everywhere. No real explanation needed. There is.

Les Fetes de Lumieres or the Festival of Lights. Many little cities and towns have these, but Lyon is world known for it. It began as a tradition on the 8^th of December for a predominantly Catholic lyonnais population to put candles on their window sills in homage to the Virgin Marie in giving birth to Jesus. It culminated and still does with the mounting up of Fouvriere hill with a march of candle holders to the cathedral. But in this day an age nothing escapes capitalism and this little festival has evolved into a full blown extravaganza. Still annoying tourist busses aside, a festival that fuses light, art, the community of Lyon and vin chaud (translated hot wine, a spicy blend of cinnamon wine and sugar cooked over a stove) together is a God-send in the bitter freezing winter. For months the city council worked with various artists and light-technicians to bring forth around 70 or so light installations, concentrated in the city-centre of Presqu’ile, Vieux Lyon and Croix-Rousse and crawling throughout the city. My Lyonnais friend indicated that this year, especially, the idea of energy conservation was high on the agenda. The light installations he pointed out would be less on the bright side, more on the artsy side. Hmm. Well no real surprise there. Here’s a slice of the wondrous cake that is Fetes des Lumieres:

Boxes lined along the river board walk that lit up in various designs and in a spectrum of luminous neon colors; easily reminded me that I was in some gigantic nightclub.

A mass exodus of people walking around, couples hand in hand, kids holding some sort of nutella stuffed concoction, photographers mounting up their stands to take that perfect picture. Having dinner in my landlord’s apartment that directly faces the gigantic ferris wheel in Place Bellecour. The giant plastic snowball that covered the main statue in Place Bellecour. Every other narrow street decorated with a row of light fixtures. Lighting shows on the already intricately designed ancient buildings of Lyon. A telephone booth that was recreated as a fish aquarium, with the fluorescent lighting, half-fake half-real sea plants and yes, fish; a statement on the technologies that are becoming increasingly obsolete.  Red lush couches and chairs encircling a pinkly and silver decorated statue, simulating the one thing I have grown to know and love; the French café. The soft glow of candles on the apartment window sills. Drunken singing French. (nothing too new). The smell of everything that is oh so bad for you yet tastes oh so good. Me smelling something burning only to discover thanks to this old French lady that my candle-lantern was in flames. Thankfully she warned me before, my scarf and consequently hair followed suit. Bea laughing her arse off seconds later. Hipipes going crazy. (nothing too new). Firebreathers. A garden of ‘ light tulips’. A romantic hill-top view of Lyon and a descent of heavily decorated glowing red trees. Seeing everyone you’ve met in the past 4 months on the streets.

The festival lasted three days, and to cover all 70 was nearly impossible. Still I couldn’t help but chuckle when during that weekend,  a friend of Jacquelinne’s in UVa exclaimed “Aww! That’s too bad you’re missing the Lighting of the Lawn!” Tthe traditional but honestly anticlimactic lighting of our Lawn by Christmas lights all throughout the winter.

In any case, a true sight to be seen.

So November’s over. Just trying to recollect how the days came and went is an endeavor too sad and pointless to take on. This first week would mark my last full month in this glorious city and this fascinating culture that is becoming less and less so foreign.   I had my first exam on this day. What to say about exams in France? First of all, like most of them in Asia and Europe, your mark on the exam contributes to 50% of your grade, or is the grade. As many of you have realized that’s a far cry from the United States, where a final exam gracing the region of 40% is considered on the extreme side. Fortunately, I just needed to pass. Unfortunately, studying abroad, specifically studying abroad in a country where they invented, joie de vivre isn’t the most conducive settings to productive studying. It’s an entire paradigm shift really. When your whole academic career has been focused on getting that specific grade, to attain that specific grade point average, it’s a little of an adjustment when your just hoping for the bare minimum. A relaxing adjustment but a change nonetheless. The scary part is transitioning back to UVa and having to work throughout the actual semester. The absurdity of the thought!

After months of wondering what a French exam would be like, let alone passing one (I remind you that out of 20, apparently even God, yes that is what they say, apparently ‘God’ or something close to Him, couldn’t get a 19) the day finally came when I entered with the other French students into an auditorium ‘prepared!!?’ to take my first exam. Francois who took the class a few semesters ago assured I had nothing to worry about, ‘t’inquietes pas’ he insisted. The professor told us before hand it would be a QCM or questionnaire à choix multiples. Before we were allowed to turn our exams over, I was a little less than surprised when I saw clearly demarcated lines for writing. “Bea! Lines! For writing!!?!?!” I whispered seconds before the professor told us to begin.

Admittedly, the multiple choice section was on the generous side, but that lasted only a few minutes into the exam. Great. Time to whip-out some of that French B-sing I know and love. You’re dying in anticipation aren’t you? Well I walked out, thinking I’ve had a lot worse (which isn’t such a bad thought coming out of an exam you took in a foreign language dabbling on topics of Geostrategy of the World Economy). Still a bit more studying couldn’t have hurt. You also realize that it in those moments of adrenaline, digging through every crevice of your brain for information and ‘sophisticated’ French words to spice up your arguments, how much you’ve improved, or for some, not at all, from the last time you were asked to write on the spot. Pas mal. Pas mal du tout.

Yes Bea and I took a day troop to a little city called Annecy. Yes as usual it was thought up the day before. Yes it was too cute for words, little houses with that Swiss-German-look, little bridges over little rivers, a once municipal/prison/church/money-workshop and current museum sitting  on a little island in the middle of city is a must-see and the snow covered-mountains encircling the gigantic lake made my ‘best-views-list’. But this isn’t so much about the trip. This is about what happened several hours before boarding the bus and the train to this little city called Annecy.

“Let’s take a day trip to Annecy!” suggested Bea. I stewed with the idea for a while and confirmed soon after, “Sure! And let’s not spend a cent on food!” Since Annecy was only around an hour and half form Lyon we would be taking the Regional trains or (busses to another nearby station) that leave every other hour or so. To make most of the already dwindling daylight we decided to leave really early so we could buy the tickets for the 9h10 train. Meaning waking up early to prepare the food we were going to eat the entire day. With a random assortment of food in my bag I rang Bea’s apartment door ready to start the day. Nothing. Again. Oh God, she better not—and she opens the door, donning the Virginia sweater, her glasses and I-just-rolled-out bed-hair. “DUDE!” I screamed. An hour later we ran to the bus stop just less than a minute from my apartment, and hoped on a bus that went to the train station. We literally had 5 minutes till departure when we reached the endless line for tickets. Damnit! By the time we got up to the booth, we bought the 11h30 instead. “So now what?…Wait I have to pee really badly.” I said. “Yeah—yeah me too” said Bea. Typical. 1 Euro to use a toilet in a clearly public location. Great minds. Simultaneously, we turned around just as quickly as we saw the price of entry for the toilet. “Let’s just go home and use our toilets for free man!” said Bea. Less than fifteen minutes later, we were home, toasty, having a proper breakfast. And just twenty minutes before our train, we took the bus again to the train station. When the trip to your university town to the nearest international airport is a journey involving possibly two or three modes of transportation and a disproportionate amount of time and money, the experience I had on this day reminds me why I love living in the city.

Francois’ sister Sophie just bought a newly renovated townhouse and was having a pendaison cremeillaire or housewarming. Never in lack of a good French speaking opportunity I was quick to accept his invitation. “But it’s a construction site” said Bea when we found no. 7 rue de Bart, the supposed location of Sophie’s place. “Just wait I swear Francois’ gonna pop his little French head, I don’t know how but he will” I said. Living in Bangkok you get fazed by all kinds of things, still staying in a darkened alleyway in any country doesn’t bode too well for anyone. “Oh my god, what if we got the wrong address?!” one of us shrieked. “No, no…see it says right here”, looking at my text message.

As if it was taken from an after-school special.  Francois’ head popped out of the entrance of the construction site. “No way”, I said bursting in a fit of laughter. We did the ritual bissous or the double-side-kiss (practically an institution in France and something those with a well-defined radius of personal space will have to learn to forego when wanting to not come-off like an awkward foreigner as experienced personally by Natalie when her male-boss at work reached in for a biz). Francois’ nonchalantly gave us two little flashlights. Inevitably Bea and I gave ourselves quizzical looks. “Follow me and watch your step!” he said in French.  “Uhhmm Francois?….so…um”, I said not exactly knowing what was going on as we traversed through what seemed like a ‘house’ while of course  avoiding the random metal protruding out of the floor or sinking out feet into the half mud-half concrete floor. I imagined, ashamedly thinking about it, a group of French people huddled around some fire in the corner of such a ‘house’ sipping wine spreading some Nuttella on crepes. So maybe this is a normal thing in France!? I asked myself. But we as we walked out of the space, literally because they were only three walls, we continued until Francois led us to a row of clearly renovated townhouses. Ahh… right. “Bienvenue!” said Francois welcoming us into his sister’s new place. Again, as with any other social gathering I’ve come across here a little voice pipes in right before I enter, really awkward or really fun. Here we go!   We dropped off our coats in the kitchen only to hear a buzzing of French chatter in the living room. First thing I notice; heated floors. Living in an apartment where the heating has ceased to function (we’ll discuss this later) heated flooring was almost absurd enough to be a joke.  Francois introduced Bea and me to the crowd of people, and my eyes immediately darted to the food table. This is why you always want to accept an invitation to a French party. A chocolate-sputting-fountain, a 1kg jar of Nuttella, pastries, fruits, Orangina, crepes, quiches, wine, cheese. Need I say more? After examining the spread, I reminded myself of the other beings in the room, and began the French speaking.

As the party was getting a tad on the restless side, Francois’ sister Sophie suggested to everyone, we play a game of loup-garou! “Lou ga—what!?” I whispered to Bea and Raya. This game of French origin, according to Francois, has each participant draw from a deck of cards with certain designs on it indicating your respective role in a ‘village’. Either normal townsman, or sorcerer, peeping girl, mayor and other various random roles found in a ‘typical village’. Lastly, there will be a group of loup-garous, or werewolves. The point is that after the sunrises (when people open their eyes) the village will have to discuss debate and finally vote for the killing of whoever they suspect to be werewolves. The werewolves in turn already identified themselves at night, will try to scheme and avoid being killed while accusing the villagers of being werewolves themselves. Imagine all this being explained to you in French. Really really fast French. Imagine a rather larger circle of French university students already disputing the rules before the game even started, while you strain your ear to understand the instructions. “D’accord??” asked Sophie. Always an indicator that a foreigner isn’t in full comprehension—eyes wide open, head slowly bobbing up and down, in pathetically reluctant accordance that she ‘understands’ what’s going on. Thank God when I looked at my card and saw that I was a just a common villager. As soon as the game began the foreign kids were rendered to silence by French accusations and defenses hurled across the circle. That was of course until a girl asked me, “Hey what’s your name?” “Ohh uh moi..?? C’est Abyan,” all doe-eyed and naive. “Je pense que c’est Abyan!” she screamed. Before I knew it, I was defending myself in French, stating my sincere intentions as foreign exchange student with no intention of eating any French-villager-meat. And so they voted and the French people spoke. I didn’t stand a chance.  

“So, I don’t really know if I’m going out with this guy,” I said to Francois one night. “What? So you’re saying you can’t tell if he’s your boyfriend…or not?” reaffirmed Francois. “Yeah…” I said equally puzzled with what had just escaped my mouth. “I mean, don’t they have this rule in France that if you have a couple cafes with a guy, kiss, he cooks for you, then you guys are together?”

“Haha..yeah, actually it kind of is like that,” Francois replied. “Well…to me, at least, in France, if a guy holds a girl’s hands in public, then you’re together, its really quite simple actually.”

“Right…simple. Well…he’s not French, he’s European, same thing right?” I said trying to rationalize the situation.

Looks like we’ve come to yet another lesson in cultural exchange. With respect to the mating game, there are certain protocols to which you adhere to given your environment.

In the wild, the male peacock flaunts his elaborate…equipment. In the States, the American boy asks the girl to go steady. Here in France, a mutual understanding is formed without the awkward “what are we doing” talk. To some, it’s a natural evolution of two people’s feelings without the painful dissection of one’s heart. But to those accustomed to expecting some sort of ‘’talk,'’ this implicit acknowledgment might just not be explicit enough.

My mystery man will remain under the guise of one Hans Christian…Anderson. We met under odd circumstances and despite minor stumbles around the language barrier, over the past weeks we’ve managed to form a surprising bond.

You know your days of singledom are outnumbered when terms of endearment no longer make you squirm, when romantic movies are suddenly a lot more bearable, and a certain tinge of ‘la vie en rose’ coats all. It helps if you live in one of the most scenic places in the world, walking hand in hand over a bridge crossing the River Rhone. I’m not trying to conjure up Carrie Bradshaw here, but I can’t help but wonder…

What happens when you find someone abroad? More importantly, can a nomad ever settle down?
At some point, Hans and I will have to…’talk’ about my imminent departure and his continued stay in Lyon. At the moment however, we have plenty to do and time, I have decided, is a relative notion. This much too pensive blogger will give her mind respite and experience what has been laid out in her journey. I’ll end with what my Lit. Professor wrote on the board one day: “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point; on le sait en mille choses.”

Pascale, the 17th century French philosopher once said in his book, Thoughts, “The heart has reasons that reason does not know; we see it in a thousand things”.

In Finances Internationales class today, I told Bea that I felt a markedly large decrease of French speaking on my part.  This is how life is so great. On my way out I caught Carlos’ eye (a genial El-Salvadorian and roommate of Adrien), we do the usual, how are you’s and continued our walk down,to the hall, me trying to pack in as much French as I could in one casual conversation. Yay! Profite Abyan profite!!  To my pleasant surprise, Carlos and Francois (who was waiting at the foyer) were on their way to grab some lunch at the, “Ru“. “Le quoi!?!?” (The what?!) I asked…”Le Rr-r-oo” repeated Francois. It finally hit me when he explained that the ‘Crous’ or Resto-U or Ru was the Lyon student dining hall. “Wait isn’t it the one on campus??” I asked. “Nope, that’s the cafe, its way too expensive, this is the actual dining hall” explained Francois. And suddenly it all became clear. Before coming to Lyon, I found a couple of the Lyon2 sites alluding to this ‘Crous’ place that sold cheap but hot meals for students. Thinking the 5 euro per plate and 3 euro per pathetic panini Cafe U was the actual dining hall, I opted to just make lunch on my own or eat elsewhere. But today, is the day of enlightenment and discovery.  The Crous was in fact situated away from the university campus but only a few stops from the tram. Francois, being the French gentleman that he is got me the 2, 45euro ticket and we waited in line. So, with just 2,45 euros as a university student you are entitled to one entree, one dessert (or two desserts), a hot main course, bread, AND waiting for students at every table was a free glass jug of refillable water. Walking into the crowded hall, this was definitely one of those ‘Hi I’m Abyan and I’m a French student’ moments since hardly any foreign presence could be felt unlike the cafe on campus. Again I remind you of the…..lameness one embodies once abroad. Even when entering a room full of French people with the possibility of engaging or overhearing some French dialogue could get you unnecessarily giddy. My observations? In comparison to the ridiculously overpriced all-you -can-eat dining halls in the States that implicitly force you to gorge all you can in one go to get your money’s worth, this place provided the perfect amount for a full course meal (it lasted me the entire day), was on the tastier side of things and was healthy. No every-kind-of-soda coke dispensers were to be found, only water. With the company of French students, you don’t have to tell me twice to go again.

While I was having a drink with my friend Tobias (I’m choosing to call him Schweizer), on Friday night, the 20-ish year old girl sitting next to me came up to us and asked whether I spoke English. “Yeah…?” I answered.. wondering what could possibly be coming our way. Her name is Nelly and her Mum, Trang. Originally from Vietnam, this mother and daughter ensemble tried to explain both in French and English, if I wanted…to participate in a Vietnamese cultural show the next day.  I’d of course have to wear the Vietnamese traditional dress…while some documentaries on Vietnam were being projected. “So?? Could you pleasse help us out?!” asked Nelly. “Eh…why not? Not really doing anything tomorrow”. And so, the next day, unfolded to be possibly one of the most bizarre days since I’ve set foot here. We headed towards the Salle Rameau a theatre tucked away behind the big town square and city hall. Nelly met us at the entrance minutes after we arrived and we walked in at 14h00 and walked out seven hours later. Yes. Seven.

I’m not exactly sure what transpired in those seven hours. From what I can recall..it was a lot of meeting random people that had some sort of connection to either the theatre (they were working there), Vietnam, or…random people that were picked up to help out (aka Schweizer and I), learning a dance, trying on a couple traditional dresses, watching Trang’s small but energetic frame jump all around the backstage to direct the show, go on stage with my ‘costume’ and bow to the surprisingly filled audience, watch some dancing and singing performances and last, and undeniably not the least, partake in the simulation of a traditional Vietnamese wedding. No, I was thankfully not the bride, but only the bridesmaid. Granted, the entire day was pretty much me having absolutely no idea what was going on, while being hurled directions in French, but cross-cultural experience nonetheless. I have a new French friend, Nelly who has plans to move to New York to continue her finance work, and now I know better; when in France, practicing the language manifests itself in all kinds of opportunities—even a seven hour Vietnamese cultural show, if need be.

The date of this blog isn’t exactly accurate, lets just say it started a bit before and is continuing until now (november 20th). Un greve or a strike, seems, from my short experience to be the very bread and butter of the French life. After the couple weeks or so of demonstrations by the respective syndicates and organizations on Sarkozy’s socio-economic reforms, it was due time someone ’striked’, well more like some couple thousands. It started with the SNCF (or French railway) workers unhappy with the new Retirement Law, inspired to join the railway workers or cheminots against Sarko, students around France began to stand against the new law to increase university autonomy with funding enterprises and block school entrances, and now up until recently, civil servants angry about their sudden decrease in purchasing power.

What I’ve come to realize as an outsider is the good and bad of this French mode of political expression. The good being mobilized masses who demand to be heard can actually produce results aka being heard by the government. I mean when the entire national railway system comes to a complete halt, the government’s bound to notice. Which leads me to the bad, striking at least with respect to the students can sometimes be so habitual that you lose clarity in the situation and hence efficacy in reaching your goal. Missing classes presently means students will have to ‘retrapper’ or make-up hours with extra Saturdays or holidays protesting against an already voted for law, that, argues a French student in support of this reform, would lead to an improvement of the education system. For others, it’s turning education, a well-defined public good in France into another capitalist commodity. Whose to say?

A quick and egregiously generalized overview: Government acts ‘’progressively/fascist-ly'’ (pick your poison)–>French people get angry–>French people demonstrate + strike–> no one works/attends school = very puzzled/discontent centrists, rightists or foreigners.

Every third Thursday of every November, the wine community worldwide celebrates Beaujolais Nouveau. It’s evolved to become the quasi Oktoberfest of France since it’s the first batch of ‘Beaujolais’ of the wine season. Even more exciting was the fact that Lyon was the region in which Beaujolais was cultivated. Well, so we thought, after much hyping up of this ‘crazy party’, the frigid cold weather and some bits of hail, come to think about it, didn’t really leave mad partying part of the night’s agenda. I did however, go to a cafe where student party was held, got my lifespan cut in half due to the cancer-box that is every cafe you go to in France, met with some old friends from the beginning and danced the night away.  This is a bit of an anti-climatic blog but had to mention this event, in case, you are ever in Lyon, maybe you’d have better luck with the weather and get to catch the so-called fireworks of Beaujolais Nouveau.