The concert was soothing, energizing, and entertaining. Soothing: Even when I didn't understand the lyrics, I loved hearing the rich sounds of the French language being cooed to me -- the u, ou, r...all the sounds we're working on in phonetics. Energizing: The first performer simulated le mort d'extase during one of his songs and got the whole crowd into it. The French are so open about their sexuality, and to my surprise the whole affair only brought a slight tinge of a blush to my cheeks. Wasn't even flushed. The second group started out as a solo guitarist, then turned into an entire ensemble with contrebass, drums, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, complete with a tap dancer and flashing, jazzy lights. Entertaining: the third man was clearly a seasoned performer, and had my friend and I laughing so hard when he described la tristitude as conjugating the verb "bouillir" in plural subjunctive. Here's a link to the song:
All in all, it was a laid-back, fun evening.
On Saturday we went vintage clothes shopping in town with a group of MoHo girls and my new French friend, my conversation tandem/partner. After hitting several hip but overpriced shops we found a tout petit store called Topsy, sandwiched between two other second-hand shops. There were stacks upon stacks of clothes and barely any elbow room and yet we all managed to find at least one item we liked. For 9 euros I bought a sheer-ish red/orange/white/brown top and a teal blue tunic with cut sleeves. So proud of our bargains!
Then we continued to a fondue restaurant. Rather to my disappointment, fondue is just as expensive here as it is in the US when you go to say, the Melting Pot. However, this particular restaurant was great fun. They gave you wine in baby bottles, biberons. That's right, you had to suck your vin rosé out of a baby bottle nipple. Both options, the Burguignonne (beef dipped in various sauces) and Savoyyarde (bread dipped in white-wine based cheese sauce), were delicious. I ate so much I felt as though I were swelling, but the fun didn't stop there. We forged on to chocolate fondue for desert, accompanied b scoops of ice cream and slices of banana displayed in a very interesting formation... To conclude the evening, I litterally scraped the bottom of the barrel of chocolate. Miam, so good.
Afterwards I had a few friends sleep over, since Annick is gone for a week of vacation in the mountains with her gentleman friend. We stayed up half the night talking, and were crazy to get up at 7h30 the next morning to go see the final of the Rugby World Cup: France vs. New Zealand. Half-awake, we arrived at the Irish Tavern to meet some French and Canadian friends. We were greeted by a pretty full crowd but managed to find some leaning room. It was an excellent game to have as your first rugby experience. So many things learned and noted:
- Rugby players are incredibly fit, almost bulging with muscles, it's incredible.
- Rugby watchers, though rowdy, are incredibly good-looking, too (at least in this pub).
- New Zealand has a pre-game scream-and-dance ritual that is meant to intimidate people. And it works.
- Sometimes a team kicks the ball between the endposts and it seems as though it should count for points but for some unknown reason their score remains at zero. And no one you ask can explain to you why.
- Since you can only pass backwards it sometimes feels like the game is more about moving backwards than forwards.
- Every tackle results in a formation that looks like the players are hatching an egg as they faire sortir le ballon.
- Even if you know nothing about the sport, when your team scores you will feel so giddy with joy you could almost reach over to your neighbor and plant a big one on him. Even if a few minutes ago you were wondering how long ago it's been since he's showered.
- The game is 80 minutes long, not 90, so don't hold your breath waiting for the last ten minutes that never did and never will exist. Especially when the New Zealand team has already started running onto the field in celebration and you're still staring in confusion at the clock that says 80:32. It's over.
- French people are extremely civilized when it comes to the end of a game, even with a one-point loss. No tears, no referee-abusing, no bottle-smashing. Simpy polite applause for the other team (in synchronicity, might I add -- French people always end up clapping in unison as a sort of "encore! encore!" ). And then you leave.
And so we left. After zigzagging through centre-ville trying to find a not-too-pricey café that was open on a Sunday, we settled on Shanghai Fast Food. And it was such a nice little lunch. I truly felt French in this one Sunday afternoon sitting, just chilling at a small café with some friends. At one point we started talking about maple syrup, sirop d'érable, which I called sirop d'Arabe, for which I got hoots and giggles. But my superfly French friend said, "Oh, mais c'est trop mignon" so I was greatly comforted. And at another point another French friend shot up out of his seat and raced into the middle of the street, putting out his hands to stop a motorcyclist who very nearly ran him over. All in pursuit of a cigarette. In response to our incredulous looks he said "c'est tout neuf" (it's brand new), and sat back down with his hard-earned booty. Thank goodness the motorcyclist was a good sport, and merely shook his head before moving on. Sigh, only in France.
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