Things I've Learned While Abroad: T.V. Watching

In the past four years living my French life, I discovered over time one rather life-changing epiphany: I don't need a television to be happy.

Yes, from being absolutely broke living on my own with no space having access to the Internet/buying DVDs to get my T.V. watching fixes changing one country for another, I have since learned that I can dedicate my valuable free time for other lofty activities such as cooking, exercising and browsing the Internet for hours on end.

Still, on the rare occasion in which I do have access to a television set, be it from visiting friends or staying at a hotel room, I've noticed that, for some reason, American T.V. shows are very popular in France provided they are dubbed, and it seems that the homegrown French programming is limited to French "Dancing with the Stars," French "Master Chef," French "The Voice," and French "Un Dîner Presque Parfait."

Oh, wait. That last one is probably 100% French.

From what I have noticed, it seems that as far as French programming goes, the most popular or memorable "shows" appear in the evenings as short sketch comedies that are meant to take up space before the major dubbed American ones and the eight o'clock weather forecast are aired. Sketch shows such as the famous Un Gars, Une Fille, Very Bad Blagues,




and Scènes de Ménages (which  I discovered is also available in a Dutch version called "Ik ook van jou") are often the highlight of French T.V. watching.


There is also a brief, nightly political "news" show featuring rubber puppets mocking French politicians and world leaders (Guignols de l'info). I do believe this is similar to the British "Spitting Image."





The French also have their histrionic soap operas (Plus belle la vie, which I once mistakenly referred to as "Poubelle la vie" in front of my students) and mind-numbing crap reality T.V. shows (infamously, Jersey Shore-esque Les Ch'tis à Wherever the Fuck in the World  or the even more cringe-worthy Les Marseillais à Miami), but I fortunately never developed a taste for watching them. After a ten-minute bout of French reality T.V., I find myself with the need to purge the stupidities that I had placed before my eyes and gravitate to the more cultural and informative Arte channel. It's like PBS, and PBS is usually a winner.

I've also come to realize that now that my T.V.-less life provides me with a limited access to commercials, I am more tranquil and less self-conscious about my flaws regarding the forced need to purchase make-up, clothes, perfume, shoes, cars, and erectile dysfunction pills.

But I do have to say this: I like the French way of showing commercials as opposed to the American style. In France, you will more than likely watch an entire episode of NCIS without once seeing a commercial break. And when you do have commercials, they are all clumped together to be shown in one lengthy slot of time. I have to appreciate the lack of interruptions and the consideration shown from giving me a cue as to when I can take a comfortable bathroom break without needing to rush back to the couch within two minutes.

Meanwhile, I've discovered that without the commercials coming in seven-minute installments, American T.V. shows are actually quite short, particularly if it is an episode that is supposed to last at least half an hour. Really, a traditional 30-minute show just manages to graze the 20-minute mark, allowing for the remaining 10 minutes to be dedicated to advertisements.

Every time I go home for a few weeks to visit my mother, I realize how bothersome it is to enjoy anything with an important plot and subsequent climax while it is constantly cut by repetitive suggestions bombarding me to part ways with my hard-earned cash.

Allow me to demonstrate what it is like to watch a T.V. show in the United States, complete with commercial breaks.

I never did find out who Shaneequa's Raxacoricofallapatorian baby daddy was.

While I don't advocate living a T.V.-less existence for everybody, I can say that living without this one distraction has cleared up my general time and mental well-being.

Still, I do like me some Doctor Who and am still waiting for France 4 to air the last Christmas special... *bawls*

Barb the French Bean

Why You Shouldn't Eat Venison While High

(An also possible title could be "Why You Shouldn't Go Overboard with Weed.")

Throughout my week-long trip to the Netherlands, I spent my time hanging with a good friend who had flown over from Dublin.

Now, this friend of mine is a rather decent individual: he is polite, well-versed in general culture and has a fine appreciation of the arts and aesthetic beauty. These qualities meant that the two of us hit off an immediate friendship when we met in Ireland last year.

However, he is extroverted whereas I am introverted. With the exception of one day, nearly every waking moment of our trip was spent with him talking, talking, talking and inquiring if everything was all right with me in the several moments I would run out of energy for social interaction and become silent.

Another way my friend and I differ is on our views of smoking Marijuana. I literally don't care for the stuff and am sensitive to the presence of any smoke.  He constantly spent the trip with a bud of pot dangling from his lips, which meant that I had to walk three paces ahead to avoid the smoke blowing in my face.

It was odd for me, the non-smoker, to observe what effects the soft drug had on my friend. Some notable side-effects included his usual garrulous demeanor being maintained in a more subdued form, having the need to laugh and giggle for no particular reason, and frequently repeating questions. He also took to accusing me of not loving animals whilst we BOTH ate meat-based food.

My friend also reported that visiting the Van Gogh museum while high was particularly enjoyable due to the bright, swirling colors of the Impressionist paintings coming to life before his skewed vision.

"Dude."

"DUDE."

"DUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuude..." (Yes, that is the recently discovered painting, complete with a "TARDIS" in the background.) 

"Oh my God. Dude."

"Dude. This chair. It's like it wants to speak to me."

I had to take his word for it.

My friend also reported experiencing headaches from his smoking. On the one day we parted ways, I escaped took a train to Heerenveen to visit my employers, King Stu and the Royal Family while he went to Amsterdam to hang out at the Coffee Shops. Due to having spent a few hours on my own riding the train and roaming the calm streets of Heerenveen, by the time I returned in the early evening, my introvert need to "recharge" in solitude had been met. I was mentally and physically ready to see my friend and hang out with him once more.

I had expected that he would have remained in the city centre all day long. I was therefore surprised to discover that he had returned to the hotel at four in the afternoon. I joined him in the hotel room and found him lying in bed, in the dark, with Dutch T.V. blaring on the screen. I asked what was wrong and why he had left the bustling city so early.

"The Coffee Shops were all crowded, and I felt SO ALONE without you. I really, really missed you. I'm so glad you're back."

"Interesting that you felt lonely while surrounded by other people. Knowing you, you would have started to socialize with somebody in a heartbeat..."

"Yes, I did talk to a couple of Spanish guys, but they left. Then I got a massive headache from all the weed I smoked and needed sleep. I'm so glad you're back. I haven't had lunch. I'm really hungry now. Have you had dinner?"

"I've had some beer and bitterballen, and if you want something now, my friends gave me--"

"THAT'S NOT DINNER. I want FOOD. I want steak!"

We eventually found steak and my friend, while tucking into his medium-done chunk of Rib Eye, accused me of being a meat-loving carnivore.

*******************************************************

It was January 1st, 2014 and it being our last day in the Netherlands, we wanted to visit the Rijksmuseum. My friend disappeared for a few minutes inside a souvenir shop and presented me with a gift. I was wary that, being the first of the year, quite a number of places would be closed. Luckily, the Rijksmuseum was open and we spent a few hours of our day drooling over the works of Rembrandt and Vermeer.

The Milkmaid, currently seen in France as the symbol for selling French custard. 

Prior to dinnertime, I wanted to take a stroll in Vondelpark. We didn't stay long because it began to rain and the sun had nearly set. My friend and I decided that we would scout a quiet place to have dinner for our New Year's Day meal.

We tried finding places to eat around Max Euplein and Leidesesplein. My friend always made a detour to whatever Coffee Shop was open, simply to "see what it was all about." We kept walking and eventually settled at a nice place on Leidsedwarsstraat. The waiter welcomed us to sit wherever there was an empty table. I promptly ordered a nice Belgian beer, a plate of bitterballen and asked what the dinner special was.

"We have mashed potatoes, vegetables, and venison cooked in a red wine sauce."

Perfectly cooked venison, in a red wine sauce? My adventurous taste buds and adopted Frenchness said "YES" in a heartbeat. The waiter left our table to give us a few more minutes to decide on the meal. My friend said he would have the daily special, stood up, stated he would be back and walked out of the restaurant. The plate of bitterballen arrived and I dunked one meatball into the mustard. While eating it, I began to feel sad that I would soon no longer have easy access to such a delicious treat.

My friend soon returned with a plastic container holding a chunk of chocolate cake. His triumphant grin clued me into thinking that his purchase had not come from Albert Heijn.

"Do you want some bitterballen," I asked. "You might as well eat one as it is still hot."

"Soon enough," he replied, still grinning.

The waiter came by our table again, pen and notebook in hand. Before he asked if we were ready to order, his attention questioningly turned to the chocolate lump sitting on the table. He pointed his pen to it and observed "Ah, that's for after dinner."

Little did he know that after our order had been taken, my friend would sneak out once more and eat half of the Space Cake before he had even taken his first munch of bitterballen. I wasn't too worried about him eating the Space Cake because, according to the explanation that accompanied the container, one only began to feel the effects kick in an hour later.

What I had not known about the day was that when my friend left to purchase the cake, he had also smoked an entire joint before eating the Space Cake.

The striking effects of the weed had an immediate result. The conversation during our meal was interrupted by periods of giggling coupled with him making introspective observations and asking me questions.

"I feel sad that we're eating venison. It's just not right," he stated.

"Why? Don't you eat meat?" I asked, fearing that in his drugged state, my friend had suddenly sworn allegiance to PETA.

"Yes, but you are a right carnivore!" he accused. "You absolutely enjoy eating meat, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. And so do you."

"Yes...yes, I do," he conceded in a murmur.

He began to eat his vegetables and mashed potatoes. After a few minutes, I noticed that he made a point to avoid cutting the venison.

"Eat the venison," I said like a mother scolding a picky eater.

"No, I don't want to. I keep thinking of the poor, little deer that was slaughtered for this meal."

"Oh, come now. I know this isn't the first time you've eaten meat."

"I know, but still...the poor, little deer. What did it do to us to deserve this cruel fate?"

I restrained a groan and tried to make him reason.

"You've eaten chicken, right?"

"Yes..."

"And beef, and fish, and pork."

"Yes."

"In fact, you had steak the other day. And you liked it."

"Yes. And it was SO GOOD. You really enjoyed eating that steak, too, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"I know you did, because you are a carnivore. You really enjoy eating meat, right?"

"You've already asked me that question about three times."

"Oh. Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee. You ARE a carnivore!"

"Riiiiiiight. Well, what makes the deer so different to the other animals in terms of eating their meat?"

"They're not as cute as the deer."

I made the conscious effort to not let my flat palm smack my forehead in public. My friend stared at me with his blood-shut eyes.

"You don't love animals, do you?" he inquired sadly. I wouldn't stand to have my dietary habits be vilified by someone who ate meat as much as I did.

"Well, I do like to eat 'em. But I'm not going to sit down to eat a cat or dog anytime soon," I snapped.

He looked down at his plate with guilt.

"Oh, go on," I insisted. "The food is really, really good!" He conceded and took his first bite of the venison.

"OH WOW. THIS FOOD IS SO GOOD. AND THESE MASHED POTATOES ARE DIVINE!"

I thought the mashed potatoes were slightly above average at best, but agreed with him. He had great difficulty cutting his meal and I offered to help. Offended, he struck his fork against the plate with a clatter and said "Who do you think you are, some kind of mother? Do you think that I can't even cut my own food?"

I looked at the plate streaked haphazardly with sauce and vegetables. It resembled a Van Gogh painting.

"No. I don't. That's why I'm offering to help."

He sighed and told me not to worry. He began to giggle for no reason and voiced a desire to drink warm chocolate milk. With whipped cream. And he stressed warm milk. Not too hot, not too cold. I placed Goldilock's order with the waitress, who looked inquisitively at my still-giggling friend. I explained to her that I was a bit concerned about his state, mentioning that he had eaten some Space Cake.

"Oh, well, he should be perfectly fine," she said, being a veteran at seeing drugged tourists. "Usually, you don't feel the Space Cake until after an hour of eating it."

"Yes, but he had also smoked a joint prior to eating it."

"Oh, well..." She rushed to get the warm, not too hot, not too cold, chocolate milk.

"You're in luck. It's apparently Chocomel." He began to drink the warm Chocomel with gusto. He giggled. Then frowned.

"What's wrong?" I asked, fearing that he had found the beverage unsatisfactory. He stared at me once more.

"Oh, the poor little deer...You have no compassion, you carnivore."

To this day, my friend still isn't a vegetarian.



And the gift he gave me?

I should have no trouble fitting in the Netherlands now. :P

Barb the Carnivore French Bean


Minor Update:
I just checked the number of posts (published or not) I've got saved.

Good Lord.

Pétage de Câble (A.K.A. Operation: Coffee Crash)

The Pétage de Câble starts off with a minor incident which is then followed by a series of relatively innocuous annoyances. The catalyst incident could be, say, having your trusty MP3 break down in the middle of your workout which, as innocuous annoyances dictate, forces you to listen to the crap the gym blasts on their speakers for the whole time.

Mildly dejected with the realization that you now need to invest in a new technological device, you instantly feel remorse over the whole set of Harry Potter DVDs which you now deem to be a frivolous purchase. You resign yourself to go home and check out what the store has to offer the following day.

Of course, once you do get home, the fatigue of having exhausted your muscles in the gym crashes on you. You are so tired that you contemplate skipping dinner altogether to go straight to bed. You choose to eat a salad anyway.

After dinner, you are gladdened that you have the rare occasion of going to bed early. Judging from the time (eleven o'clock), you even have the delightful idea of waking up early the following morning. Your body clearly indicates that it needs a proper night's rest. You slide underneath the warm, comfortable duvet and wait for slumber to hit you immediately, still clutching to the hope that you will be relaxed and fully energetic the next day.

Except your brain has other ideas.

Rather than going to bed early (at eleven), your mind wills you to stay awake for several hours, and your body is helpless to its demands. Finally, at 3:30 a.m., the brain caves in and allows you to get some rest.

However, this rest comes in erratic intervals. Throughout the night, rather than granting you the full time to sleep until the alarm is supposed to ring, your eyes snap open and they immediately rove around the room. They see the time. The alarm is supposed to go off in two minutes. The alarm goes off.

You rebel and hit "snooze." One hour later, regret sinks in and you feel like a failure for not having woken up in time. Your limbs slide off the bed. Your feet touch the floor. You stand up.

Your arms hang limply to your torso while its heavy weight is likened to that of a bag of rocks. With the slight headache throbbing at your temples, you know instantly that in your current state, you are going to have a bad day.

Still, you attempt to make the most of your day and opt to look nice for work. For your attire, you choose something of your liking. You decide on a delicate, cream-colored top and go to work.

Throughout the day, the headache and fatigue persist. Not wanting to seem like a whiny, namby-pamby to your colleagues, you keep your predicament to yourself. For some reason, your body has also been set to "heightened klutz mode" which causes you to drop everything you touch. You try to cheer yourself up with the notion that at the end of the day, you will go to the store to replace that broken MP3 with a new one.

The morning doesn't seem to end.

Suddenly, it's lunchtime. You are hungry and are ready to scarf down the first thing handed to you. The food item happens to be served in a greasy red tomato sauce. Worried about ruining your delicate, cream-colored top, you are mindful about not letting a single speck of sauce make look like you are sporting the Japanese flag. Scarfing food is no longer an option. Mood slightly improved after lunch until the stress of work takes over. During one lesson, an impertinent student interrupts the lesson to ask if you are attracted to members of the same gender. You suppress the puerile urge to throw the student out the window.

By the end of the day, despite your best attempt to keep a smile on your face, the harbored combination of exhaustion, headache, stress and general foul mood has gradually grown and is at risk at exploding any second. You leave your workplace and head for the store.

You check out the MP3s and choose the one that calls out the most. It just so happens to be behind a glass display case that can only be accessed by an employee who wields a key. You approach the nearest vendor and ask to have the display case be opened. Said vendor promptly informs you that their colleague is the one who can open the case and asks you to wait patiently for them to return.

You agree to wait.

You wait two minutes. Then five minutes.

You see a gentleman approach you and your spirits soar. He walks past. You sigh and resign to wait some more. The man comes back, makes eye contact with you, yet says nothing. You continue to wait by the glass display case.

After fifteen minutes, you approach the man.

"Excuse me," you begin, "are you the one who can open the display case so I can buy an MP3?"

"Yes. Right this way, please."

A tirade of profanity-laced diatribes scroll through your head as the man, in fewer than a minute, retrieves the MP3 you want and leads you to the checkout counter.

Before going home, you feel that you are in desperate need of a pick-me-up. You enter the neighboring bar and question the bartender if they have hot chocolates.

They don't.

You ask if they have Irish Coffees.

The so-called bartender has never made an Irish Coffee before. What else would you care for? A large café au lait, you reply. You slump your tired body into a plushy booth and wait for the beverage to come. It eventually does. You thank the bartender.

Your cold hands grasp unto the mug.

The really hot mug.

The really hot and heavy mug.

It slips out of your hands.

The contents spill on your jeans.

And on the delicate, cream-colored top you had so carefully protected from red sauce at lunchtime.

If you weren't in public, surrounded by strangers, your reaction would have probably been like this:

Instead, you sop the lukewarm liquid, drink whatever is left in the mug, pay, then walk home.

As if the weather also wanted to get in on the action of spiting you, it begins to rain.

When you finally do get home, you have the rather unpleasant surprise that someone, somehow, managed to slip your dirty welcome mat underneath the front door.

This normally wouldn't have been much cause for concern, and yet, after having an MP3 device stop working, after not having had a proper night's rest, after having to work the whole day sustaining a splitting headache, after being ignored by a salesclerk, and after having a nice top be RUINED when you had tried to protect it earlier on, seeing the amount of dirt and dust that had trailed onto the spotless floor that you had cleaned merely a day before was the fucking last straw.

But this is certainly not "the drop which overflowed the vase."

That is when you experience the dreaded "pétage de câble." The pent-up rage harbored in your being explodes upon ignition. Hot lava streaks down your cheeks as you holler and howl like an unruly two-year-old.

Then, as quickly as the anger had come, it subsides. It's over.

You decide to eat dinner. Perhaps you'll have another salad like last night. You open the fridge.

The lettuce has spoiled overnight.

Sodium-drenched ramen noodle soup is a better option on a cold night, anyway.

Barb the French Bean

A Cat in the Throat: Adventures with the French Medical System

In my previous post, I talked about how I had a doctor's appointment at the Nantes Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration.

Little I know that a few weeks later, I would have the occasion to experience second doctor's visit.

It all started to go south for me last Friday afternoon. I had just finished working and decided to take a nap around 3 p.m. so I could be fully replenished to grade my disturbingly-increasing pile of tests and quizzes. When I woke up later in the evening, I realized that my body suffered from a fever, aches and pains and that I had the unmistakable scratchy feeling that is a sore throat around my vocal chord area.

Seeing as how my uninsured American self had become accustomed to not visiting a doctor in over six years over the slightest sniffle, I shrugged the sick feeling and took some fizzy Alka Seltzer Plus tablets in the hope that whatever was afflicting me would magically vanish by the following day.

(Side note: This is exactly the same strategy I had when one Sunday evening, during my Freshman year at university, I woke up in the middle of the night and proceeded to vomit six times in the span of two hours. I was at the point where I had nothing else to expunge from my stomach except blood. Most normal, insured people wouldn't have hesitated to call 911 to have an ambulance whisk them away to the nearest hospital. My solution was to shrug it off, go back to sleep and hope that I would feel well enough to attend class the next morning, which I actually did.)

I spent Saturday and Sunday feeling miserable, fighting the urge to rip out my throat from all the coughing and nearly rubbing my nose raw from all the Kleenex tissues I used to rid my nose of snot. I still had hope that my health would improve by Monday morning.

Monday came, and with it a text message from a colleague that shook me from my stupor. I got out of bed, stumbled in zombie fashion out of my room, then, dazed and disoriented, shuffled back into my room in time to hear the last ring on my cell phone before the call went straight to voice mail.

Within a few minutes, my colleague called me again. I answered.

It was at that point that I realized that my stricken vocal chords had not had any use over night except to cough sporadically. My poor colleague must have thought that she had just contacted the chain-smoking tenor of an ogre barbershop quartet who unfortunately had a frog stuck in his throat.

(By the way, the French equivalent of "having a frog in one's throat" is "avoir un chat dans la gorge," in which the amphibian is replaced by a creature of the feline variety.)

Alarmed by my sudden dip in octaves, my colleague firmly stated "You must go to see a doctor."

I mentioned that I had been starting to feel better, but still she insisted.

"It doesn't matter. You should still see a doctor. Make an appointment and go see the doctor*."

I called the nearest centre medical and the receptionist said that doctor so-and-so didn't have an opening until Wednesday morning. Now, in my workaholic mind, that wasn't going to cut it because I had to teach three classes that day. Besides, what would my employer, the high school principal, say? I expected something around the lines of "Sorry, you can't go because it coincides with your work schedule."

Just the opposite happened: when I told him that the next available appointment was for Wednesday morning, he was completely understanding about it. No trouble at all. In fact, he even encouraged me to see a doctor as soon as possible and to ask the gentleman at the Vie Scolaire to give me a lift.

I'll admit that I was a bit stunned by how easily it all went down.

On Tuesday, I functioned on the illusion that I was feeling better in the morning. That illusion shattered because I continued to cough and strained my vocal chords teaching seven lessons (Tuesdays provide me with the heaviest workload).

I had hot flashes followed by periods of chills that coursed through my body. At times, I felt woozy and lost in my thoughts. I should have taken a hint that my playing this funky psychedelic tune over and over again in my head was a symptom of being on a natural high.




I also think that I genuinely frightened a couple of my co-workers when they heard me mumbling the lyrics in the teacher's lounge.

The following day, the cat in the throat disappeared completely and took with it my voice. Whenever I tried to emit any noise from my now-defunct vocal chords, something between the discordant notes of an out-of-tune violin and dog whimpers came out. I had lost my ability to speak.

Still, I could communicate by writing things down. I jotted down my symptoms so I could avoid having to resort to vividly gesticulating like an Italian air traffic controller. Armed with my totally anal-retentive meticulous A2 notebook, I headed out to the centre medical.

When I walked into the office, the nurses greeted me, asked me when and with whom my appointment was and directed me to the doctor's waiting room.

That was it. No paperwork to sign, no one asking me to provide proof of medical insurance, nothin'.

Things got interesting once I saw the doctor in question. He asked me for my carte vitale, the green insurance card that every French citizen (or in my case, broke-ass American workers legally residing in France) has. I was fortunate enough to still have my old card from the days when I still lived in Dijon.

For legal reasons/crippling paranoia, I decided to not post an actual photo of my carte vitale and thus opted to make a cartoon of what it roughly looks like.

He placed the card in a machine to scan it and up popped all of my medical history on his computer's screen. Then he did the examination.

Diagnosis: une bronchite. Bronchitis.

That's right: I apparently have a bronco that suffers from inflammation in my chest. It seems that no matter where I go, I can never escape horses these days. (I kid. I know what bronchitis is.)

Boy, was I ever glad that I listened to my colleague and took her advice.

I paid 23 Euros for the consultation, which will eventually be partly reimbursed by la Sécurité Sociale (la Sécu). It is to my knowledge that apart from the money that la Sécu pays for, the French also have the option of paying for une mutuelle, extra medical insurance that the Sécu doesn't cover. They are the ones responsible for providing you with the money in case you become gravely ill and need to be hospitalized.

Unlike the typical HMOs back home, la mutuelle actually does their job of providing you with proper healthcare instead of milking you with deductibles, increasing premiums and denying coverage because you have a pre-existing condition.

And get this: depending on your status (if you are single, married or have a family), extra medical insurance generally costs 150 Euros every six months per person. That's give or take 25 Euros a month.

This is worth repeating: TWENTY-FIVE EUROS a month. I know some singleton American friends who pay eighty dollars and up a month for medical coverage. A month.

I'll take French health care any day, thank you very much.

Anyway, the doctor's prescription featured taking several medications...

And I do mean SEVERAL medications. Medications galore! With the carte vitale, it all came to 23,83 Euros.

Oh, and check out these enormous antibiotic pills. I won't lie: I genuinely feared the possibility of choking to death on something that is, in theory, supposed to heal me.

Not actually recommended by the doctor, but eating a few squares certainly perked me up. (I'll worry about staving the "diabeetus" later.)

...and an arrêt maladie. With the doctor's orders, I got a form that I provided to my employer in which I got the rest of the week off work. This is one of the very few times I have ever had to call in sick and I am grateful for people who understand that I needed enough time to recuperate (whether legally obligated or not).

Yet something didn't feel right. A little nagging voice kept repeating that I needed to work, that it wasn't right for me to be taking days off work to be sick, especially when I have the responsibility of teaching several groups of middle school and high school students. That voice insisted that all I needed to do was buck up and keep on trekkin' despite my maladie.

Then, in one sudden moment of clarity, I had the insight about the French medical way of thinking: I'M SICK. I NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR SO I CAN FEEL BETTER AND EVENTUALLY GET BACK TO WORK.

Duh.

Why is it that something so obvious is difficult to comprehend?

Lesson learned: when sick, go see a doctor and rest.

And grade the increasing pile of tests and quizzes.

*Not to be confused with The Doctor. Pity. I wish he could have cured me.

Barb the French Bean

Making Due with Halloween in France: the Doctor Who Edition

Warning: this post will either make you laugh or, if you are a Whovian, cringe and hate me.

(Also, this post is long because I probably won't be writing anything new until mid-November. Deal with it.)

It all started the moment I made plans for the Toussaint break. Here in France, French schools are blessed with a ten-day break that is meant for French families everywhere to pay tribute to their ancestors by visiting their graves on November first. Of course, the day that precedes All Saint's Day is All Hallows' Eve, more commonly known as Halloween.

The French notion of Halloween isn't quite the same as back in the U.S. On my original side of the Atlantic, it's perfectly acceptable to see a bunch of bratty hyperactive midgets small children dressed in just about anything: pumpkins, bumblebees, Power Rangers, even as Winnie the Pooh. The cuter the kid looks, the better the costume is. To expand further on the subject, seeing a grown woman dressed as a hooker Strawberry Shortcake won't cause anyone to bat an eye.

Here in France...Halloween's popularity has been on a decline in the past ten years. It's not like the French don't like to disguise themselves. Au contraire. I could walk into the nearest Foir'Fouille store and purchase a powder blue wig if I wanted to. It's just that the French prefer to dress for a different, more traditional occasion: carnaval, which is Mardi Gras/Shrove Tuesday. 

However, when it comes to Halloween, it's mostly considered an American export that is meant for children to dress up as scary characters, with a specific emphasis on scary. Good luck finding a cutesy Winnie the Pooh within a sea of Frankenstein's monsters, ghosts, witches and vampires over here.

That's why when I made my train reservations to head on over to the Burgundy city of Sens to visit a friend and her husband, she asked if I would be in town on October 31st. 

Oh, by the way, I have not had the time to post photos of a trip to Sens I took back in August.

Um. 

*twiddles thumbs and whistles nonchalantly*

Here's a very belated French eye candy tour of Sens:

Happy France gives an approximation of where things are located

I felt very happy when I saw la Bourgogne's flag that day.

Maybe it's just me, but every time I see the French flag, "La Marseillaise" plays automatically in my head.

C'est moi!

The Hôtel de Ville 

With a statue of the Gaul known as Brennus. He's got a rooster perched on top of his staff.

The entrance to Sens's cathedral has several statues that have had their heads (literally) defaced. A reminder of the Revolution's brutality.

The covered market

A random head lodged between some columns in the Cathedral

I held my breath when I looked on the stain glass.

Such detail!

A monument to France's fallen soldiers from the Great War

A sign explaining that the stained glass in Saint Savinien's chapel dates from the 13th century.

Not much is left of the original stained glass, though.

Some more stained glass

Jeanne d'Arc, France's patron saint

The French love to decorate their buildings in scaffolding.

A view of the Cathedral

Yup. "La Marseillaise" is playing in my head right now.

A model of a couple of arches in the Cathedral's museum

And here are the original statues that were perched on the arches.

'Tis Brennus

I found this cross to be interesting. Instead of seeing a crucified Christ, you see Marianne and a rooster chilling right on top of it. 

Brennus has a rooster as well.

Hipster Christopher Columbus danced to disco songs 500 years before they even existed.

Go forth and explore for the Spanish royalty.

Awww, look at that face!

In case you all didn't know it, the French love their poultry (the rooster is the national symbol).

'Tis an awesome chicken.

Do not pick the flowers, beeyotches.

Let's get back to the story. 

My friend in Sens asked if I would be in town on October 31st, to which I replied "yes, I will."

She then said, "okay, I'm asking because my husband and I have been invited by his friends to attend a Halloween party. We wanted to know so we could notify his friends that you will be going as well."

A Halloween costume party, in France? 

At first, I was like:

But then, I was like:

Allow me to explain why my enthusiasm took an immediate nosedive. 

To attend a costume party, it is kinda obvious that you will need to dress up in a costume. However, when you are a short, fat American who unfortunately gained 30 pounds in one year (of which 12 have been lost, whoot) and you have to find a costume in France, a land known for having stereotypically thin ladies, you're utterly screwed. 

Weight issues aside, I began to think about what could make for a good costume (SO MANY OPTIONS). Last year, I contemplated dressing up as Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I instead chose to disguise myself as Sophisti-Cat. 

I still haven't gotten over my decision to not dress up as Belle from Beauty and the Beast, but if you are going to a Halloween party in France, you need a scary costume. And, quite frankly, I'm still not up for dressing as a Slutty Candy Corn Witch.

Then, in a sheer moment of a lightbulb sparking alight, I remembered the totally awesome image that I had seen a week ago about Disney Princesses dressed as the eleven Doctors. A lifelong epiphany had dawned upon my fleeting existence.

I'M GONNA DRESS UP AS BELLE DOCTOR WHO

The best part of my costume? Should anybody tell me that my costume isn't particularly scary, boy, do I have the perfect comeback for them: "Hello. I'm the Doctor. And I can break out into a song and dance number with inanimate objects at will. Basically, RUN."

(If it worked on the Atraxi, it sure as Hell should work against a legion of cynical sparkly vampires.) 

I momentarily fretted upon choosing which Doctor would be represented with the costume. Would it be David Tennant's Doctor with the big, brown coat, the business suit, tie and the Converse sneakers, or the Matt Smith Doctor with the tweed coat, suspenders (braces for you Brits), bowtie and fez?

I eventually chose David Tennant's Doctor out of convenience: I already own a brown coat and it would be a bit of a hassle to find a fez, no matter how geographically close I am to Morocco.

Not exactly like the Doctor's coat, but it'll do. I'm too broke/cheap find a new one right now.

I still had to assemble the rest of the costume, which I figured wasn't going to be an easy task. In my mind, I was aiming to find a blue pinstripe business suit like the one David wore, but again, considering my size, France's availability, and my lack of impressive sewing skills, I was going to make do with whatever I could encounter. If I couldn't find the business suit, then I would simply purchase a dress.

Luckily, I found this TARDIS-blue dress for 19,99 Euros!

I wasn't going to settle for anything less than TARDIS-blue.

I also got this pair of girly-girl earrings for the Belle part of the costume (3,99 Euros).

I hearts me some girly-girl jewelry.

I was missing a pair of red Converse sneakers. That was fun walking into shoe stores in Sablé-sur-Sarthe's downtown area and asking the salesclerks "Avez-vous des baskets du genre Converse, et en rouge?" I have never bought a pair of Converse sneakers, and in French, no less. 

I still haven't bought the shoes, by the way. None of the stores I asked around carried RED Converse sneakers, and I certainly didn't fancy wearing pink or yellow.

I settled for these Converse-esque babies from Spain. Only 29 Euros, too. 

Bright red makes me happy. 

To accessorize the costume even more, I needed a tie as well. Keep in mind that, as a lady, I do not have the habit of purchasing Men's clothes, let alone for myself. I won't deny that it felt a tad awkward buying a product that is intended for men to wear for myself. But unless you are Matt Smith, how often do you get to dress as the Doctor?

I walked into the first Men's clothing store closest to me and asked without shame if they sold red ties. 

Say what you will about women and how we have a million terms for describing the same color, but we know our colors, damn it. The part of my brain that focused on color-coordination and aesthetic balance lurched violently. 

It was at this point when my "Why the Hell Not?" mentality kicked in. I find that it generally takes a greater precedence whenever I live and travel abroad.

I almost responded with "no, actually, the tie is for me." I checked myself, remembering that it probably wasn't the wisest answer to give, lest I wanted the salesclerk to think I was a cross-dresser.

He could tell that I had hesitated with my answer and asked again if the tie was to offer as a gift. I responded  with a little more firmness and some vigorous nodding. He wrapped up said tie in a gift bag, explained that the exchange receipt was in the bag, squirted some perfume and bade me a good day.

I immediately felt bad at making him the victim of my charade.

Now that I think about it, it wasn't technically a lie...I was giving the tie to myself as a gift as dressing up like the Doctor. And that's a pretty awesome gift. So. Yeah. There you have it.

This is the manliest, nicest-smelling gift bag I have ever received from myself. 

This activity of buying a tie for no guy in particular has made me realize that this is a perfect example of being "Forever Alone" because I am currently sitting in my room with an attractive, manly aroma that's driving me crazy with lust and fills me with the expectation that a guy will randomly show up someday. 

Either way, I feel pretty damn awesome about being "Forever Alone" with my red, white polka-dotted tie.

And this tie, which I am only going to wear once, cost me 24,99 Euros. That's right: the accessory cost more than the TARDIS-blue dress.

But it (sort of) matches my shoes, and I don't get to dress up as the Doctor everyday. So totally worth it. 

I know that I am "Forever Alone" and enjoying it, but in case I do end up getting a guy in my life, he'd better like this tie.

The total cost to date of my half-assed Belle Doctor Who costume is 77,97 Euros (not counting the coat that I purchased back in 2011 for 35 Euros). Now all I need is an Enchanted Sonic Screwdriver Rose and some cheapo 3-D glasses. Perhaps Ebay and Amazon.fr will help me out.

UPDATE:
I just made the Sonic Enchanted Rose, all with the use of one plastic red rose (1,60 Euros) and one small bottle of blue glitter (1,99).

It's completely drenched in glitter, though. On the bright side, its glitter fabulousness might be enough to blind a Dalek a mile away. 

"WTF did I do to that poor rose? Oh, well."

When I'm not grading papers, I'm goofing off with the camera. Make a note to never let me near your cameras, folks.

As for the 3D glasses: after combing various French stores for a pair of anaglyph 3D glasses, featuring one memorable moment in which I strolled down an aisle filled with various plastic/rubber breasts and penises, I came to the conclusion that I would have to turn to the Internet for help.

Oh, online shopping, I heart you so.

I could even accessorize and borrow one of the 50-something horses that live right next to me, paint it blue, and say that it was TARDIS Philippe, Belle Doctor Who's horse. 

Barb the French Bean

UPDATE

For those of you wondering how the costume turned out, here ya go!

I opted to paint a mini TARDIS on my left hand.

I blinged out the 3-D glasses

Believe it or not, the French like Doctor Who as well (and the costume I had)!