We had planned a Paris trip around one of Jeremy’s long weekends. But the plight of most French Universities jumped out and foiled our plans: The Flu. Our modern version of Swine Flu, H1N1, has been rampant in these parts. As soon as “la rentree,” (the big event where all of France returns to school the same week) occurred and brought the lovers of the outdoors into close daily contact with everyone else’s germs, and all of the French “Bises” (kisses) brought people even closer together, the flu and H1N1 easily found its way around campuses. We aren’t sure if what caught Jeremy was of that version, but the word on the street is that recently doctors stopped even testing for the Swine when time after time it came out positive.
A large social, political, and cultural debate has recently arisen, thanks to Mr. Swine. National societies for health awareness have found a sure-fire way to lessen the attack on public wellbeing: holding back on the ‘Bises.’ The traditional ‘kiss’ greeting is as French as baguettes, film noir, the guillotine, and Bridgette Bardot. To even suggest that the public restrain from something that is as built-in to French society as apple pie is to America, sent a shock wave through the deep old roots of Culture and Tradition. Administrators of BEM even instructed the students to heed the advice of the health ministers. I have yet to see any true behavioral changes. Tradition must rule over common sense at times like these; the Swine shall pass, but the beauty of the Bises will remain.
Jeremy slept for 20 hours the first day, fraught with aches, a tremendously high fever, and a sore throat. Days later he still found it difficult to stand for long periods of time, and soon a wretched cough filled his lungs, while the rest of his body regained strength enough for the last day of his first class, and for a social event that I would not have planned otherwise.
With his sickness I was even more home-bound, and disappointed that our weekend Paris trip would have to be postponed. I ran into one of our upstairs neighbors while out sulking and hunting for change to do our laundry at the laundromat (the chore I detest the most here). I found out that her and her roommate were planning on being at home that evening, so after testing Jeremy’s strength for socializing, I invited all four girls over to dinner at our house, and after inviting our German next-door neighbor I ran into at the supermarket we were seven.
It was worth every ounce of difficulty cooking for seven people with nothing but a single hot plate and one small pot. All of our kitchens are meagerly furnished, so I commissioned each apartment to bring an extra set of silverware and dishes. We were a hodge-podge of dinnerware and languages, English and German being the most common. Our ages ranged from 20 to 28, some of the girls on their first outing away from parents, others veterans at international travel. Our first all-apartment gathering was a hit, and soon we had decided to make it a habit, with other dinners and holiday parties already on the books; our next one the very next morning.
We had heard it through the subtle grapevine of international students and Google that there may be a large open-air market in Bordeaux on Sundays. I had been desperately on the hunt for a true French Market, still filled with bright and noisy memories of the market across the street from the YWAM school years ago. Although no one from our group was inclined to wake up early, we were quietly assured that if there was a market it probably wouldn’t close early either, thanks to the late-night social tendencies of the French.
Five of us met up in our windy staircase the next morning, where I was warned of the potential chilliness of the pre-noon breezes. I heard it was supposed to be in the 80’s, but again…its ‘fall’ here in their hearts, so I, with a tip of the hat to tradition, grabbed a sweater.
The stillness of the not-so-early-morning Sunday streets took me by surprise. We found a tiny sun-lit Book and Baked goods market in the square outside of St. Andre’s Cathedral. Although it was quaint, and we were able to taste Canneles (individual-sized sweet, dense, bunt-cake shaped pastries; a specialty of this area) and browse through used and ancient French books, we were still disappointed in the size. I asked the book salesman about other markets in the area, and I was regaled with a list of when and where all of the booksellers would be during the week. We followed his directions to another Sunday seller, in hopes of also discovering a proper market.
Our meanderings paid off, and there, on the boardwalk of the river, was a giant bright open-air Sunday morning market. Families, singles, friends, and tourists descended into the medley of tents and vendors. We followed the direction of the wind, so the scent of one stand wasn’t sensed until we were at least one stand down. The colorful candy stand smelled of raw fish, the newly dried herbs smelled of fresh-baked bread, and the sweet crepe stand smelled curiously of barbequed shrimp. This mix-up of scents added to the tapestry of colors one would expect at a European Market. The olive stand proved disappointing, though, so I expect to find another market somewhere in Europe with classier display of picture-perfect rich, juicy, shiny, olives.
The temperature quickly raised in the early afternoon. After we split a little pocket of hot-off-the-grill eyeballed pink shrimp, Jeremy left us girls to go home and prepare for his presentation he was to give the next day. The rest of us girls continued on, switching back and forth mindlessly between French and English. We gathered around four long, tall tables formed in a square under a tall blue awning; a popular social point. Giant French men were busily vending Vin Bourru…white grape juice just ever-so-slightly fermented, along with other cold drinks. Us four girls, hot and ready to sit back and watch the commotion, bought a bottle with four plastic cups and sat down on some steps between the market and the river to refresh ourselves. Families brought blankets and picnicked on grassy knolls, clowns entertained little kids in strollers, roller bladers and skate-boarders zipped up and down the crowded quay, and we began to quietly divulge to each other our family histories, thoughts, and feelings of our stay here in Bordeaux. Hearts at last.
The other three girls decided to head back and focus on studying, if that was even possible on such a glorious day, and I stayed at the market to watch it disappear. It closes at 2pm, which is much too early for my liking. I always thought the same about the Bellingham market. It reminds me of the end of a birthday party: everyone is slightly sad to experience the end of something, but the little details and more serious matters of cleaning and organizing the colorful bits and pieces of streamers and cheese leftovers turn into a kind of after-party; a party I wouldn't give up for all the wonders of Paris.
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