Drinking the Frog Soup

It's been a little over a month since my three-week stay in France and I figured I should post a bit more from my experience, partly from my cousin Kim harassing me about not writing much during the trip, but also because I have a godawful memory and my future self will surely appreciate jotting a few things down.

My other excursions outside the U.S. were much more shocking. Surely one is more able to adapt to other cultures on each trip abroad, but I also wonder if the fact that our massively-accelerated human communication abilities are causing the world to increasingly homogenize. It saddens me to see this happening because it really feels like the U.S. is the potent, festering pool of bland future existence oozing out like a destructive, osmotic mold. But that's just my cynical artnerd self repeating the same slightly retarded, simplistic leftwing socialistic yellow pinko drivel that's been rattling around my can for years, right? Ever-honing my anti-American sentiment, how better to chisel that point with a trip to France! Right.

My trip to Spain when I was 16 left me quietly shellshocked that the States really wasn't the epicenter of human existence, but more of a Christian bully brat who can't think past his fist. My trip to Mexico when I was 19 first had me in awe of the enticingly simple living in a tiny pueblo, then fleeing in horror from the migratory gaggle of 'murican mouthbreathing jocks taking over southern Baja. Then, South Korea when I was 30, which was a wonderful trip, but definitely contributed to me wondering about the shrinking world. Korea felt very comfortable, very modern, very cars and television and mobile phones and malls and orderly cities and new apartment complexes. I was expecting a bit more rustic of an experience. The food was definitely a drastic change, which I loved: salty, fishy, spicy, pungent, fermented, pork-tastic, raw eggs sizzling in cabbage soup in searing claypots and a dozen tiny dishes at every meal and rice rice rice. Yum!

Of course, Europe is no rustic trek to foreign back country, but my cousin has found a terribly idyllic and quiet village to call home. Brantôme was easily one of my favorite parts of France. Waking early every morning (well Kim would, my lazy ass would sleep in!), a short walk away from fresh, delicious baguette and croissants, passing by the slowly moving river reflecting the towering abbey along the hill. Narrow streets that wind and branch out to dead-end human-sized alleys, tall, medieval stone buildings with crumbling façades, ornate ironwork balconies and centuries-old decorative stone details, carefully tended gardens and well-utilized tiny spaces.

It was such an exquisite change from a typical walk down Main Street, USA, good lord. Sure we have some quaint towns, I grew up in between a tiny milltown, an indian reservation and what was once a quaint fishing village. We'd visit my grandparents in Snoqualmie and walk along the late 19th century traintracks to the enormous falls. About as old as you get on the west coast. But even now everything has spread out, the towns are barely alive, and people speed through town towards the ubiquitous malls and giant shopping centers a few miles out before jumping on the freeway. Nothing is made for humans, and nothing is made to last. It was a delight to experience a town built long ago, not geared towards cars and rapid expansion and continuous economic growth. A piece of history still standing, even thriving as a livable space.

Of course that's not to say that France isn't getting their share of big box stores just outside of town. Albeit charmingly diminutive in comparison to our Home Depots and Wal-Marts, they're still popping up.

I loved all the tiny, efficient, diesel cars. I loved that so many folks still get their bread, their meat, and their vegetables from either tiny dedicated shops, or from the weekly farmer's market. And how delicious the foods! Fresh! Flavor! Living in Chicago has been the first time in almost 15 years I've not been eating organic produce regularly. The shit that I bring home from the fruteria is certainly cheap, but I feel like I've become a living Monsanto experiment. "Let's see how long this organism can survive on colored cardboard!" I could ride my bike the 3 miles to the extremely expensive (and immense) Whole Foods, or I can ride the few blocks to the Puerto Rican market. Since I'm an idiot artist who procrastinates on eating until I'm starving, I of course choose the latter, if not a greasy sandwich from the cafe up the street!

Kim stocked her kitchen with the most amazing meats and cheeses and we'd often just munch on those with pieces of the day's baguette. Always a tasty red wine on hand or a Belgian ale, lazing about between her next-door boutique and the house, or yacking in the sunny backyard. It's a charmed existence and I couldn't help but keep reminding her. The only downside of course is there not being many folks around to visit with. Brantôme's a damn small town.

I spent most of my first few weeks walking around, sitting by the river Dronne, doodling stone causeways, alleys and trees. Apparently a lot of folks come to the area to paint and I can see why. There are caves along the edge of village where the monks used to live behind the abbey, and many houses, garages and shops are built in varying integration along the stone. One night we went to the local pizzeria which was tucked away in a claustrophic cave, complete with a brick oven in the corner. It's very difficult to describe and was unfortunately too dark to photograph. Let's just say I felt like I'd stepped into a Harry Potter set.

A 45 minute drive south to Périgueux and we were standing at the foot of an enormous Roman pillar, randomly located in the midst of a medium-sized French town. Staring up at this 2nd century relic, I was floored. The thought that nothing like this exists where I grew up, where I've spent most of my life, and here it stood, a largely ignored anachronistic totem, a thing to drive around every day. Probably the closest experience was walking through the Alhambra as a teen, but that didn't register nearly the same.

I pictured the process of building the structure, all the modern detritus around me nonexistent, dusty stone and dirt and vegetation, the shuffling of horses and people about their day -- what was their day like, 1,800 years ago?

I snapped photos with my digital camera and we got back in the car and drove to get some pâté.

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