Toulouse-Lautrec

Last Saturday I went on a trip to three different cities in the Haute Garonne region: Albi, Cordes-Sur-Ciel, and Noailles. The organization that runs the trips puts together a lot of cultural events and promotions for students in Toulouse throughout the year, and I will hopefully being taking French classes with them later this month!

Saturday was the day after I lost my phone, and I wasn't exactly in high spirits, but I was hopeful that this packed day of tourism would take my mind off things. We (three other assistants and I) boarded a coach bus along with a bunch of other international students at 7:45am. At 8:00am the skies opened up and it didn't stop raining until after we returned to Toulouse at 8:00pm. It was definitely not the day to be a tourist, however, we made the most of it, or tried to.

On the bus on the way to Tarn, the next department over (I'm in Midi-Pyranees), we met our tour guides for the day. We had opted for the French tour guide, versus the English one, wanting to challenge ourselves, and soon became apparent that we had made the right decision. The French guy was very charismatic and upbeat, and cracked a lot of jokes to make light of the fact that we probably should have turned the bus around and postponed the trip, while the English guide (who turned out to be American) was just...weird. Arnaud would give his spiel, and then the woman would take the microphone and lead in with "OK I'm now going to explain what Arnaud said in English...". I mean, EVERY time, as if between the few minute intervals we'd forgotten why she was there, and she'd lose us if she didn't explain. She kept talking about what a shame the weather was, and how much better the trip would have been without the rain. Not the kind of motivation we needed. She also had a very hard to place accent, and kept using words like "convivial" and "tranquil", which are more direct translations from French, and not words we (or at least I) would ever use in English. We were convinced she wasn't from the States but perhaps a weird planet (Canada?), and were shocked to find out at the end she was actually from Brooklyn.

Albi

First on the agenda was Albi, which aside from being the birthplace of the French painter Hénri Toulouse-Lautrec (think Mouin Rouge), was also recently named one of UNESCO's world heritage sites for the old cobblestoned pedestrian part of the city, the gorgeous medieval St. Cecile cathedral, and the Toulouse-Lautrec museum. We took a tour of the inside of the cathedral, which was built in about the 13th century, and still has the original ceiling, which has never once been restored, retouched or even cleaned! The walls behind the altar were painted with scenes of the seven deadly sins and the punishment that would meet anyone how committed them. While the impish devils torturing the condemned looked kind of laughable today, I imagine that back in the day they were quite frightening. The wall separating the the choir from the rest of the congregation (photo below) was so intricately carved from stone that Arnaud called it "dentelle" or lace.

Inside the choir room 

We then walked next door to the Toulouse-Lautrec museum where we had a briefing on the famous, kooky, alcoholic artist, and visited some of his most famous works. I'll sum up the highlights for you: He was born in 1864 to wealthy parents. Who happened to be first cousins. So, unfortunate Henri was born with weak bones, a stunted stature, and also, ugly. I'm not sure if that last part was a result of his parents being cousins or just poor luck. At age 13 he broke his right femur, and spent several months recovering in a hospital. I imagine it wasn't very fun to be a 13 year old stuck inside, and he had plenty of time to pursue his already established interest in drawing and painting. He finally fully recovered at age 14, however, shortly after fell and broke his left femur. (At this point, my missing cell phone started to look like small potatoes). As a result of these successive traumas to his legs, Hank maxed out at 1m52, less than 5ft tall, with the torso of normal proportions, and the legs of an adolescent (if that's not enough to drive you to drink I don't know what is).

Snapping pictures in the rain for the benefit of the blog

Around 17 he decided to blow Albi and head for the big city: Paris, more specifically Montmartre, the epicenter for cabarets, brothels, and dance halls, to kick it with the likes of Emile Bernard and van Gogh. His overprotective mother followed him, and also had his older cousin, Gabriel, tail him. Maybe rightfully so, as Hank had a penchant for the absinth, and also the ladies (specifically redheads, as can be seen evidenced in his work). He managed to bring his cuz over the the darkside, however, and instead of serving Hank's chaperone, Gabriel ended up in the same clubs and brothels as the artist. In fact, Gabe eventually ends up smuggling Hank hollowed-out walking stick full of alcohol into the sanatorium he is sent to laters in life.

Me knocking on the door of Toulouse-Lautrec's childhood home

Many of Hank's paintings are of women (actually, prostitutes), and of the maisons closes, or whorehouses where he spent most of his time. This would come to bite him in the butt (or elsewhere) in the end, as he eventually contracted syphillis, went a bit nutty, and died at 37 in the aforementioned sanatorium. He was always bit of an eccentric fellow, even before the absinthe and syphilis started to take it's toll. Hank was known to spend most of his time half in the bag, and if you wanted a portrait painted by him, it wasn't unusual to go to see him an average of 60 times. Not that you would actually sit 60 times, because, either Hank wasn't there, or, "all there" if you will, or just didn't feel like painting. One subject was calling on the artist in his Montmartre apartment, and heard gunshots coming up the stairwell. He tentatively opened the artist's door and found Hank shooting flies on the ceiling with a pistol. The rascal.

The museum, right next to the cathedral St. Cecile, is a renovated 13th century bishop's palace. If the paintings of the half naked, sprawling prostitutes hanging in an old Bishop's house aren't the epitome of the French's laicism, or their strict adherence to keeping religion from having any influence or bearing on society, I don't know what is.

Cozy interior of the Californian-French restaurant

View of the kitchen

We had a break for lunch, and Lauren, Brittany, Kristen and I stumbled on a tiny hole-in-the wall restaurant which turned out to be owned by a guy from San Francisco who was dishing out California-French fusion. Equally as delicious as it was random. We chatted with him for a bit, mainly asking him how the heck he came upon Albi as a place to open a restaurant, turns out completely by chance if you were wondering, then we scurried back to the bus.

Cordes

Next up was Cordes-Sur-Ciel, or Cordes-on-the-sky. It was a medieval village founded in 1522 that gets its name from the way the village is constructed on a large hil. Not much to say here except that I could tell it would be a lovely place to return one day, perhaps in the spring, when it's not freezing and pouring.

Pretty colors in Cordes

By the end of a day spent in the rain, we were ready for the third stop, which was a wine degustation in Gaillac :)

Other than that life is good. Last night I went to an "Electro-swing-cabaret" dance party, which was as fabulous as it sounds. I'm on my 6th salsa lesson which I am loving. The instructor is super dynamic and fun and the class is a really good group of people. I'm hoping to start going out to real salsa bars after class and on the weekends to test my stuff :) John comes tomorrow for a week, and my mission from him was to find a place to watch the Superbowl in Toulouse...eehh...I'll keep you posted on that one.

Bisous et a bientôt!
Linz