My First Week at a Writing Residency in France!
On lessons in cheese, dating and the joy of existing.
Salut!
I arrived in Paris Wednesday morning, and went straight to my grandparents’ apartment. As soon as I entered, like always, it was as if nothing had changed. It almost feels like a capsule suspended in time, with all the same photographs displayed in exactly the same places. The familiar smells in each room.
However, a lot had changed. The last time I was there in October, it was to visit my grandfather who had been in the hospital for a month. Now, he was walking around the apartment and had just celebrated his 91st birthday. It made me incredibly happy to see him so much better.
In an effort to fight the jet leg, my grandparents and I walked along the seine. It was a gorgeous, sunny day and we basked in the good weather.
At dinner, my uncle joined us. He asked about dating in New York, and insisted that I would never find someone who had all the qualities I was looking for. That was “Prince Charming.” Instead, I should be happy if they have 50% of the qualities I want. My grandmother nodded along in agreement. She remarked how these days you want to be able to have everything and check it all off. But it doesn’t work that way. Half is enough.
The next day, I headed to my artist residency at La Boule D’or in the small, historic town of Clamecy. The hotel is on the grounds of a 12th-century chapel, and it’s a two hour train ride outside of Paris. When I told my grandmother where I was going, she didn’t understand. “But what is there to do there? You’ll be back in two days.”
This dig was perhaps in reference to my grand adventure as a 14 year old in France. I stayed with my grandparents one summer, and decided to go WOOFing, which means taking part in farming work for free in exchange for room and board, in the north of France. They thought this was an absurd idea, and told me so, many times. I went anyway. I told no one where I was going, and didn’t really know myself. I just wanted to go because it seemed cool and pourquoi pas! To be fair, I haven’t really changed much.
When I got there, it was very strange. They put me in the attic, in a house with a newlywed couple, and had me plunging the toilets mostly, or herding the cows. A lot of the time, I would sneak off and journal. Again, nothing has changed.
Except, this didn’t really work for the owner of the farm and after 3 days she demanded I leave. I was on the next train back to Paris and didn’t even have time to call my grandparents to tell them I was coming. When I showed up at their door, they laughed extremely hard and still make fun of me to this day. Was this going to be another farm situation?
Still, I headed off on the train. I arrived Wednesday night, and was at first a little intimidated. It was a group of five other people, all French speaking. I was the only American and felt a little out of place. Mainly because they all clearly knew each other well already and also because while my French is good, there’s still a lot I will miss if I don’t pay close attention. And I was still super jet lagged. So I just sort of sat there in silence in a strange, sleepy daze.
The next day, I made more of an effort even with the language barrier. At lunch, one woman seemed to be talking about someone she knew who had died, but I couldn’t understand all the details. They seemed to be better somehow, but I wasn’t sure. Finally, I asked her what had happened to her friend who “died”?. She laughed. She was talking about the resurrection of Jesus. After that, I tried to ask more questions if I didn’t understand.
In the afternoon, I went for a walk in an attempt to explore, but it was a national holiday and essentially a ghost town. How I love the way France seems to take off for holidays as much as they possibly can.
Still, I walked around until I passed one man smoking in the street. He beckoned me over and asked what I was doing there. I told him about the residency.
“Oh, so you came here with a group?” He asked in French. “No, alone,” I said. “You are a real adventurer!” he declared. Then he smiled. “There is something very mysterious about you.” I nodded. “I don’t think I’m actually mysterious, I just think my French isn’t that good.”
When I returned to the residency and tried to write, one of the women was reading a book beside me. I asked what it was about. “Americans, actually.” The title read, “Le Cult de Performance.” She explained. “You know, how Americans are obsessed with performing and only find their value and worth in how productive they are. How they feel they must always be working, and feel guilty just to be, to exist.”
While it was funny to make fun of me working when I had, in fact, come all the way there with the intention to work, she wasn’t totally wrong. It was a clear distinction between cultures, and even in the hours around meals where they would sit and talk, I’d feel uneasy sometimes at the feeling of just being. As someone who already feels uncomfortable with stillness and doing nothing at times, I saw the value in also finding “joie en existence.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t always anxious to make the most of each day, and I’m often afraid to let a day “go to waste” by resting. But I don’t always associate this with American culture, at least not entirely.
In June, I’ll be back in New York for my next round of infusions, and it is always a little hard to relax with medical procedures around the corner.
But this is something I’m still trying to unlearn. While it’s good to live hard and passionately, I always try my best not to do it from a place of fear, but curiosity. It’s why I started my “Tiny Joys” in the first place. As a reminder that the calmer, smaller moments are actually usually the more worthwhile.
Then, also in practically the same breath, they admitted that while French people loved to make fun of American culture, they were also obsessed with it, too.
Still, after our conversation, it seemed like a challenge to work as little as possible to prove her wrong. Which is a funny thing for a writing residency, but here we were. It turned out that while there was a little working being done at this residency, there was a lot more cooking and drinking and smoking. I did my best to assimilate.
By the second day, it was becoming a true French immersion. Conversations consisted of debating whether a cheese was a certain type of cheese, or if France had the best cheese in Europe. How it was important, when tasting cheese, to begin with the least fragrant and move your way up to the strongest one. How Americans were obsessed with cheese when they came to France. Soon, they were testing me to make sure I could name multiple types of cheese, and claimed I was only French if I could name at least three. When a man in town asked me what I was writing, someone from the residency piped in- “She is just learning about cheese.”
By the third day, I kissed one of the residents. A Swiss man who worked as a printmaker and rapped on the side. “I am a complicated man,” he warned in French. We spoke about love and I told him about my family’s 50% rule. He agreed with it. No one will ever be perfect. “You can’t fall in love with potential,” he told me.
On the weekend, we visited the local farmers market and did yoga in the garden. Every meal seemed to overflow with wine and fresh vegetables and butter and cheese and chocolate, followed by hours of lounging. At times it felt like of a bit of dream. Like I had somehow dropped into this intimate life in a small French town and forgotten how I’d gotten here.
The town was so small, in fact, that one day when we all visited the local market, everyone waved and greeted one of the women from the residence. “Everyone knows you. You’re like the mayor!” I joked. But she didn’t laugh, and suddenly grew very serious. I wondered if it was my French, and I had said something wrong. Then, she took my arm and whispered, “That’s because I was recently engaged to the mayor.”
On the last day, we had a little birthday party with a homemade cake that was a horrible attempt at a Swiss “carac,” and I got to use this dog candle I had found earlier that day at the flea market.
On Monday, it was time to go. I was leaving for Paris to see family. And so after a few days, I left, with the intention of returning the following week.
On one of my first nights back in Paris, I went out dancing with a friend, and even over the loud music, the man I was talking to could tell I had an accent.
“Where are you from?” he asked in French. I explained I was from New York, but also had French citizenship. “Prove it,” he replied. “Can you name for me five cheeses?”
I don’t know why in this one week I’ve been here, I’ve been only tested on my knowledge of cheese. But I’m willing to study hard. Et c’est tout pour maintenant!
A bientôt!
Julia