French Kissing

By far the oddest French custom for me to learn is the kissing ritual. I don't mean the deeply passionate kiss depicted by Rodin in the photo. I mean the cheek to cheek (to cheek to cheek) greeting, and all of its pomp and circumstance.

I used to dread going to Pierre's uncle's house-- not because I don't like his cousins, quite the contrary, I adore them-- but because of the kisses anticipated at the front door in greeting. I used to delay it as long as possible, playing with the cute sheep dogs, watching the sheep in the pasture or the lambs in the barn. But the time inevitably came when we would be ushered inside and expected to kiss everyone in the room. And sometimes it would be quite a gathering: ten to fifteen family members seated at the table for coffee, and we would make the rounds, heads bobbing, hair falling in our faces, lips pursed, mouths making lip-smacking sounds in the air. Quite the time-taking spectacle. But the worst part about it was determining exactly how many kisses was expected by each family member. When you didn't get it right-- god forbid!-- a serious faux pas could result, where heads were awkwardly bobbing, cheeks thrust forward expectantly, or the worst yet: a foot lunging forward and a stumble.
Now I've learned: 3 each for Aurelie, Damien, Colette, and Fabienne, 1 for Christian (and he always does me the courtesy of saying "Un" before we kiss), 4 for Michelle, Jacques, Manu, Paul and Marie.

At the wedding last weekend, it seemed the guests were really into slow, methodical kissing: 4 very theatrical kisses were expected from the bride and groom and their audience. Yet when we left the Perigord on Sunday morning, and kissed about twenty of our hung-over friends, I seemed to forget this fact and think 2 were necessary. One girl was left awkwardly standing with her cheek offered towards me, lips puckered, waiting for the final 2 kisses. And worse than that: I brushed noses with a tall gentlemen when moving my face across his for the second kiss. Ooops. Or: Oooo-la-la (as the French sports commentators always seem to say when the goal is missed)

And what is the proper etiquette when I meet Pierre's work colleagues? Heaven help me. What happened to the good old fashioned, professional hand-shake? At a work party last week, I kissed some and not others and managed to really alienate the lot of them.

GOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLL!

I just watched the most brilliant match of the World Cup-- gorgeous and intelligent soccer, well-executed plays, France was on fire. They make it look effortless. Far better than the ugly Dutch-Portuguese game, full of brawls and faked injuries, or today's Brazil-Ghana match where Ghana was so outmatched it was painful. God bless Frank "Frankenstein" Ribery, the feisty player from Marseille who's become my fave. (he looks downright scarey in the picture.) After tonight's game, I think the French are destined to win the World Cup.

A Walk through Limoges at Lunchtime

I've been left to my own devices since Pierre's disappeared to Brussels for a few days. I opted not to tag along (though if it was Barcelona or Rome, I'd pack my bag in a heartbeat). So what's a girl to do, on her own in the Limousin's grand metropolis? (Besides work, that is...) Be a tourist, of course! Today I walked the entire old city at lunchtime, and discovered some gorgeous streets, architectural treasures, and a pleasant botanical garden that sprawls along the top of the old city walls, behind the looming Gothic granite of St. Stephen's cathedral. And I even learned some history about my new city of residence. Limoges was original built on a rocky outcropping above the river Vienne, which was used by the Gallo-Roman population as a refuge from barbarian invaders.

My lunchtime observations could apply, however, to just about every ville in France:
*bedsheets flung out of windows to air
*satellite dishes protruding from the sides of Medieval houses
*closed shops (they won't open again until after the siesta)
*carefully groomed ladies and gentlemen seated promptly at noon at cafes to savor the menu du jour over a two-hour period. (The noon meal, by the way, is the best deal in the world. Multi-courses of the finest French food for a fraction of the price of dinner, though it's usually the same food.)

Fete de la Musique

The Summer Solstice in France is marked by a massive, nation-wide music festival where musicians (and plenty of wannabes) set up shop in every town and perform in the streets. Every village is guaranteed some sort of musical flair, whether it be a legitimate organized concert or friends singing at the top of their lungs at an outdoor cafe. What a concept.



I didn't expect much from Limoges but was pleasantly surprised to discover that this sleepy city in the middle of nowhere is actually a hotbed for punk and alternative artists. Every nook and cranny, every tiny alley, was occupied by bands and individual artists of varying levels of ability. We wandered through the streets for hours, hopping from show to show and it was a riot. Folks flood the squares and alleys, munching on tasty street food (fried apple pastries, kebabs, sausages, crepes), laughing, singing, watching, dancing. And as the hours fly by-- they get drunker and drunker.

We listened to just about every genre: pop, punk, traditional, church choirs, hip hop, symphony orchestras, acoustic, African drum circles, and even a band of cute old men with accordions, beaming big smiles and ecstatically tapping their shoes (They drew quite a crowd.) La Fete de la Musique is a merry and wonderful ritual. I think all the big US cities should catch on.