I did something pretty mundane the other day that for me was quite remarkable. I walked to the post office and mailed in my ballot! I finally got it just after writing the last post to the blog and returned it the same afternoon. Believe it or not, this will be my first time voting, ever. While I was of voting age the last time I lived in Honduras, the period was between elections and I never got to do it. Afterwards, while living in the US I was never able to vote from abroad. So the resulting situation is that the first time this Honduran casts a ballot, he will have done so as a US citizen from France.

Despite the excitement of that occasion, the day was filled with some minor drama from another source. We finally got the DSL line installed and proceeded to connect the home network. Problem is, I’m strictly old-school and anything to do with high technology is usually beyond my sphere of interest and consequently beyond my grasp. For the benefit of those of you more computer savvy than I am, the situation is as follows. We wanted to hook up our Windows XP laptop as a client to a home network where a Windows 98 desktop acted as a host. To complicate things further, the W98 desktop is all in French. So we got it up and running enough to share the internet connection, but no other network functions (file sharing, hardware sharing, etc.) So, your’s truly decided to fix the problem. In the process I lost the client’s internet access. By afternoon the host’s access was gone. By midnight, R was trying to reinstall W98. That’s when I knew I was in over my head and headed for the safety of the living room to watch a Truffault movie on TV. In the end, we had to do as we were initially told and make the WXP machine the host and W98 the client. Does life really need to be this complicated?

Anyway, as you can imagine, the walk to the post office was a welcome break from the tech issues. Avrille is a growing yet still quiet and leafy suburb about a 5 minute drive from the center of Angers. It doesn’t take too much imagination to picture what was once a farming community may have looked like 30 or 40 years ago. The layout is typical of small villages here. There’s usually a very small and old center of very old stone buildings clustered around a church surrounded by farms and farmhouses. Today the cluster includes a post office, a hotel, shops, and random businesses surrounded by houses on what was once farmland.

While not an expert on post-war development trends in France, I suspect this type of sprawl is typical of villages that found themselves within close proximity to larger cities. That’ s pretty commonplace. What is intriguing is that you don’t have to go far out of town to be in the countryside. And here the countryside is amazingly still dotted with small villages and farming communities. I’m not sure how they manage to maintain a stable population over the centuries without completely collapsing from the flight of young people or ballooning in size. I suspect that most of these villages have a mixed population of locals and commuters. Also, most small villages have strict code enforcement to control development. For example, individuals owning rural property are restricted to how much of the land they can develop and how much must remain either open or farmed.

To me, this illustrates something that I had not expected to find the first time I came to this country. That is, the degree to which this densely populated country retains its rural traditions. Most people think of France and images of cosmopolitan life in Paris or other urban centers come to mind. What I’ve been discovering is a mix of sophisticated urbanism and what seems like traditional village life. I say “seems” partly because I have to rely here on my limited observations and partly because I suspect there is more to it than can be discerned through this kind of casual observation. My overall feel so far is that there is a strong sense of history that co-exists within the national space, but more importantly in the social conscience, with our blindingly fast rush to whatever lies beyond postmodernity.

These are questions that most societies are facing as a result of the pressures from the past and exigencies of some uncertain future. In places like Honduras for example, the result can be a jarring experience of culture shock through extreme incongruences and paradoxes that I’ve tried to describe elsewhere in this blog. Here, these juxtapositions are noticeable and sometimes palpable, but of a different flavor. I’m still trying to figure it out. Unfortunately for the readers, you’ll be forced to go along with me on this as well.

Oh, before I forget: I’ve posted a fourth set of photos from Honduras on the blog. You can follow the link (below or on the list on the right) to the ofoto website. You do not need to join, just click on “view album” and enjoy. Send comments if you have any of these or questions. Click "comments" at the bottom of the post and then "Post a Comment" at the bottom of the page to do this. Feedback is good.

Photos at: http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=82nxgnrb.8fp7ff8f&x=0&y=-emmpfr

Hi all. Sorry for the long silence once again. The truth is there hasn’t been too much activity around here. Well I suppose that’s note exactly fair, but frankly I thought I would spare you guys the minutia involving the various French administrative offices. That being said, I suppose an update is in order.

The biggest news is that we’re supposed to get the DSL installed today! Finally! I’m not going to get too excited though until it’s up and running. For a while there I was contemplating imposing a strict procedure of checks for telecom usage to avoid conflicts like getting bumped off the line while connected to the net when someone wanted to make a phone call. In the end, I decided such a measure might not be well received and I decided to resort to a more surreptitious tactic. I would simply bring the phone upstairs with me whenever logging on, thus forcing the would-be telephone user into a verbal request for access. What ensued was a low-intensity warfare that was threatening to degenerate at any moment and destabilize the established order.

Like I said things here have been pretty quiet. We’ve been checking out some stuff in the region and in town. This week is the kick-off of a two week long festival of African music, literature, and other cultural/artistic events. Most of this will come from Mali due to Bamako being one of Angers’ sister cities around the globe. We’re looking forward to it as one of the main draws this year will be Habib Koïté, a favorite among afropop circles. I must say that if this part of the world is lacking in latin music, it makes up for it with a stunning variety of that from the African continent. One of the places we’ve developed a fondness for is a tiny Senegalese club that is always packed with an awesome mix of friendly people and damn good music from Zouk to Soukous.

Also worth mentioning are several of the student hangouts. The crowds there are a bit more energetic and perhaps even a bit unstable. However, despite the often volatile mixture of raging hormones and copious amounts of booze, I’ve yet to spot any incidents of the type that were a nightly fixture at the student hangouts with cheap booze we went to when I was in school (read: Sports, The Tiger, et al). Not to say that there aren’t any incidents, I’m just saying that I haven’t seen any and I doubt many of these kids are going to power-drink themselves to death any time soon. Geaux Tigers!

On the home front, I’ve been studying the art of French deserts and passing on some of my own culinary savoir-faire. I discovered I have a particular interest in recipes that start with words like: “Melt 200 grams of chocolate”. It’s hard to screw up after that. As a general rule, I’m of the opinion that bumping up the called-for quantity by 50g never hurt anyone. Also, any recipes that call for similar quantities of heavy cream will get special attention from me.

As for my contribution, I’ve embarked on a campaign to bring spice and color to the French dinner table. I started with what was in my opinion a very mild curry. Judging from the speed with which the water was guzzled down I deduced that mine was the minority opinion. Without missing a step or giving any time to repose I moved directly onto what I now call Tex Frazier’s Eight Alarm Chili. I have to admit that on that occasion I did get a little carried away and kicked it up a few notches too many. After that I decided to take it easy and made a Gumbo that was just right. The dishes were very well received and now the pressure’s on to follow up with new and exiting stuff.

While we’re on food, I think I should like to pass an amusing little anecdote. The other day at dinner there was a serious funk coming from somewhere and I couldn’t figure out where. I tried as discretely as I could to smell my clothes (and myself) just to make sure it wasn’t me. This should always be step one; I had an unpleasant incident involving a plane ride and a chimichuri sauce (heavily laden with garlic, no less) in my carry-on a few years ago. Anyway, I had totally lost track of the conversation as I kept looking around me for some clues. Was I the only one who noticed it? Had they all noticed it too but thought it was me? Were they being gracious and polite? I was about to crack and holler out what the hell was that smell, when I located the source: a little gem known as Saint-Marcellin. This is a tiny inoffensive looking cheese from Daupniné in southeastern France. If you know me I’m sure you can imagine what happened next: I couldn’t get enough of the stuff and barely left enough for the others.

I know everyone knows that this country is known for its cheeses, but it’s hard to grasp the scope of it until you stroll down the cheese isle. According to one book I’ve been consulting, there are over 350 varieties! There’s one I was reading about that is produced by a single one-woman farm in the Alps from no more than nine cows! It should also come as no surprise that the rules and regulations governing naming rights and production techniques are strictly enforced. Serious business.
Anyway, I’m still waiting for my absentee ballot and I’m starting to get a little nervous. I’ll probably send the lovely folks at the registration office an email when I’m done here to find out just how nervous I need to be. I can almost guarantee that the system will have miraculously acquired remarkable efficiency come tax time. Anyway that’s it for now, but there’ll be more to come.

October!? How did that happen!? Of course, this can only mean one thing: we’re just over a month away from election time. I stayed up last night/this morning to watch the debates and I have to admit to have been pleasantly surprised by JK’s performance. Of course, that means very little if it doesn’t translate to actual votes in November. Meanwhile, I’m more than a bit anxious because I have yet to receive any kind of confirmation for my absentee ballot!

On the brighter side, this week I received the document that states my request for residency is in progress. It’s really just a fancy receipt with one exception: I don’t have to wait until I get the actual resident card to be able to legally work . It would seem this is a big deal because although I should get the residency card in December, the kind ladies at the city hall said there is a severe backlog in the office that handles that and I shouldn’t be surprised if it takes longer. Fortunately, that won’t affect me either way. Also, despite being married to a French citizen, it seems that what has really helped speed things along is that I am applying as a US, and not Honduran, national. Apparently, brown people from third world countries have a hard time finding their way to the welcome mat regardless of what door they knock on.

So anyway, here we are at the end of week four. This past week has been full of diverse activities. Over the weekend we hosted some of Steph’s cousins for dinner. Despite both of us fighting an ongoing cold, I was pretty optimistic about being able to hit the clubs afterwards. What I hadn’t counted on was the power of a French dinner.

To make things easy for ourselves and not have to spend the whole day in the kitchen we decided to have what is called a « raclette » for the main course. The name comes from a particular type of cheese that is melted and then poured over potatoes and an assortment of smoked /cured meats. The reason its so easy to prepare is that aside from the potatoes, there is no more cooking to be done. There is a device that amounts to basically a broiler on your table into which you insert small individual trays of cheese to be melted and subsequently poured over the rest of your fixins. After killing off a bottle of champagne during the compulsory exercises (read: predinner cocktails) and completely shunning the salad, I dove in to the main event with an enthusiasm that would only be satiated by copious amounts of wine meat and cheese. After gorging myself in an obscene display of debauchery, I realized I had made a terrible miscalculation. I hurt myself real good with no room left for desert. I can’t recall ever being so full in my life and I was reminded of the explosive scene at the end of « Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life ».

The next day we headed out to take in some much needed outdoor activity. Angers was hosting a leg in the European powerboat racing circuit on the Maine, the river that runs through the city on its way to join forces with the Loire. It was pretty nice to get out and about and stroll about on the riverfront. While all the racing stuff was pretty interesting, what caught my attention was the distinctive sound of live music coming from a stage perched atop the riverbank. The local reggae band playing was pretty tight, with the bassist laying down a groove so fat you could drive a truck through it. Meanwhile, the horns (yes, horns!) punched through with a power you can only get with brass. Not bad, not bad at all.

After the weekend, we spent the next couple of days helping Steph’s younger brother and his girlfriend move. I was really glad to be able to give them a hand because we’re so indebted to them for their tireless efforts in preparations for our wedding last year. While nothing compared to all the hours and dedication they put at our disposal, it’s always nice to do nice things for nice people. As simple as those words sound, contained within are profound implications for how we experience society and perceive « the other ».