Sirha

Chefs working at Sirha in Lyon.

I don’t know if any other country eats the way France does. All of the teachers I have lunch with create three course meals out of several tupperware containers and in restaurants the waiters ask if you didn’t like your food if you leave even a little on the plate. But it’s not just the quantity, most everything is also delicious. I could walk into any bakery in Valence and get a pain au chocolat that would beat any pastry back home. However, as a poor language assistant, I don’t often get to sample anything outside of E. Leclerc or Auchan. But this past Monday I was invited by my friend Helen to go with her boyfriend Julien and her mom to Sirha, short for Le Salon international de la restauration, de l’hôtellerie et de l’ alimentation (International Hotel, Catering and Food Trade Exhibition).

A display case of terrines for sampling at Sirha.

Sirha in Lyon is the second largest expo of this kind in France, with the biggest being in Paris. There were about 2,000 exhibitors at Sirha providing just about everything you would need for your restaurant, hotel, catering service, pasty shop, bakery, or whatever area of food in which you are a “professional.” I put journalist as my profession on my invitation. I’m writing about it now, aren’t I? Where’s my free stuff? Anyway, I’d never really thought about all the different elements that go into restaurants and all the different suppliers you would need. You might have to get your cheese from France, your chocolate from Belgium, and your staff’s shoes from Ireland. It was overwhelming.

A cinco jotas. I think Sirha reinforced my vegetarian lifestyle... and I didn't even photograph the snail eggs.

Since I had no real professional reason to be interested in these products, I mostly snatched up free things and sampled from the vegetarian-friendly exhibitors. This didn’t really cut down on sampling, since there was an incredible amount of chocolate. Helen’s mom has a cake shop back in England, so we visited many of the chocolatiers and in addition to the sweets we also got glasses of champagne from one of them. Other sampling highlights included cheese from Auvergne (my old friend Cantal), baguettes, carrot cake and salt and vinegar chips from Wales, antipasti, olives, cheese pastry, and even some sparkling water from the Ardèche. It was kind of a weird mix and needless to say that night I had a light dinner that was chocolate-free.

Dobla chocolate display.

There didn’t seem to be any strict rules for how the place was arranged besides loose umbrellas like “Produits (Products)” or “Planète Viande (Meat Planet).” We did stumble upon a few country-specific areas like Holland, Sweden, and Wales, whose exhibitor stand even had very American pecan pie. I saw on the map that the United States was there, but I didn’t find it. Maybe they were serving fried twinkies and were shut down for indecency. Sorry, I think I’m slightly brainwashed by France. But I would have loved to see what was on display and maybe hear some regional accents. I’ve become a lot more aware of my own accent since spending time in France. Although there are other Americans, they are mostly from the Northwest or Northeast and I don’t know anyone else from the Oklahoma/Texas/Kansas/Arkansas area of vague cowboy twang. I realize my accent is pretty standard American, but it’s just one of those random things I find myself missing.

Chocolatier at work on a delicious edible sculpture.

I’m heading to Paris tomorrow morning to see Of Montreal and indulge in free Sunday museums. I have more pictures from Sirha on flickr if you’re interested.

I Wore Impractical Shoes

Sledder seen from the car window on our drive to les gorges d'Omblèze.

Sundays are always slow in France. Barely anything is open, save a few cafes, one pharmacy, one bakery, and maybe a kebab shop or two. It’s easy to end up watching Top Chef on the internet while eating the last of your grocery store supplies. But why waste a beautiful winter day doing things I could do back home? This past Sunday we took advantage of the rare sunlight to take a day trip up to les gorges d’Omblèze to go hiking.

Walking on the road in les gorges d'Omblèze.

I went with Becca, an American assistant from Wisconsin, a French guy named Fred who drove, and his group of friends. Apparently Fred and these friends usually go rock climbing in les gorges d’Omblèze, but the freezing weather had made the rock too cold for that last Sunday. Les gorges d’Omblèze are east of Valence in the Vercors mountains of the Drôme department and include steep cliffs as well as waterfalls. On our drive over there we passed lots of sledders and children building snowmen. Becca and I also got a lesson in French chansons and even got a sing-a-long performance to a “Les Copains d’Abord” by Georges Brassens. We first stopped on a road at the bottom of the gorges and walked by a waterfall, many gigantic icicles, and stomped through the snow. I did not wear appropriate footwear, although my tennis shoes with no traction are about as good as it gets with my France shoe collection. I could only bring so many shoes in my suitcase, although I guess I don’t have any hiking shoes back in Oklahoma. That’s what working for a year in an art gallery will do to your wardrobe, I suppose. Anyway, it was beautiful, although a bit cold.

View of a cliff. There were rock climbers on this. Little specks on the stone.

After the road walk, we drove to another area and took a steep path down to the Cascade de la Druise, a 72 meters (236 feet) tall waterfall. My shoes were yet again not very good for traction and I slid down most of the hill, only attempting a short cut through the brush once where I was attacked by a thorny vine. We eventually caught up to the fast rock climber group after exploring some random ruins (we were behind anyway) at the bottom of the trail that would make a good hermit house. I’m not in the market, but it’s always good to have places in mind.

Cascade de la Druise.

But we did make to the waterfall and it was spectacular. The spray coming from the plummeting falls was freezing, but we still got as close as possible by maneuvering over slippery rocks and the rocky sides of the river. The water was incredibly clear and after leaving the waterfall turns into rapids over rocks that swerve through the canyon.

View from the hike back from the waterfall.

We all made it up the steep path back to the cars and then returned to Valence. There was a stop at a sausage store, but I didn’t buy anything and just went in with everyone, trying not to stare with horror at the saran wrapped pig snouts. Back in Valence, we drank hot chocolate at Becca’s apartment and after I went to my apartment to scrape the mud off my shoes and jeans.

Die and Snowboarding

Clear skies at the Col de Rousset ski station.

This past Wednesday I went with 13 assistants to the Col de Rousset. We were divided into snowshoers, skiers, and snowboarders. Above is a picture from that day, taken almost at the same place as this one a week before. Two of the people who rented snowboarders had never done it before, so I attempted to teach them. It was alternately hilarious and successful. Snowboarding is harder than it looks and isn’t very easy to teach, especially when standing up on the board can at first seem impossible. However, by the end of the day they were both making it down the mountain. Although there was a moment where one of them, Richard, somehow slid into this fence and couldn’t drag himself out of the snow ditch. At exactly that moment the students he teaches in primary school skied by in a massive group. I had my own unfortunate comedy moments trying to use the téléski/platter lift. I just cannot stay on that thing and both attempts ended with me planting myself face forward in the snow and then taking a long hike up the mountain.

Snowy fence and trees at the Col de Rousset.

I think that the biggest obstacle I have to improving my snowboarding is fear. I just can’t hurtle myself down the slopes the way a lot of people do. I don’t mind going fast, but I get nervous when I’m not in control of my board. There was a red slope at Col de Rousset that I was peer-pressured into going down. The first snowboarder, Eric, went down at a ridiculous speed, crashed horribly, stood up, and kept going. I, on the other hand, carefully S-turned down the icy drop. I think I have the snowboarding technique down, now I need to figure out how to lose my fear of death by snowboard crash.

Vercors, as seen from the Col de Rousset.

Near the end of our day at the Col de Rousset it started to snow and we got beers in the restaurant at the bottom of the station. Everyone in our group made it to the bus on time. Unfortunately, some of the other people on the bus did not, making us late to the Die train station and consequently missing the 5:52 pm train to Valence. The next train was not until 11:25 pm. So, we bought food, Cidre, and Clairette and spent the evening at Patrick’s apartment (the English assistant in Die). Clairette is a sparkling wine that tastes kind of like Champagne and is made in the Die region.

DIE!!! The sign at the Die train station.

We finally did make it back to Valence on the train. It was a train that apparently goes all the way to Paris, although very, very slowly. I was a little tired teaching the next day, but was able to get through several readings of Eric Carle books. Does that man know how important his books are to the teaching of English?

I’ve booked my flight and hostel for Berlin in February. I’ll be there February 9 to 14. I know very little about what to see in Berlin, so I’m open to suggestions.

I saw what is probably the most tedious piece of theater I have ever witnessed. It lasted for two hours with no intermission and for most of that time sustained almost absolute silence. It centered around a guy who was depressed because no one would publish his writing, his wife who berated him, and their baby. He just lay on a couch for the entire time and stared into space a lot. She also spent time staring into space. This was interrupted by music that played on a CD while videos of babies or flowers were projected on screens. It finally ended with the couch guy shooting himself offstage, but this was the point when the music was actually loud so I couldn’t understand what the other characters were saying. Like the other two plays I’ve seen during my time in France, this one had cathartic yelling. Maybe that is the staple of French théâtre.