The 4th vs. 14th of July

The theory that patriotism sets in when you leave your country held true for me on this 4th of July. I felt giddy in the days leading up to the USA’s birthday more than I did in America with the media there to beat excitement over my head. Instead I was the media. When I cheerfully wished my boss, a fellow American, a Happy 4th first thing that morning, he admitted to having forgotten the holiday. I have heard how years of ex-patriotism will erode a person’s ties to its nation’s traditions. How sad. My French lab-mates were a more excitable bunch, if slightly clueless. The first reaction of one lab-mate to my Happy 4th wishes was, “Yes, that’s the Thanksgiving.” The graduate student in my group got it right. I spelled out the 4th of July traditions to her: BBQ, fireworks, parades. She was with me: “Parades with pom pom girls?” Some French think American equals cheerleader. Alas, Independence Day parades ARE just where those pom pom girls would pop up.

To ensure the 4th of July did not fizzle out without even a minor spectacle, I organized a small American-themed dinner a couple days later. Truth be told, this meal has been promised almost since I arrived in France. My reminiscing about American dishes at dinners prepared by Italian, Japanese and French friends got me commissioned to put my cutting board where my mouth was. A few months of mild stress and shipments of missing ingredients from New York, thanks to Matt!, went to put together an American meal that wasn’t really Italian, Japanese, French or some other origin at heart. I have been shocked by the lack here of what I consider to be kitchen basics: baking powder, whipping cream and Rice Krispies, to name a few. On the long-awaited American menu was artichoke dip (as a Superbowl favorite, what could be more American?), chili (which, after some heavy-handed convincing, was found not to be Mexican) and cookies (every French person’s quintessential American dessert image). The portions were huge and doggy bags were available, just like in the motherland! I think my guests were satisfied with the outcome, or at least took a night off from picking on American cuisine. And at the end of the meal, we performed a medley of the Star-Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance to my American flag pin-up. The latter of which the French could not believe we are made to say before school each day. In some ways, maybe we have more traditions than them!

The real 4th of July came 10 days late this year. After learning that the 14th of July does not go by Bastille Day here, I do not even know what to call it. National Holiday Day or something. And, as it signifies somehow the uprising of the Revolutionaries rather than independence of France, it cannot go by Independence Day. But what I do know is that, other than its name and significance, it seems a lot like the American counterpart. Fireworks, fried food and weekend getaways. Feeling very Parisian, I skipped out of Paris for the weekend of the 14th. An hour’s train ride north of Paris with some girls from lab (the Italian and the Japanese) and we were in Lille to visit the home of another lab friend and her family.

While the point of the trip was to visit this friend and see Lille and, while we were at it Belgium, noone wants to miss a fireworks display. Feeling very French, as in the salt-of-the-earth and camembert-of-the-farm French, we followed the crowd to the field in Lille. The show there was quick to disarm my prejudices that only the USA can pull off pyrotechniques. The French can do fire too! Needless to say, they had to try to intellectualize it by broadcasting some historical narrative that noone could understand. Below, I tried to capture the action, and the reactions of my friends.




And the walk to the field from the car was transporting. Only for the carts of fried food heralding “La Frite, C’est la Fete!” I found France’s shared appreciation of fair food very reassuring.

Below are a couple better day-time pictures of the friends with whom I shared the National Holiday Day. The day after the festivities, we crossed the border to Brugges, Belgium, “the Venice of the North.” From the start, I kept my eyes open for Hercule Poirot. But in the day’s visit I learned that Audrey Hepburn was born in Brusesels, so I have a new favorite Belgium. Aside from Hercule, Audrey and a handful of others I have yet to learn of, the Belgian may live up to their stereotype in France. Stupid. They take the place of the Polack or dumb blond in the French joke formula. The few waiters and shop attendants we dealt with sure did not help their nation’s case. One waiter was so dull that he had to ask us to define a carafe d’eau when we requested one. To his credit, maybe he was just too Flemish and proud to attempt speaking French. But, bonjour!?, you live in a bilingual country. Still if Belgians are only a pretty face, at least their showing them off in a pretty county. The beauty of Brugges is undisptubale!



And finally a picture of me biting off a piece of classic fair food on that holiday weekend (in Brugges, therefore a REAL Belgian waffle)!

Busy Bee-keeper

According to some trivia source, honey is the only animal product whose manufacturing does not harm or disrupt the animals. That might be true, but what about the bee-keepers? This weekend I got to walk a mile in their high rubber boots. I joined one of the directors in my lab, who is a Saturday apiarist, and his team in their twice annual honey harvest!

We hit the farm about an hour outside of Paris. (It becomes rural very quickly!) There, a few steps had to be fulfilled before heading out to the hives. (1) Getting the hand-held smoker started. Used as the first line of defense, the smoke released around the hives prior to their opening sends the bees into a protective mode. Such loyal servants, their response is to swarm inside around their queen mother. Not to mention their motherload of honey. (2) Gearing ourselves up in the hooded suit. The second and real line of defense. I learned the hard way. I first thought the beekeeping team was joking when they instructed me to put on a pair of rubber gloves. (Suit and gloves, I said, this is too much like spending a Saturday in lab!) (3) Checking your suit and others for holes. (4) Repeat step 3. (5) Repeat steps 3 and 4….


We eased into the day’s work by first tending to the “sick” hive. Due to some contamination, possibly fungus, this honey shack had to be sealed, trapping the dirty inhabitants inside to die of starvation. Poor little guys! Then we soaked the tools in chlorine to avoid passing on the contamination (just like in lab), and moved on. Just as I was tending to the smoker, before I could even notice what buzzed under my suit, I got stung on the arm. Painful, but quick and decisive. Nearly at the same time, another woman got it good on the face. I could almost hear the victory cry buzzed out that enemy lines had been compromised. The two of us victims had to retreat back to the fields where it was safe to take off our armor and pop anti-histamines.

I still underestimated those buggers enough to go back. If early/pre man has been apiculturing since 13,000 years before Christ (Wikipedia), it cannot be that bad. Or, I was thinking at least that, as long as my skin was covered, I was fine. When I felt 2 or 3 hovering directly over each arm, I realized that the seal between my gloves and the suit should have been airtight! And then my retreat to the fields was less calm. Trapped in my suit, the invaders had to die and, most hopefully, before they stung me. Feeling their wings flutter on me was a quick but excruciating hell. The chief bee-keeper was even alarmed at this point, and started slapping squeezing and folding the suit above my arms. Unbelievably his technique worked to kill the invaders. The only sting I got was the first one.

Back at the homefront, we compared battle scars. I was by far the most untouched. The chief beekeeper had a rear-end sting that may now be preventing him from sitting down. And the labmate who I went with, well, see for yourself below. He got one under the eye. Apparently it was a bad day for bee-keepers. One explanation was the bad weather. Just like the Parisians during the May and June grayness, the bees were not out and about and doing their bzzz-ness. Instead they were all home lounging and ready to attack/defend.


Collecting the wood frames of honey from the hives was only the first step in a long process. But, thankfully, the least painful one. Before the frames could be further processed, they were stored in the cold room at the farm for an hour or so while we ate lunch. This served an important function to anesthetize the stubborn bastards who had clung on to their frames. Work then begun to extract the honey from the frames, by scraping off the hard outer wax, and then centrifuging the honey off the frame (again, am I at a bee farm or the BL3 in lab?). Work went fast, in part to avoid allowing the cryopreserved insects to thaw and attack. I was there with my wax scraper to bludgeon any resuscitated bees. (Kind of like killing a fly with a machete, this behavior felt good. But also unfortunately fulfilled the farmers’ stereotype of a violent American.)

The centrifuge to spin-force the honey from the enframed combs.


And here are the unfiltered fruits of our labor, complete with dead bees, pollen and wax. The finished stuff like we buy in jars in the grocery store won’t be ready until after weeks of sedimentation. I could not wait and tapped into this raw stuff, eating it by the finger-full. It felt kind of savage. But then again, so does any type of hunting and food gathering activity these days where man actually puts himself in danger.