When the alarm went off yesterday after a short five hours of sleep, I knew I had to get out of bed so that I had time to fix my face and hide my exhaustion before I would be presentable for my first visit to a Catholic Mass. I got up and put on an outfit characteristic of an episcopalian congregation, thinking that would be the most comparable experience that I had had. After about 30 minutes of preparation, I headed into the kitchen thinking I should try to get a bite to eat before the service so my growling stomach wasn’t overpowering the priest. Oddly, when I walked into the kitchen, I found both of my host parents sitting at the table eating their morning bread and jam but they hadn’t gotten dressed for mass yet because they were both wearing jeans and sweaters. Although it was just 30 minutes before the service was supposed to begin, I decided it would be rude to let them know that they might want to go ahead and get ready so instead I joined them at the breakfast table.
Ma mère (french mother) made me fresh squeezed orange juice and an espresso while mon père cut me a few pieces of the morning baguette. Although it seems like it would be nice to be waited on all the time, it is getting to the point where I feel like I am always a burden and I really want to tell them that I will gladly get things for myself if they are ok with that, but I haven’t quite figured out how to say that phrase…so for now, I don’t hate it.
After we finished breakfast, they grabbed their coats and asked me if I was ready to head to mass. That is when I realized that I was drastically overdressed but it was much too late to change now so we headed out into the street. The church was only a few minutes walk, but in that short time I noticed that everyone in the streets was headed to church and all of the store windows were dark and empty. I asked ma mère and she told me that all businesses close on Sundays out of religious respect and the only places that would remain open would be a few food places that were unaffiliated. She was surprised to hear that it is not the same way in America because it is such a common practice here.
We headed into the Cathedral and ma mère pointed at the huge columns, telling me that they remained in tact from ancient roman temples. The architecture of the church was stunning, but the seating seemed almost primitive, with wooden chairs filling the room, connected at the base. Since I have become accustomed to padded pews built with an inclined back rest, this was not the ideal seating that I imagined would fill the beautiful Cathedral.
Pamphlets were passed up and down the aisles with the prayers and hymns of the day’s service printed on them. This was essential for me in understanding what was going on since the priest catered to the native french speaking congregation rather than the slow, well-enunciated speech that I had been faced with in dinner conversations with my family. Although I could follow along for the prayers and songs, my attention span quickly gave out during the sermon when I realized I had no idea what the priest was saying. Instead I directed my attention to the two young girls in front of me, pulling each other’s hair and whispering back and forth the whole time.
Their trivial bickering kept me entertained for the majority of the service and then the congregation stood up and I realized it was time for communion. Since I am not Catholic, I was not sure if it was ok for me to participate in communion and I did not want to offend anyone by making the wrong decision. As soon as the priest said it was time to exchange blessings of peace between each other and people began handshakes and cheek kissing, I seized the moment and asked mon père (french father) whether I was supposed to participate or not. He said that he wasn’t sure but if I was Catholic, I had better not. Then, a minute later, he changed his mind and said I should just go ahead up with them.
The time came and we stood up and walked in lines up the aisle. I was handed a small wafer and the priest blessed it saying “le corps du Christo” or “the body of Christ.” Once I had the wafer, I searched for the wine nearby to dip the wafer or take a small sip as I have done in every previous communion. Although the line kept me moving away from the front of the Cathedral, I never found the wine and I hadn’t seen whether people had eaten their wafer immediately or saved it to eat after a prayer back in their seats. It turns out that I was supposed to have eaten it but at this point, I was paranoid and pretty sure that most people were looking at me, wondering why I was holding onto my wafer in my increasingly sweaty fist. I quickly shoved it into my pocket and closed my eyes to pray, realizing that whatever I had just done was probably sacrilegious and I would eat the wafer in a more discrete location later to make up for it.
At the end of the service, we headed home for lunch which was a delicious blend of vegetables, served with beef and salad. I finally decided to try the yogurt and cheese that had been offered to me every other night but I had been too scared that I would not like it and then I would have to force it down in an attempt to avoid offending ma mère. I was given the small glass far full of yogurt that they kept in a tupperware in the fridge, with about 12 jars per large container.
I watched as “ma soeur,” my french sister, poured raw sugar on top of hers and I decided to do the same and then took a bite of the suspicious looking substance. Surprisingly, it was unbelievably tasty and I quickly finished the small jar before being presented with vanilla ice cream and chocolates and then as usual, a cup of espresso. Once again, I basically ate an entire thanksgiving size meal in one sitting, as if it was a casual lunch, and for them, it is.
At the end of lunch, I went to meet Sydney and Annie to head back to our new favorite place, Vieux Lyon. Despite the pouring rain, I did not change out of my church clothes and started to walk out the door of our flat. Ma mère stopped me and handed me an umbrella first, saying that she wouldn’t want me to mess up my nice jacket. She is adorable. On a side note, she also now claps for me every time I successfully unlock the door on my own. But anyways, we headed over to the macaroon store that we had visited the afternoon before and stopped at a bakery first so that Sydney, who had not yet eaten, could get a piece of pizza to tide her over. As we stared at the menu, we saw a few words we did not recognize and questioned amongst ourselves what they meant. Soon the girl in front of us turned around and in answer to our question, said in perfect english,without a trace of an accent, “aubergine means eggplant.” We looked at her wide-eyed as if we had just witnessed a miracle. Although some vendors here understand bits of english, this was the first time that we had come across someone who was clearly american, but was able to blend into the culture with ease. As she walked out of the bakery, part of me wanted to head after her and just have a normal english conversation, where she understood me fully and I was able to express my thoughts without charades and repetition. But she quickly disappeared around the corner and we were left, dumbfounded, hoping we would run into more Americans again soon.
Once we had picked up some pistachio macaroons next door, we met up with our friend Juliette and went to a small café to get out of the rain. The café was empty except for the owner, who allowed us to sit with our drinks for an hour or so before we decided to head back to try to get a quick nap before regrouping later in the night.
It turns out that napping is not easy to do after a cup of coffee and so the sleeping period became a few games of angry birds on my ipod before Sydney came over to get ready to go grab dinner. Ma mère had been in the kitchen all day and had just finished baking a king cake in celebration of the epiphany. Sydney and I were invited to have a piece and quickly accepted the invitation. She had hidden a small plastic king and queen inside the cake, just as we do for mardi gras with the plastic baby. Neither of us found royalty in our slices but we thanked her and headed back to my room to grab our things and head back to Vieux Lyon for dinner.
Annie called just before we left the city and she had just gotten out of mass since she went to the later service which caters more to young people. Since she was back we decided to wait a few minutes so she could come meet up with us and then we headed across the bridge. Ma mère wasn’t kidding when she said that nothing would be open on Sunday…. When we got to Vieux Lyon, there was almost no one in the streets and very few venues with lights on at all. Besides Indian food, there was basically nothing to eat so we gave up the search and headed to a nearby pub called “The Smoking Dog.” We had heard that that was the hotspot for Americans and this was confirmed when we first walked in and were greeted by a man from Wyoming who overheard us speaking english as we entered. After a bottle of wine, we headed back across the bridge to drop a friend off early then went on a hunt for a bathroom.
Bathrooms here are not an easy thing to find or use, especially on a Sunday when 7/10 stores are closed. We found a public restroom outside that looked like a nicer version of a port-a-potty but you couldn’t even open the door without a french credit card. After giving up on the deceptive outdoor toilet, we went across the street to the first bar we saw and headed to the back to use the bathroom. Finally, the debacle was over and we settled down at this place with a few glasses of wine. After a few minutes, we noticed that there were no other women in this bar, but a lot of pretty men… Not ideal.
We left the gay bar and headed back to Vieux Lyon for late night treats at a 24 hr bakery that we had noticed earlier in the day. While in line, we noticed that everyone around us was speaking English! It turned out that the couple in front of us was American, as was the guy behind us. Once we all had our baked goods, we headed over to another bar to watch the Eagles game and speak some good ole English. Annie and Juliette spent most of their time with the couple that we had met while I spoke with the other guy and found out that he had just moved here a month ago and was taking classes to learn french. He had an upcoming quiz and was carrying around a sheet of very simple french phrases that he needed to learn so I offered to quiz him on them.
His friend Sophie and him sat on one side of the booth, while I sat on the other and began the questions. Where are you from? America, was the response. What do you do for a living? A banker. Do you have siblings? blah blah blah… very basic french. It got old and we ended up talking for most of the night and he seemed like a really cool guy so I was excited to have met a normal American in Lyon that I could potentially hang out with. A few beers later I picked up the vocab list again and started back up on the quizzing. Avez-vous des enfants?- Do you have kids? Deux- Two.
Reality Check.
I laughed it off thinking he hadn’t understood the question and asked it again in English. Yikes. Two Kids. Next Question: How old are you? 25. That didn’t add up… I asked again. 34. It turns out that either I have absolutely no idea how to gage a person’s age, or that was a deceptively young looking dad. Either way, Juliette and Annie and I quickly left the bar and headed back across the bridge with the couple that we had met earlier, leaving the dad behind. We all went our separate ways and headed off to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up around 12:50 and got dressed and ready to go buy French Social Security. Annie, Sydney, and I met up and did the usual search for anywhere cheap to eat and finally settled on a small American looking place that offered pizza for 5 euros which is actually extremely cheap here. Once we ordered, we realized that there was a different price for sitting and eating vs if we were taking the food to go, so we ended up paying an extra 2 euros since we stayed. This could be related to the fact that no one in France expects a tip so the extra charge might go towards the “service fee.”
We went across the street to the social security place and each bought the minimum requirement and then called our friend Juliette and decided to meet up in Bellecour, the large shopping area. Although we were within sight of the hotel we stayed in for the first few days, we somehow made a wrong turn trying to get across the bridge to Bellecour and we ended up in the only part of Lyon that we were told to avoid. Ma mère told me that her son had been attacked in the predominantly arabic part of town and that it would be best to stay out of there. As we walked, we noticed more and more mosques and arabic writing on stores and realized we had found the danger zone and had no idea how to get out. We started walking quickly, without speaking, so that it was not obvious that we were english speaking students who were clearly lost. Once we got out of the most dangerous and isolated part and reached a more busy intersection, Sydney asked a nice looking woman where the Rhone was from our location and she looked at us as if we were crazy and pointed in the correct direction. After walking a block, we understood why she gave us the look because we realized where we were and had found the bridge within a matter of minutes.
After spotting Juliette behind the ferris wheel of Bellecour, we headed towards a nearby café that she said she had been to the other day and knew we would all enjoy. We walking into the picturesque boulangerie and oggled at all of the delicious looking baked goods behind the glass. 
Once everyone had picked out a treat for themselves, we were seated upstairs, where we were brought coffees and waters. So far, almost every restaurant has brought us water and wine glasses, so that we have become accustomed to drinking out of only wine glasses or coffee mugs here. It does throw me off sometimes though when we walk past cafés early in the morning and I wonder if France should be more worried about the rate of alcoholism in their country as I see people sipping out of wine glasses at 8am.
Once we were seated with our coffees, we sat for a while and shared stories about all of the humiliating grammar mistakes that we had made with our families at dinner and in general. We stayed for about an hour and then decided it was about time to head home and continue making these mistakes at yet another dinner, with hopes that after enough dinner corrections, we will eventually start to improve.
After a quick chat with ma mère and mon père, I found out that my french sister was going to be staying at her friend’s house close to her University since they had exams the next day and needed to be at school super early. This would be my first dinner alone with mes parents. This dinner was not as extravagant as the past few but equally delicious. We started with a rotisserie style chicken, served with several types of mustard sauces for dipping, then moved onto the next course of legumes that I have never seen before, but really enjoyed. After a small pasta dish, we had the usual series of fruit, homemade yogurt, cheese, then dessert. I do not think I am going to tire of this feasting anytime soon and might have to learn how to make yogurt before I come back to the US because I am forming a quick and undoable attachment.
This night’s dinner was notable though because when it came time for the fruit, we each grabbed a clementine, each of which was wrapped in a light wax paper and we began to unwrap.
Before I could get the peel off of mine, ma mère told me that she wanted to show me a magic trick that her husband had taught her. I will never turn down a magic trick, especially from a grown woman, so I told her that she had my attention, and she began.
She took the wax paper from her orange and flattened it before rolling it into a lengthwise tube. Although her dinner plate still had remnants of the meal on top, she carelessly flipped it over to use as a flat surface and placed the tube on top, balancing vertically. Since she stood up, I thought this was the whole trick and tried to come up with some way to express a sort of sympathetic amusement but before I could get anything out, she lit the tube on fire. That was unexpected. The length of the tube quickly blackened and just when it reached the bottom, the last circular piece shot up into the air quickly. C’etait magie. I am becoming more and more fond of this family as little things like this happen. I tried to record mon père playing piano outside my room today and am going to attempt to attach the track but I am not sure if it will work because I have never done that before.
Mr. Feuillet Playing Piano
I have also noticed that my English is slowly deteriorating into a sort of English-French combination that doesn’t make much sense, except to the other victims of the same occurrence. The whole group of exchange students have been replacing random words throughout english sentences with french vocabulary or using the wrong english word entirely. It begins like stuttering and then you realize that you have no idea how to express yourself in English or French and we all have to try to guess each other’s thoughts or just assume we know what the end of their sentences should be. It’s a sad state. By the time I get back to America, I will probably be nearly incapable of keeping up in conversation unless I become a way more active member of the Skype community.
Today I woke up at one pm and came out of my room and mon père said “you woke up just when the sun was going to bed!” aka he probably thinks I am a lazy bum but hey when you don’t have school for four days in a row, it’s difficult to force yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour. He offered to cook me some eggs but I wanted to show him that I didn’t need him to follow me around all the time, doing everything for me, so I said no thank you and then went into the kitchen to make myself bread and jam. Although I could tell he didn’t understand when I tried to explain my sleeping habits at home, he eventually gave up on trying to make me eat breakfast and lunch in one sitting to make sure that I didn’t have some sort of disorder. I think I am going to have to work on waking up at a normal time so that he doesn’t become even more concerned that I have a medical issue or something because sleeping in just does not exist in this family. So long brunch, hello breakfast. Thank God for espresso, the only thing that will allow me to wake up at the same hour as these early risers. Sorry for the wordy post, I have trouble comprehending the word summary but I’ll work on it in the future. Until then, Love from Lyon!
trying snails and frog legs 