Stories from the Valley of Flowers

Salut, ô Florival (Florigera vallis), tu es presque rivale du paradis, avec tes collines fécondes et tes coteaux que les pampres de la vigne recouvrent ….

Granted that these the words of an 11th century monk named Flurandus, and thus perhaps evoke poetic sentiment we cannot immediately identify with, it is none the less cheering and inspiring to see that someone thought so highly of the petit coin of Alsace I have had the pleasure of inhabiting… Affectionately greeting and then saluting the fertile hills covered in vineyards as a foretaste of paradise, this historic trip-advisor does not mask his enthusiasm.

Yesterday a spontaneous bank-holiday balade with a fellow wannabe-Alsacienne (Being a Parisian, my good friend Maeva has almost the étrangère status that i possess) led me to appreciate this sentiment a little more.  Optimistically choosing a path with an incline (in Guebwiller there is only a choice of two directions – up or down) we lost ourselves amidst the coloured houses perched in the hills, indulging in a nosy comparison of facades/gardens (and Easter decorations – the Guebwillerois tend to go in for adorning their already picture-book homes with nests and wreaths and spring-time animals made of everything other than chocolate) and before realizing had ascended up the valley to the point of being a afforded an impressive view down over the town. Considering we were still in Guebwiller territory, and thus technically remained en bas in the foothills, it is unsurprising that I appreciate now a little more our religious friends enthusiasm for a landscape that has to be acknowledged as impressive. I am also reminded that despite the persistent cold weather, and infuriating inaccessibility that seems to characterize Guebwiller, j’ai de la chance to have dropped been into a small town I had never heard of and would otherwise never have thought to discover. And considering how enjoyable just one afternoon’s stroll was, I’d be missing out.

In the spirit of Guebwiller-appreciation (and admittedly a little too much free time...as is the life of the Language Assistant) I decided yet again to indulge the inner-geek and find out a little more about the home of Flurandus, myself, and many Alsatians in between. Guebwiller is the first town of Florival, literally the vallée des fleurs; poetically re-named to match the abundant floral life that covers the hills. It is situated in the Haut-rhin, one of the two departments of Alsace and lying in the south of the region (the Bas-rhin is to be found in he north – a inversion provoking a confusion I am starting to recognize as characteristic of Alsace). Like all of its neighbors, the identity of this particular Vosgien corner was forged under the influence of powerful and competing territorial powers, resulting in the standard melange of Franco and Germanic culture. Its early history was however characterised by the rule of powerful religious institutions, most notably the Abbey of Murbach (the biggest mediaeval power of the region) that founded the town during the 13^th century (in 774 to be precise).

A legend that may be of interest to all those with feminist tendencies  (apologies les garcons) evokes the events of the night of the 14^th February 1445. Guebwiller came under attack from outside forces who has succeeded to ravage the rest of the region. Despite the advanced defence technology of the time (i.e. they had built a high wall) the attackers were able to overcome this military conundrum with their own special weapons (i.e. they came armed with long ladders). However, little did they know a local lady (with the attractive Germanic title Brigitte Shick) saw their sneaky approach and sounded the alarm. The unwitting soldiers believed the sudden appearance of a female figure on the wall was an apparition of Mary, and thus were so shocked they abandoned their weapons and fled into the night. To this day the famous ladders are conserved in the local church, as a souvenir of the night that the town was saved, and by a woman at that. Who needs a weapon when you can pass off as an apparition? When this small town had gotten over what was probably a traumatic series of events, it continued to plod on at a characteristically slow Alsatian pace, becoming French in 1680 and saying good-bye to the Murbachs and hello to the Revolution and industrial development and a soon blooming (almost literally) wine growing culture.

Although my research didn’t reveal anything overly exciting, it does turn out that the now often ignored Guebwiller was once pretty important. The sign of this was probably the fact that at one point it was home to not one, but four castles (standard Alsace): Burgstall, Neuenburg, Angreth and Hungerstein (with standard Germanic and slightly threatening names clearly chosen to heighten their strategic and symbolic importance). It is also not without a smile that I note that my current residence lies in the grounds of what once was the latter of these castles. Sadly demolished in 1806, the Hungerstein gave way to the Chateau in which I currently lodge. Although not as old, or impressive as the original homes of the nobles, the little chez moi to which I have grown strongly attached is not without a history! Now a school, and prior to that the home of Alsace’s Scripture Union, my current residence has some stories of its own. Indeed it is thriving with history on a more personal level. I have encountered several people who are former inhabitants of the chateau found on Avenue Maréchal Foch, all of whom evoke fond memories of staying for a year (or several) in one of the studios or appartments found on the troisieme étage. One former resident, Jeanette, described her years of raising a family up in the eves (her husband worked for the Union), making me think twice about dreading the mammoth climb up the stairs when I’ve been to the supermarket. Apparently three children and a buggy is manageable once you get used to it. Non-merci for now. I don’t quite merit the title of Chatelaine, but I think this is the closest I will ever get.

6 months living amidst history and beauty on a big, and personal scale, in the small but definitely significant town of Guebwiller. Resident of a Chateau in the Valley of Flowers.  And if that’s not one for the Ellen Grace history file, I’m not sure what is. 

Alsace de l'interieur....

Considering my time in Alsace is running out, I decided it was about time I delved deeper into the small corner of France that has been my home for the last 6 months… The smallest of Frances’ regions, what Alsace lacks in size it certainly makes up for in history, culture, and a unique-ness that leaves it the subject of much speculation both on the part of tourists and the  « français de l’intérieur » who make up the other 21 regions of metropolitan France.  

I recently read found this summary of the strengths and weaknesses of the Alsatian language (a regional dialect deriving from German and the mark of Alsace’s turbulent history and unique identity!), which is apparently…. “harsh but picturesque, almost matter of fact yet poignant, and rich in connotations which escape the non-Alsatian and lead to an impression of coldness…” and was struck by the fact that this seems to apply not just to the language but indeed to the region itself.  Even at face value the climatic extremes of freezing winters and sweltering summers, combined with the beauty of a natural landscape of the mountains (having a view of Les Vosges is something I am starting to take for granted) sweeping down to the foot-hills adorned with vineyards fit the stereotype of a perplexing amalgamation of differences, producing a memorable singularity for both the tourist and the proud Alsatian resident. The richness of a region with a long and confusing history, the unique blend of Franco and Germanic culture, and a position both literally and strategically at the heart of Europe, leaves Alsace something of a peculiarity, looked on with curiosity from afar and the subject of fierce pride from within. It is no wonder some see being a resident of Alsace like joining a club. You’re either in or you’re out. Whether you converse in “the dialect” or not…

I thought it would be interesting to uncover some of these regards sur Alsace and decide if the myth really is a reality…. (and no not just the legend of the Storck…though that could be interesting)

1. Parlez-vous francais? “I heard they don’t even speak French there….”

Alsace being a region wherein the only languages spoken are German or Alsatian is (luckily for me) not at all true. French has been widely spoken since the 19^th century, and is today of course the official and working language. Phew. However, some linguistic particularities must be noted.  The German language remains important due to geographical proximity and periods of annexation in which German became the language of education. As a result, most of the older generation remain bilingual, and German remains the principal foreign language taught in schools. In Alsace English is only begun at secondary school level, unlike all other regions of France!  Secondly, of most historical importance is Alsatian, traditionally the language of the region.  Despite no longer being a working language, 40% of the adult population still speak the dialect.  What’s more, even if used less frequently its influence and status as a mark of Alsace’s unique identity will remain.  Even if the younger generations no longer understand the language of their ancestors, certain words and phrases will remain a link with the past… My favourite has to be the exclamation even the l’anglaise in the room can make use of:  “Hopla!” is employed when putting anything down/away/to the side, changing places, parking your car (bike), jumping in a puddle/off a wall, leaving a room, …. Bref, it is a thoroughly useful contribution of the dialect to the every day life of the Alsatian (real or imposter).

2. Pass me my coiffe et jupe rouge....

The Alsacienne is typically imagined sporting a fetching frilly blouse, red skirt, topped off (literally) with the infamous coiffe (aka black headdress in the form of an oversized bow….). Her days are spent outside a half-timbered coloured house in a picturesque village, fetching water from the stream, rustling up a plate of choucroute whilst waiting for the Kougelhopf to rise, and then heading off for some folk dancing in the square.

Sadly this is more a scene from Hansi than the reality of daily life in Alsace today.  

Despite our folklore inspired images being a little more post-card than fly-on-the-wall, this is not to say that some of the stereotypes aren’t based on (an all be it historic) reality. The coloured houses in pretty villages do exist, even if their inhabitants don’t dress up and go dancing… and of course the cuisine that gives Alsace its food-loving reputation is a reality. The Germanic influence means if you’re a vegetarian you’re better of bringing a packed lunch…. or as an alternative fill up on all things patisserie which Alsace does in both quality and quantity.  It has also been to my delight to note that recipes are filed seasonally…with a different range of specialities adorning the window of the boulangerie according to time of year. Since Easter is approaching, and the Easter egg is not original enough for the region of peculiarities, I had the pleasure this week of sampling a piece of Lamala – a simple genoise sponge, but in the form of a Lamb. It was almost a shame to have to slice into it, but alas Alsatians value the eating as much as the design. Güet àppetit!

(the nearest I have got to sporting the traditional look.....) 

3.  Was wohr isch, ish wohr, un wenn’s nit wohr isch, isch geloje” – (what’s true is true, and what is not true is a lie)

This Alsatian proverb is captures the straight-talking nature of the Alsatian, just one example of a Germanic disposition claimed to characterise every Hans, Marthe und Angele…  Bearing the image of bluntness, rigidity and even coldness akin to the weather, the inhabitants of Alsace don’t get of lightly where stereotypes are concerned.

Despite this negative image being far from an accurate representation, there are some elements of a common mentality that can be both witnessed and explained. I have had several testimonies to the characteristically reserved nature of the Alsatian people. A history of occupation and common fear and mistrust has left its mark, causing a defensiveness and protectiveness over all that is personal. This does not however equate to a chill in their relationships that matches the sub-zero temperatures outside. Au contraire, I have both heard of and experienced the generosity and warmth of Alsatian people, typically willing to help out and provide, as well as the loyalty and fidelity that summarises their interaction. If you gain the trust of an Alsatian, you’ll be friends for life. And lets not forget the ultimate benefit of a Germanic mind-set in that people speak more slowly… something I have gladly benefited from…. They may tell you like it is, but at least you’ll understand what’s “wohr” when you hear it.

My sejour en Alsace is drawing to an end, and yet it seems I have only just scratched the surface in understanding this small but note-worthy corner of France. 3 weeks is perhaps not enough to pass the initiation into the club, but at least I’m a little closer than when I arrived.  S'ech geut dess!* 

* C'est bien, ca! .... as far as linguistic initiation goes, i think i'm pretty much there, non? 

** Random fact : Unlike all other regions of France, the trains here run on the right instead of the left! Alsace has to do its own thing, even where the TGV is concerned... 

Coming.

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-surrounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon --
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy. 

Phillip Larkin, “Coming”

A while ago I wrote about seasons, and we have arrived at the point of entering a new one, this time literally. The snow has gone (enfin!) and the first signs of spring come in the form of the occasional appearance of the sun, treating us with a warm glow to soften the wintery chill that lingers. The other sign being of course the daffodils offered by my most recent guests (more on that in a moment), which are currently artistically arranged in a mug but adding a welcome touch of yellow to the chez moi in Alsace.  As I wait not just on kinder weather, but the other developments that spring will carry, I found this poem oddly fitting this week. Capturing the quiet anticipation of change that is to come, and the serenity of an evening in which the first traces of the brighter seasons appear, Larkin gives us all a welcome a moment of calm optimism filled with a glimpse of the treasures of spring. 

My warmer season started with the reoccurring phenomenon that is the French school holidays. Their long working days are definitely compensated for by the fortnight break granted just six weeks after Christmas. Informed by the majority of my pupils that their plans for the holiday were to “sleep”, even with my occasional unproductivity at least I can be assured I have achieved more than they have. Week one meant the long anticipated visit from the Graces (minus petit-frère).  Braving the then still freezing temperatures (Alsace is apparently fond of climatic extremes…) we spent 3 days in Strasbourg, allowing ample time for our usual activities of frequenting cafés and having repetitive conversations. It also meant I was treated to a mini-holiday, much afforded by our hotel. Our touristic feats extended to being taken for Germans in a restaurant, trying and failing to find a museum that really should be taken out of all guide books as it seems it does not exist, and buying souvenirs that are at the same time completely unnecessary and entirely essential (my red and white Alsace-y apron is making cooking an even more enjoyable experience). We also enjoyed a boat trip, which enabled us a warm and informative (got to love audio-guides) to the sights of a très jolie ville.  Returning to Guebwiller, I was proud to show off my small part of an impressive looking residence, although we did understand why my studette was definitely only designed for one.  After 5 days of very English company, this week has been a return to the quiet pottering that seems to characterize my life à l’Alsacienne.  Learning to quite enjoy a slower pace of things (and occupying myself with a not-so-blog-worthy essay) it’s now time to start thinking again about the awkward silences and not-so-discreet French grumbling that awaits next week.  The lessons recommence, and with them the final chapter of the story in Alsace. Bring on the longer evenings, it will be spring soon! 

London Calling.

With the prospect of 40 17 and 18 year olds, a 12-hour night-time journey, and an awkward host family stay, it must be said I wasn’t feeling all that enthusiastic this time last week facing 5 days in London being a rather culturally confused english-french tourist-come-teacher visiting the capital. However, a somewhat ironic visit chez moi (according to my pupils being in my native country means I was basically sleeping in my own bed…) turned out to be a little less painful and a little more fun than I initially anticipated. Not only did I have a welcome excuse for shameless tourism: blending in with the group - ahhh-ing at Windsor Castle, running excitedly around the M&M shop and of course getting snap-happy at opportune moments… but it was somewhat refreshing to see the familiar sights of my pays natal from a new perspective.  Becoming curiously patriotic in the light of European company, I enthusiastically pointed out sights, chatted about the Queen, and gave advice on the purchase of English Breakfast Tea. As my pupils marvelled at buses, phone-boxes and city-parks, I too ended the week with a heightened appreciation of all things English, and fulfilled the role of petite mascotte anglaise as designated by one of my students as we set off.  

If my cultural loyalty was a little fuzzy this week, my linguistic distinctions became thoroughly blurred. Originally hoping for a little respite for my French-addled brain, I instead heightened my internal juggling act as became necessary when in my English-speaking country yet surrounded by decidedly French-speaking company. From translating random facts from helpful guides at tourist attractions, to switching languages between conversations with my host and fellow guests, safe to say my brain remained as language-weary as ever. A particular highlight had to be when in a moment of forgetfulness I declared voila to the barista in Starbucks, only for him to respond in the same tongue (what are the chances?) leaving to me standing for a good three minutes in foggy perplexion trying to find the answer to an internal question I never thought would pose a problem: which country am I currently in.  

However, it was not the tourist-y excitement or linguistic challenge that marked out this sejour en Angleterre. Realising my initial reticence stemmed from according too much priority to my own experiences, and not enough to the primary reason for the voyage, I challenged myself at the start of the week to put my grumbling aside and focus on the 40 17-18 year olds making a racket at the back of the bus. Travelling with hyper teenagers may not be everyone’s cup of tea (culturally relevant metaphor at last) but the accompanying almost child-like enthusiasm was enough to make any weary traveller smile. For most of the them their first time in England, or even outside of France, the trip represented not simply a week away from long hours at the Lycée, but the opportunity to travel and experience things they may never get the chance to again. Thus it was with joy that I looked on their reactions to all things new and English. From being on the Ferry and driving on the other side of the road, to the shopping possibilities of Primark and photo opportunities of Abercrombie and Fitch, their excitement was instantly cheering. Granted it was a struggle to rouse interest in our museum visits, but the less overtly educational aspects of the visit were in my mind just as formative. A highlight had to be finding ourselves thoroughly in the right place at the right time in a crowded Leicester Square, at the commencement of the film premier for the new Die Hard film.  Although hardly a fan, it was with pleasure that I huddled with my young companions by the red carpet, marvelling as journalists, actors, and mysterious blacked-cars drove past. Although we unfortunately having to leave before catching a glimpse of Bruce himself, this did not detract from the excitement of our final day in the capital. We took in the lively atmosphere, and of course cheered at necessary moments as cameras went past, with Angeline convinced that “ma maman va me voir sur TF1” … whether this dream of fame becomes a reality is yet to be revealed.  If celebrity spotting wasn’t enough, the week also brought some linguistic progress. 5 days in London may not have produced bilingual Lycéens, but at the very least most summoned the confidence to get by with decidedly English-speaking host families. Some even went beyond Hello and Thank you, to asking for blankets, and even total strangers for directions. It seems the urgency to locate Top Shop when lost on Oxford Street can motivate even the most reluctant student to speak….

In all, returning “chez moi” in the company of 40 French teenagers proved more fruitful than initially anticipated. Clichéd as it may sound; it was with pleasure that I shared in the excitement over all things not so French, the rehearsal of beginners English on the coach, and the touristic flurry of photo taking and souvenir buying.  It brought me great joy to see my apathetic pupils full of energy, to meet them on neutral ground and see past the sullen faces of the classroom to a lively teenage spirit bubbling beneath. My ironic holiday to England brought not just amusing stories for later years, but a renewed enthusiasm to see me through the final leg of life in Lycée Storck.  And who knows, if this pedagogic revelation induced by time outside of the classroom is anything to go by, perhaps they’ll make a teacher of me yet.