The provincial city of Lille

One of the advantages of being technically French is that I can complain about the French and not feel guilty about it because I am technically one of them...

So the other day when my good friend B and I were having lunch, she was talking about how ignorant people in Lille are in regards to bilingual and bicultural people. She was saying that, as a child of English parents having grown up in France, she's still amazed and annoyed at the ignorant comments people make, in particular when they are supposed to be internationallyy-minded like in a large corporation where she used to work.

And it got me thinking about my situation and how often people make silly comments to my bilingual children, usually out of ignorance although they are good natured people (I think).

For instance, every single time I go to the chicken butcher, they say without fail, "Ca doit être dificile pour eux." And without fail, I say "well, no it's actually easy for them."

Or how many times do I hear, "oh do they speak French too?" and when I respond that their French is better than their English, people look at me like I'm obviously not right in the head. How is it possible?

I may be a bit harsh, because unless you speak another language or have been exposed to bilinguals, you can't understand the mechanisms involved in being bilingual or raising bilingual kids. I can only speak for my kids (and maybe some of my friends) but we are strict with the languages and so are the kids. It's contributed to their linguistic balance and strength. And it also accounts for their reactions to the ignorant comments they hear.

For example, I read that bilingual kids associate one language per person. And I've seen this in action many times. For instance, a bilingual wife of a friend came over a while ago and for some reason Max decided she was an English speaker despite the fact that she was speaking French, her stronger langauge, to everyone. So, Max spoke to her in English. On the other hand, I also read that bilingual kids can't stand when someone tries to speak to them in the "wrong" language. Like Max's teacher...Every morning, Max's teacher says to him, with a very strong French accent, "hello, is everything good?" and at the end of the day he says, "be quiet" ie don't worry. And Max just looks at him because I don't think he 1) understands why this dude is speaking English and 2) isn't sure if it actually is English. It just doesn't compute, you know?

I'll admit that I am intolerant of ignorant people and I get my back up too easily. So when people say things to me like, "oh does he speak French too?" it pisses me off because, duh, we live in France so yes he does. Or when someone says to me in French, "Vous êtes anglaise ou américaine?" and then in repsonse to my reply they say, "ça s'entend", I get pissed off. What does that mean that I sound American? Because I'm lmoud and obnoxious? He probably just means that I don't sound English but didn't want to offend me just in case I am English. Or when the guy from aikido starts immitating my accent, I feel like punching him (but that is slightly aggressive)...

I also don't like having to defend myself...people just don't understand, or even try to understand, that raising your children bilingually requires a certain amount of rigidity. So when I'm at a social gathering, I've actually come to preface my interactions to my children with a general, "I don't mean to be rude, but my children and I communicate in English, etc etc". That's not to say that I am exclusive. When we are at social gatherings, I translate everything essential and do sometimes speak to my children in French in the third person, but never directly. I just can't. On the other hand, I understand how it could be perceived as being rude or exclusive.

So back to my original thought : Lille is provincial. I realized that despite all of the above, I don't mind Lille so much or feel how small it actually is. I don't feel restricted because I've found a job that's clearly not franco-français, where I speak English all day, have a Dutch boss, share an office with people from 3 different countries, and have been lucky enough to make friends who are either bicultural like my family or just plain open-minded.

And that is something I am really thankful for...

Eating hamburgers in Lille à l'américaine

I ate a hamburger with a fork and knife. I feel so dirty, so unAmerican, so French. Now don't go saying Reb said the French are dirty because I didn't...

There are a plethora of hamburger joints popping up all over Lille. From the American diner which opened at the swanky shopping center to Bun's Bazaar in the Vieux Lille to Speed Burger - the home delivery burger...the place my husband and I went is a brasserie called chez Max. And to their credit, it wasn't called a hamburger. It was called a "Max et toast" so it wasn't as wrong as it sounds. It's not like I went to McDonald's and brought my own silverware or anything. It was good, but it wasn't a burger.

Call me a burger snob, but there's always something wrong with the ones I eat in France. I was so happy when real burgers (compared to fake McDo burgers) starting popping up. When I first went to Bun's Bazaar in Vieux Lille, I thought, "ok not bad". But when I went back a second time and asked for my burger without sauce, they told me it wasn't possible. I was with my co-workers and thought, "well maybe the waiter didn't understand me". So I tried to explain that I wanted plain bread so I could add my own ketchup. So I asked again. And one of my coworkers had to tell me to chill out and just accept that this place toasts the buns WITH THE KETCHUP ON!!!??? So I haven't gone back there.

So when my co-workers started talking about Le Cut in the center of Lille I thought, "yeah yeah another French burger joint". But you know, it was good! The bread was nice, the meat was nice, the cheddar was nice and they could hold the sauce! My only criticism is that there are no pickles AND the burger is slightly too small for the bun. But it filled the void. I almost felt American as I held my dripping burger to my mouth. And as I did so, I looked around me and saw that everyone was eating with a fork and knife. I looked across the table at my husband who was thankfully eating with his hands, after cutting the burger in half with a knife, just a small concension to his Frenchness.

I asked him if I was being gauche by eating with my hands. He said probably yes because burgers are sort of considered fancy food these days to which I responded "McDonald's". He told me that doesn't count.

As I sat there with my husband,  I felt good like I have made the world a little better by making one more French person eat with their hands. And I was also happy to finally have a satisfying (albeit expensive) hamburger in Lille.

So I'll have to go back to Le Cut again very soon to cleanse myself of the fork-and-knife hamburger experience...because it was just a little too French for my taste.

The birth of American (English language) storytime

While talking to my friend M, I had an ephiphany....
Why pay 4€ per storytime session at the British Cultural Centre when we can do it ourselves for free? I thought long and hard about how to handle it and then it came to me. Me, the daughter of the librarian.

Last week, I walked into the Wazemmes branch of the Lille public library and told them I'd like to organize English story time and would they be interested. The director was rather reserved but after talking to her, I could tell she was delighted.

Rather than organizing a seperate English storytime, she would prefer to piggyback English storytime onto the regular storytime which currently takes place the first Wednesday and Sunday of the month. She explained her logic : they are already have enough trouble attracting participants to French storytime so she would like people to get used to the storytime idea.

When I get back from the US in November, I will meet with the library and the regular story tellers to see how we can organize a bilingual storytime. I already have tons of ideas of course. We can do a bilingual reading. We can use multimedia. We can use puppets. The world is mine! Oh wait, I'm getting carried away here...

Stay tuned for more information on English-American storytime in Lille (I hope that's obvious enough to get hits).

The last of the chickenmen

Yesterday was a sad day...The chickenman is no longer. I call him the chickenman only because I find it impossible to pronounce the volailler, French for chicken butcher. And he was the last in Lille (read the article here).

Poulet des Flandres is one of the great pleasures of food shopping. Suz and I would go at least once a week to pick up a free range roast chicken and some chicken sausages. Suz would get aexcited as we turned the corner and saw the big chicken billboard outside the store. "Ca cak," she'd say as we walked in. Felix and his wife Estelle always greeted us with a big, "chicken," (said with a heavy french accent), always had time to ask how we were and to give ballons to Suzanne. When we moved two months ago, we stopped going as often but they didn't forget us. Now they are on the "great vacation" as Felix told me on Friday.

Jerome would say I'm obsessed with the chickenman, but no, I'm just obsessed with the best poultry I've ever had. I really got so much pleasure from buying their chickens (even with the skinned rabbits in the refrigerator case).

So a moment of tribute to Felix and Estelle Vanhersecke, the last chicken butchers in Lille. I don't think I'll ever be able to replace their stuffed duck with orange or white pudding (boudin blanc) stuffed with carmelized apple and foie gras or even just a plain roast chicken.

Post-flu recap

I know I didn't report much of my mother's visit but I'll blame it on the flu, the money pit and various business meetings in 3 different countries. come to think of it, it's not really an excuse. It's reality.

We did do quite a bit of tourism in the days prior to (or in most cases, during) the flu invasion.

We drove to the coast to see the fish at Nausicaa and to show my mother the White Cliffs of Dover from Cap Gris Nez. However, Nausicaa proved to be better for older children who can read and Boulogne-sur-Mer leaves a lot to be desired. A high point of the aquarium was the "petting zoo", if you can call it that. A large, open tank towards the end of the exhibit where you can put your hands in touch the various flat and slimy and slithery creatures inside. Suzanne thought it was cool - splashing and touching scales. I just got a little squeamish. By the time we got to lunch, Suzanne was burning up and her nose was an endless river of snot.

We nevertheless dragged her to the sea - we were there and she'd never seen it - a second just so she could see it before she conked out in the car, taken over by the flu. We didn't get to see the White Cliffs of Dover either because somewhere between France and England, there was a lot of fog.

A couple days later, we took advantage of my sister-in-law's passion for horses and brought Suzanne to ride a poney at the Petit Parc in Hem. As Suzanne discovered her love of non-white horses, I discovered my horse allergy. Suzanne insisted on feeding rice cakes to the horses who weren't really convinced by the texture. She chose her pony, called Rivière, fed it apple, brushed it. And when the time came to climb on, she bawlked. I guess being on a horse must be a little daunting for a 21 month old.



And the last day, who knew there were so many farms in and around Lille? With Suzanne's recent pig and sheep obsession, what better place to bring her than to a working farm where they make their own stinky cheese? La ferme du vinage is in Roncq, a 15 minute drive from Lille, and they organize tours of the farm every Saturday. At some point during the visit to the cows and pigs, my fever spiked and by the time we got to the best part of the tour - the cheese tasting!- I was sick (although I didn't tell my mom). I would have gladly bought some of the sausage for Suzanne which she wanted so badly, but I couldn't bear the thought since I'd just seen its cousin and was dreading the drive home. In the car, I was shivering and by the time I got home, I had a 103° fever. But we did buy some lovely pie made with stinky carré du vinage and I did get to eat some of the delicious cheese a couple days later. And my mom? She got to eat a farm fresh rhubarb yogurt on the plane back to New Jersey.

We'll definitely be going back to the farm under better conditions, maybe for a birthday party!