Occitan Atelier

Wicker man, from the Pont Vieux, now has blue lights.

I took myself off to a workshop this evening over the bridge on Rue Trivalle.  I must have rocks in my head, because the whole purpose was to share Christmas stories and vignettes about Occitan Christmas customs. I just wanted to go and listen, and not draw any attention to myself.  I hadn't left in enough time, so I was about 5 minutes late.  I hate that!  There were about 20 people, mostly middle aged, but some in their thirties, sitting on folding chairs in a circle around the woman who was obviously the leader. Of course, all eyes turned my way when I came through the door and I had to explain my presence, since these people obviously already all knew one another. The lady asked who I was and I explained that I knew not one single word of Occitan, and in fact, could barely speak any French, but I was learning and very interested in the Occitan language. Later, she asked me if I had a name or should she keep referring to me as Miss American?  Cute!  Actually I liked her, even though she didn't ask the two guys who came in after I was already seated to explain themselves.  Probably because they already knew one another.

This is like one of those I Spy works.

Every once in a while she would translate the Occitan for me, a word here or there. She had a Mac laptop and some music recorded on it.  Another lady passed around words to an Occitan carol, and we learned it and sang it. If you think French is hard, try Occitan--words ending in "as" are pronounced as if they ended in "os."  Why don't they just spell it that way? Even though I didn't understand every word of the carol, I could at least carry the tune....unlike some of the other singers. We all have our strengths and weaknesses.

I liked the hillside and the little dog

Then she read a story, involving turkeys, a wolf (maybe more than one) and a bell ringer who at some point was red-faced, sweating and had a pounding heart.  She was a FABULOUS raconteuse--I loved her voicing and her expressions.  At some point, I was laughing because everyone else was streaming tears laughing. That kind of amusement is contagious, even if you don't understand a word of what is being said. 

Sorry for the blur

Once in a while one or another of the group nearest me would turn and translate something into French. Thankfully I could understand.  The man in front of me with the very odd hairdo clued me in about the as-os pronunciation. 

About this photo

 (The red/gold banner is the Occitan banner. The grey-bearded figure to the left is the husband of the woman who was our hostess for the evening.  I have seen him at one other Occitan evening--the lecture about Simon de Monfort.)

The hillside

I can't tell you how welcome I was made.  During refreshments (some very delicious and very potent local brandy) a number of people came up to me and expressed their amazement that an American would be interested in their ancient language.  I explained that while I had gotten only a word here or there of the reading, it sounded like music to me and I loved it. The man who'd been sitting next to me drove here from Barcelona to attend this workshop.  I asked him how he'd learned the language and he explained that it was close to Catalan, and he grew up speaking that dialect.  Others had learned it at their grandmothers' knees and are trying to keep it alive in their minds. 

The "atelier" was a most interesting room.  Cluttered with paints and paintings displayed on the wall, it also contained an illustrated manuscript in progress, bits of ceramics, stained glass, paints, papers, and this great "scene" containing figurines, plants and shells, all of which have some significance in Occitan history.  

They took great pains to invite me to their 12th Night celebration, only instead of January 6, they are holding it on Jan 3. I wouldn't miss it for the world, if for nothing else than to hear that lady read again.

I came away with a sense of real tradition--traditions that go back not decades, but centuries.   I so appreciate that these people are keeping the traditions and the stories behind them alive. 

Blue man waves me home.