French People

Last night we were invited to go watch the futbol match between Chile and Venezuela with a group of 5 French Sylvain knows who live together. Valentin, Sylvain and I left around 8:30 to meet them at their apartment and we would go together on what would become a bit of a wild goose chase to find a bar called Liberty. On the way to Hadrien's flat (the French add a silly H to the name commonly known as Adrien), there was talk of this idea that shaving your face saps some of your energy, and makes you weaker. Early on in our relationship we had a bit of a face off between the idea that going outside with a wet head will give you a cold. While my mother often told me the same thing growing up, I had read IN BOOKS, legitimate and veritable sources told me that colds come from VIRUSES and not wet heads outside in cold temps. This confrontation had to be settled; neither of us would accede our position. I have no tolerance whatsoever for foolish wives tales as such and if Sylvain were American I would most certainly write him off as a hopeless cause and avoid social interaction with him henceforth; but as he is from France, I find these matters- golden opportunities to stockpile being right, and his ignorance, quaint and cute; like the way he pronounces midget, widget. So I called my friend Char who is one of the smartest people I know, and also happens to be a doctor, married to a doctor. I asked her, she affirmed I would be the one with all the bragging rights on this issue, and to confirm, I made her get a second opinion from her husband. Today's modern medicine puts me up 1, France nil. 

So the other morning I tell Sylvain, kissing is out of the question until he shaves, lest my face become victim to a sandpaper attack. He insisted upon putting it off until the evening because he was going boxing and wanted his energy. Imagine my perplexity; excuse me, some explanation needed here novio. Apparently, against all sense common or otherwise, he believes along with his compatriot Valentin (who at this point might just be siding with France, rather than logic, it's too early to tell; the French are naturally suspicious people and I am still too foreign to start taking sides with) that shaving saps your energy, as your nerve endings are close to the skin and - well the rest is impossible to tell me because he can't explain in English. But of course. He promises to give me a more definitive answer after he speaks with his friend (who is a "real" doctor, and by "real" I mean student doctor) because obviously my resource is compromised, her being a friend of MINE, she would naturally have the same hesitation positioning herself with anyone but her compatriot and childhood best friend.

So today Sylvain woke up with a cold which worked out well because I had planned to make chicken soup today anyway. Around 3pm we went down the hill to call our families neither of whom were home to answer; and I also needed some carrots for the soup, which Lider didn't have so I ended up buying from a guy with produce in a truck outside our house. It's quiet in Valpo on Saturday and Sunday, which frankly works for me, I'm happy to tuck into a good book and cook. This whole cooking thing in Valpo is pissing me off a little more than I had anticipated. Imagine, carrots, the staple of any vegetable cooking and eating; imagine just not having them available. Cream! How do I cook French food, without cream! Does anyone know a substitute for cream? Should I get a cow and milk her? 

Last night we came home from the Futbol game a little early; I enjoy soccer, and the family who owns the place had just sat down to eat and were sneaking us samples of their mussels, fried fish, seafood soup and pisco sour frappes, but what can I say, 6 French teenagers just wasn't my crowd. I could probably handle two. Sylvain is always really accommodating and knew I was ready to go, he finished his beer and said his goodbyes. I'm sure to a gaggle of 19 year old French I am either a grandma, or totally uncool, but this is my burden to cast off and get over. On our walk home it was drizzling softly and we had a dog follow us up our hill and seemingly anticipated he was going to be joining us curled up at the foot of the bed this night. I absolutely love dogs (medium-large, in my opinion small dogs are worthless and for my money they'd be better off as cats) and it has been particularly hard on me having to leave my Manny in New York; and last night, it was particularly difficult putting this dogs "street" qualities aside, not to at least imagine allowing him to follow us inside on this unpleasant evening. I knew it would never fly, the streets are rife with dogs and this one was no different- dirty. Still. in order for us to get inside without him sneaking in between our legs I had to walk down the block with him nipping at my heels and then with my heart breaking at my cold-hearted fake-out, sprint back to our door before he could catch me and then slam the door in his little doggy face. 

This photo is from Plaza Sotomayor, the square I mentioned in a blog a few days ago. The Valpo's are really proud of this, they're Navy Building. It's also just a block or two from the Liberty Bar where we watched the futbol match.