Paula and I have moved around a lot in Scotland over the last week-- Edinburgh to Glasgow to Edinburgh to Crieff to Glasgow again-- but we slowed down over Christmas. My Christmas with her family was lovely; we went to visit her Uncle Ricky and Auntie Mouse, their children, and everyone's friends (myself included). It was a small little party of about eleven people, and after we ate a delicious traditional British dinner (the second one I'd had on Christmas), we played charades and Trivial Pursuit. It was really fun, and I was paricularly amused when the rival team got the question, "Who was the first U.S. president?" I know I sound obtuse, but it hadn't occurred to me that this would not be ridiculously common knowledge to people outside of the U.S.
And they stuffed me. I keep eating traditional British things that I'd only ever read about in Harry Potter: crumpets, Yorkshire pudding, trifle, bread sauce, parsnips and brussel sprouts. The first day I arrived in England, I got a "bacon roll." The boy working behind the counter asked me if I wanted ketchup or brown sauce with it. I asked him what brown sauce was, and he paused and said, "...So you'll be having brown sauce, then?" Apparently no one can really tell me what it is.
Last night, Paula's mum and their family friend Peggy kept suggesting that Paula and I find a "ceilidh," pronounced kay-ley. This is a traditional Scottish dance party, and I found mention on the internet of a ceilidh held in a bar in Glasgow every Saturday night, so Paula and I set out to find this place. When we finally got there, two people were finishing up an unenthusiastic dance, and everyone else was sitting about the bar looking miserable. The place was pretty deserted to begin with, so Paula and I picked up a couple of drinks and then watched the poor accordion player begin another number. We expressed an interest and finally got a couple of men at the bar to come dance with us, and after a few dances there were several couples dancing on the floor. Not many people joined in, but it was really fun all the same, and I learned some real Scottish dance. I was laughing my head off the whole time, of course. It was lovely.
On Wednesday we'll be going to Romania to see Alexandru and Andreea for New Year's. Every time I tell someone we're going to Romania, they look at me strangely and ask me why on earth I would want to do that. I think it should be very interesting.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Vicar of Dibley
I'm in Scotland for Christmas, and so far I absolutely adore it. I've seen quite a bit of Edinburgh, the capital, while visiting Glasgow the rest of the time. (Paula's family lives in Glasgow, but many of her friends are in Edinburgh.) Yesterday I got my tooth fixed (I had lost a filling) for five pounds. I'm not even an EU citizen. Britain's health care is incredible. Paula let me find my way back to Edinburgh by myself after I got my tooth fixed, and I did! No problem. I love growing up.
The Scottish are seriously the warmest, most congenial people I have ever met. I think that the French I've met have all been wonderful, but it's a sharp contrast with the openness of the Scottish. Lovely people. And the cities are beautiful-- Edinburgh in particular is very open, nicely planned, and full of things to see. I have some videos that I'll have to put up later.
It's snowing in Scotland, and it actually has been snowing everywhere in Europe. Interestingly enough, none of the Europeans seem used to it. Right before I left, Limoges experienced a few inches of snow that left it hilariously paralyzed. No one knew what to do, and my school let out for the second half of the day. Instead of teaching classes, I pretty much played with the kids; my six-year-olds and I made snowmen. Traffic was ridiculous and plane flights were canceled. Paula and I were lucky we made it into the UK!
So much has been happening, and I should be keeping a better journal. Maybe I'll put it on a list of New Year's resolutions. Merry Christmas, anyone who might be reading this, and Happy New Year!
The Scottish are seriously the warmest, most congenial people I have ever met. I think that the French I've met have all been wonderful, but it's a sharp contrast with the openness of the Scottish. Lovely people. And the cities are beautiful-- Edinburgh in particular is very open, nicely planned, and full of things to see. I have some videos that I'll have to put up later.
It's snowing in Scotland, and it actually has been snowing everywhere in Europe. Interestingly enough, none of the Europeans seem used to it. Right before I left, Limoges experienced a few inches of snow that left it hilariously paralyzed. No one knew what to do, and my school let out for the second half of the day. Instead of teaching classes, I pretty much played with the kids; my six-year-olds and I made snowmen. Traffic was ridiculous and plane flights were canceled. Paula and I were lucky we made it into the UK!
So much has been happening, and I should be keeping a better journal. Maybe I'll put it on a list of New Year's resolutions. Merry Christmas, anyone who might be reading this, and Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I'll be seeing you
12h France time
I did get a chance to see the strike last Tuesday! I don’t know how I could not have, really, since it went right past my apartment, but on Tuesday morning I found the group of teachers and college students in front of the rectorat of Limoges. Paula came with me on the strike, and we marched all the way to the prefecture behind this big van that played reggae music. The students and teachers were all carrying flags and shouting out songs that they must have learned before the strike; Paula and I spent our time trying to discern what they were saying. “Hosanna? Oh, no, aux armes!” The education system has been suffering over recent years from layoffs and cutbacks, and so the “syndicate” decided it was time to strike for one day. Paula and I had a wonderful time, playing French protesters, and when we arrived in front of the prefecture, we decided to hop into the post office for a moment while a man at the forefront of the strike gave a speech about what the strikers wanted. When Paula and I got out of the post office, everyone had left. In five minutes. I asked one of my colleagues, who was still there, what had happened, and she said, “I guess everyone went to lunch!” Oh, the French. They’re so hilarious. Anyway, this was apparently quite a small strike, which is why the ending was so disappointing. So I can’t wait for the next one! I hope it’s enormous!
This past weekend, Ansleigh and Alex, American assistants here in Limoges, decided to throw a Thanksgiving dinner for the assistants and our friends from abroad. Paula and I brought our Romanian counterparts, and present at the party were people from all over the place—Venezuela, Italy, the UK, Colombia, France, etc. We all had the most fantastic time. All of the non-Americans were stunned by how good the food was; they kept saying that they couldn’t believe no one had ever told them about this American tradition. It was delicious food, and all of us ran our mouths off the whole time, mostly discussing cultural differences (the number one topic while one is abroad) and politics. The American assistants and I realized how many of us are blonde, and you know, I’m becoming acutely aware of how rare it must be to be blond. I’ve noticed that not even many French people have blond hair. They’re usually brunettes. Anyway, we then proceeded to the apartment of Adam, one of the British assistants, where we all talked and danced with even more internationals. I learned how to dance like South Americans. Sort of. It was all great fun.
Then on Sunday, Paula and I went to Mass at St-Pierre. During communion, there were no ushers to help people know when to go to the Eucharistic minister; everyone (on the side of the church, at least) just walked in a cluster toward the minister. And at the end of the service, the priest had four candles for the servers to carry, but seven servers. They all clamored for a candle to take with them, and he patted the rejected three on the head after he handed the candles out. Quite cute. Then, in the evening, I had my first accordion/piano exchange with Ivan the Bartender. It was kind of strange, but fun, as I learned a little bit of accordion, played the piano terribly but helped keep him in rhythm, and got free pineapple juice.
Last night I saw two Michael Moore documentaries. I don’t know how this happened, since I’d never seen one from start to finish before yesterday afternoon, but now I feel informed and confused and totally suspicious of corporate America and Wall Street. In addition to “Capitalism: A Love Story,” I saw “The Big One,” which I thought was very good. And the French ladies that I saw “Capitalism” with kept asking me all kinds of questions that I didn’t know how to answer: “Well who would vote for Republicans? Only the very wealthy?” “In France, we have life insurance to help support families. You don’t have this in the U.S.? Why would you insure companies for employees that die?” At times like this, I wish I were more informed and that my French were better.
I cannot believe it's December.
I did get a chance to see the strike last Tuesday! I don’t know how I could not have, really, since it went right past my apartment, but on Tuesday morning I found the group of teachers and college students in front of the rectorat of Limoges. Paula came with me on the strike, and we marched all the way to the prefecture behind this big van that played reggae music. The students and teachers were all carrying flags and shouting out songs that they must have learned before the strike; Paula and I spent our time trying to discern what they were saying. “Hosanna? Oh, no, aux armes!” The education system has been suffering over recent years from layoffs and cutbacks, and so the “syndicate” decided it was time to strike for one day. Paula and I had a wonderful time, playing French protesters, and when we arrived in front of the prefecture, we decided to hop into the post office for a moment while a man at the forefront of the strike gave a speech about what the strikers wanted. When Paula and I got out of the post office, everyone had left. In five minutes. I asked one of my colleagues, who was still there, what had happened, and she said, “I guess everyone went to lunch!” Oh, the French. They’re so hilarious. Anyway, this was apparently quite a small strike, which is why the ending was so disappointing. So I can’t wait for the next one! I hope it’s enormous!
This past weekend, Ansleigh and Alex, American assistants here in Limoges, decided to throw a Thanksgiving dinner for the assistants and our friends from abroad. Paula and I brought our Romanian counterparts, and present at the party were people from all over the place—Venezuela, Italy, the UK, Colombia, France, etc. We all had the most fantastic time. All of the non-Americans were stunned by how good the food was; they kept saying that they couldn’t believe no one had ever told them about this American tradition. It was delicious food, and all of us ran our mouths off the whole time, mostly discussing cultural differences (the number one topic while one is abroad) and politics. The American assistants and I realized how many of us are blonde, and you know, I’m becoming acutely aware of how rare it must be to be blond. I’ve noticed that not even many French people have blond hair. They’re usually brunettes. Anyway, we then proceeded to the apartment of Adam, one of the British assistants, where we all talked and danced with even more internationals. I learned how to dance like South Americans. Sort of. It was all great fun.
Then on Sunday, Paula and I went to Mass at St-Pierre. During communion, there were no ushers to help people know when to go to the Eucharistic minister; everyone (on the side of the church, at least) just walked in a cluster toward the minister. And at the end of the service, the priest had four candles for the servers to carry, but seven servers. They all clamored for a candle to take with them, and he patted the rejected three on the head after he handed the candles out. Quite cute. Then, in the evening, I had my first accordion/piano exchange with Ivan the Bartender. It was kind of strange, but fun, as I learned a little bit of accordion, played the piano terribly but helped keep him in rhythm, and got free pineapple juice.
Last night I saw two Michael Moore documentaries. I don’t know how this happened, since I’d never seen one from start to finish before yesterday afternoon, but now I feel informed and confused and totally suspicious of corporate America and Wall Street. In addition to “Capitalism: A Love Story,” I saw “The Big One,” which I thought was very good. And the French ladies that I saw “Capitalism” with kept asking me all kinds of questions that I didn’t know how to answer: “Well who would vote for Republicans? Only the very wealthy?” “In France, we have life insurance to help support families. You don’t have this in the U.S.? Why would you insure companies for employees that die?” At times like this, I wish I were more informed and that my French were better.
I cannot believe it's December.
A small education strike in Limoges
Monday, November 23, 2009
Too much dairy
15h France time
This past weekend, I took off with two American assistants named Alex and Lacey to the Beaujolais region. Beaujolais is located close to Lyon, and every year, the region releases a new wine called the "Beaujolais Nouveau." The wine has been aged only six months, and so, from what I've heard, it's not great. I tasted it, and I couldn't tell you one way or another. But it was released at midnight this past Thursday to enormous celebrations, and the festivities continued into this weekend.
Alex, Lacey, and I visited a medium-sized town called Villefranche, where we saw the majority of Beaujolais Nouveau celebration. We first came upon a "Beaujolais Marathon," where French men and women were preparing to run (or finishing up the race, or both?) equipped with a shiny, golden cape (which looked like a space blanket) and a bottle of the new wine. Everything you need to run a marathon. Then we found the wine festival in the center of town, where vendors of wine, cheese, baked goods, and chocolates lined the streets. We tried lots of little glasses of the Beaujolais Nouveau from different winemakers, cheese samples, and these revolting chocolates that had wine in the center. We also got to see/participate in various musical performances up and down the street; we saw at least three percussion ensembles similar to the one I saw in Toulouse. We also caught a performance by a Michael Jackson impersonator who danced pretty well.
This past weekend, I took off with two American assistants named Alex and Lacey to the Beaujolais region. Beaujolais is located close to Lyon, and every year, the region releases a new wine called the "Beaujolais Nouveau." The wine has been aged only six months, and so, from what I've heard, it's not great. I tasted it, and I couldn't tell you one way or another. But it was released at midnight this past Thursday to enormous celebrations, and the festivities continued into this weekend.
Alex, Lacey, and I visited a medium-sized town called Villefranche, where we saw the majority of Beaujolais Nouveau celebration. We first came upon a "Beaujolais Marathon," where French men and women were preparing to run (or finishing up the race, or both?) equipped with a shiny, golden cape (which looked like a space blanket) and a bottle of the new wine. Everything you need to run a marathon. Then we found the wine festival in the center of town, where vendors of wine, cheese, baked goods, and chocolates lined the streets. We tried lots of little glasses of the Beaujolais Nouveau from different winemakers, cheese samples, and these revolting chocolates that had wine in the center. We also got to see/participate in various musical performances up and down the street; we saw at least three percussion ensembles similar to the one I saw in Toulouse. We also caught a performance by a Michael Jackson impersonator who danced pretty well.
Beaujolais performing groups in Villefranche
After we left Villefranche, we visited a little town called Beaujeu, then continued on to our bed and breakfast. While it took us quite a long time to find, it turned out to be adorable, run by a lovely woman who had the biggest dog I have ever seen. She directed us to dinner that night, then fed us breakfast the following morning. On Sunday, we went back to Lyon, where we spent about an hour in "Les Halles," a big, bustling indoor market near the center of town. Then we hopped a train back to Limoges.
Today I found out that I won't have to teach one of my classes tomorrow because its teacher will be a "gréviste"-- a striker-- in the teacher protests. I wonder where the demonstrations will be. Maybe I'll get to see some of the action!
Toulouse highlights
This is the percussion ensemble we saw at the market in Toulouse. Apparently, these ensembles are a very popular way to celebrate in France.
This is a French man on the moon-walking machine at the Cité de l'Espace. He seemed to have a great time. :)
Friday, November 20, 2009
Shoot the moon
14h France time
This past weekend, I took off with Paula and the Romanians to Toulouse, a city in the south that borders the same river as Bordeaux (the Garonne). It wasn't a terribly long drive, and the city was absolutely wonderful. Before we left, I called around to a few hotels to find us an inexpensive room, and a man at the last place I called told me he could give me a room for four for fifty euros. Not bad. He told me he had a bunch of free rooms, so I didn't think we needed a reservation. It turns out that by a "bunch of rooms," he meant seventeen in total and one for four guests. He had given said room away when we arrived, so we began to ask him if we could just work out some sort of arrangement where one of us would sleep on the floor of the room for three. We insisted that we could find a way to fit in there and offered to pay him extra, but he said no. In the event that something happened-- a fire, etc.-- the insurance wouldn't cover a room for three that had four guests. I was about to give up when he said, "You want to see? I'll show you that you can't all stay in this room." His mistake. We went to room #10 and found out that it had one twin bed and one enormous bed; Paula sat down on the big one and we all said, "Oh, we can totally fit in there!" He gave up, telling us that it was our problem, that he didn't know we had a fourth person, that if something went wrong it would be up to us to take care of it. Hahaha. It was great. I always hear about people doing things under the table in France, and here we had an opportunity to rent a hotel room semi-illegally.
We left the hotel soon after we arrived and argued a while about parking (this became a regular feature of the trip; it can be a chore to have a car in France). Then we drove into the city center, when by some bizarre stroke of chance, Andreea and Alexandru saw a German friend of theirs from their college studies in England. This friend of theirs, Daniel, turned out to be the handiest person ever, as he knew how to navigate the city. He directed us first to the Basilica of St. Sernin, the “largest and most complete basilica in France” or something like that. It was an enormous church, full of relics and frescoes and somber people, which apparently used to be on a pilgrimage route. Then we went to see the Church of the Jacobins, which didn’t much resemble a church inside, but had brightly colored windows and these enormous pillars. And the remains of St. Thomas Aquinas. When we were about to leave, I went to peek through a door in the corner of the church, but the women at the information desk there stopped me because I needed to pay to go through. The cloister and the abbey of the Jacobins was apparently what was beyond, and I didn’t think it sounded too interesting. But my friends and I found that if we could all present our expired student ids, we would get in for free.
In the abbey, we found a beautiful garden (the kind with the hedges that you walk through) and a couple of chapels. We all kind of gasped when I opened the door, it was so pretty. No other tourists were around at the time, so we had the space to ourselves to enjoy. After we left the abbey, we went to visit the Garonne to take pictures by the Pont Neuf, a famous bridge in Toulouse. There were tons of people at the riverfront as well as tons of pets; Andreea and I saw a dog try to start a fight with a goat.
That evening, Daniel left us to have dinner with his friends, and we proceeded to get lost and confused. We finally worked our way back to the hotel, from which point Alexandru, Paula, and I went back out to a bar. We met up with Daniel and some of his French friends to push our way through the overcrowded brasseries, then finally settled on a pub near the town center. Everyone there was really friendly to us, and we just hung out there until the bar closed. When we returned to the hotel, Andreea told us, “I have some bad news; there are bugs in the bed.” Hahahaha. She started pointing out these little cockroaches that were crawling around, and I threw a few of them out the window until I gave up and went to bed feeling itchy.
The next morning, we woke up way too late to see anything in the town center, so we sat at a street café and drank hot chocolate. While we were sitting there, a troupe of brightly colored… noisemakers… appeared and started playing in the streets. There were about twenty people of different ages playing drums, shakers, bell-type things, and wearing floral dresses and scarves. Each of their pieces lasted at least five or ten minutes, and they exuded so much energy and made so much noise that they drew a big crowd from the area. We watched for a long time, and Paula and I speculated as to what their purpose was. I pulled aside one of the members of the group and asked him what they were celebrating, and he said, “Oh, nothing! We just do this on Sundays.” It was fabulous. I can’t believe that a French city would be so lively on a Sunday.
We meandered through a Sunday market set up there close to the percussion group spectacle, and then we took off to the Cité de l’Espace in the outskirts of the city. The Cité de l’Espace is a museum that reminds me of a more confusing version of the Science Center. Since Toulouse apparently has a thriving air and space travel industry, the Cité de l’Espace was built to teach people about space, physics, the weather, space travel, etc. We walked around to tons of exhibits that I was hard-pressed to understand, not only because they were explained in French, but because I can’t wrap my mind around mathematical and physical phenomena. A lot of it made no sense. But! There was this machine in the museum that was supposed to make visitors feel like they were walking on the moon. I actually got hooked up to the machine twice because I hit up two different workers; visitors were strapped into a sort of seat that would hold up their weight while they bounced around the room. I took videos of pretty much everyone who did it. It was really the adults who liked it best—little kids just seemed confused. I personally laughed my head off. My friends and I also got to see a movie in the Imax there—an American film about the moon that was dubbed in French. We ran around taking pictures, and then we made the trek home.
Since my trip to Toulouse, I’ve had an incredibly busy week. I keep tripping over opportunities; it’s astounding. On Tuesday evening, I went with my French friends Renaud and Marie to a tiny bar in the center of Limoges. They introduced me to the bartender and owner, a man named Ivan who is so generous that he never turns out profits. He has apparently had five bars in the last ten years. Ivan plays the accordion, as does Marie, and he let me try to play it. When he found out that I play piano, he asked me to sit at his piano and read some of the sheet music he had while he played accordion. I was terrible, but he told me that he was very interested in learning to read notes. He proposed a cultural exchange: he would teach me what he knew about music (presumably to play the accordion) if I would teach him how to read music. I said absolutely! Sign me up. He also let me borrow “Jean de Florette” from his little library of books. Then Renaud and Marie taught me a humorous little drinking song that I keep humming around town. It was a lovely evening.
On Wednesday, one of the teachers from my school gave me the opportunity to see the French countryside around Limoges. She grew up near a little town called Eymoutiers, and her sister inherited the family farm and now raises cows (and veal in particular). The two of them—my colleague, Françoise, and her sister, Maryse, told me all about the cows, the region, the plants that grew there… everything. It was like a tour, but with just me. Maryse had me put my hand in one of her cows’ mouths. Cows only have incisors on the bottom of their mouths. Who knew? The two of them also had me help them to do work while continuing the commentary on farming and what it was like to grow up in that region. Françoise fed me an enormous lunch, complete with cheeses that she picked up just so I could try more French cheese. Then we went apple picking and hiked around the Maryse’s property. The whole day was lovely, and the territory was absolutely gorgeous and peaceful; I wish I had pictures. And when we left Eymoutiers, I was exhausted, so much so that I pretty much dozed while Françoise talked to me. Thank goodness her attention was on the road.
And today I had a wonderful day at school! My kids are absolutely precious; one of them sees me on the bus in the mornings and comes up to faire la bise with me every time. My classes were all very well-behaved today, in my opinion (a rarity). I kept my ten-year-olds engaged in a discussion about foods, and they positively freaked out when I talked to them about peanut butter and cream cheese. Apparently a lot of them like peanut butter. Then I told them about BLTs (and realized how much I missed them), and they were so interested. It was pretty funny. I collected their notebooks today, and they were so in earnest about doing things right and copying down everything I’d written on the board. Which actually doesn’t happen often. I really like these kids.
This weekend I’m going to the Beaujolais region/festivals for wine tasting, which doesn’t really fit with me because I don’t drink much wine. But I’d love to see the festivals! I’ll be traveling with two Americans that I don’t know very well at all. Hopefully it will be a nice trip.
This past weekend, I took off with Paula and the Romanians to Toulouse, a city in the south that borders the same river as Bordeaux (the Garonne). It wasn't a terribly long drive, and the city was absolutely wonderful. Before we left, I called around to a few hotels to find us an inexpensive room, and a man at the last place I called told me he could give me a room for four for fifty euros. Not bad. He told me he had a bunch of free rooms, so I didn't think we needed a reservation. It turns out that by a "bunch of rooms," he meant seventeen in total and one for four guests. He had given said room away when we arrived, so we began to ask him if we could just work out some sort of arrangement where one of us would sleep on the floor of the room for three. We insisted that we could find a way to fit in there and offered to pay him extra, but he said no. In the event that something happened-- a fire, etc.-- the insurance wouldn't cover a room for three that had four guests. I was about to give up when he said, "You want to see? I'll show you that you can't all stay in this room." His mistake. We went to room #10 and found out that it had one twin bed and one enormous bed; Paula sat down on the big one and we all said, "Oh, we can totally fit in there!" He gave up, telling us that it was our problem, that he didn't know we had a fourth person, that if something went wrong it would be up to us to take care of it. Hahaha. It was great. I always hear about people doing things under the table in France, and here we had an opportunity to rent a hotel room semi-illegally.
We left the hotel soon after we arrived and argued a while about parking (this became a regular feature of the trip; it can be a chore to have a car in France). Then we drove into the city center, when by some bizarre stroke of chance, Andreea and Alexandru saw a German friend of theirs from their college studies in England. This friend of theirs, Daniel, turned out to be the handiest person ever, as he knew how to navigate the city. He directed us first to the Basilica of St. Sernin, the “largest and most complete basilica in France” or something like that. It was an enormous church, full of relics and frescoes and somber people, which apparently used to be on a pilgrimage route. Then we went to see the Church of the Jacobins, which didn’t much resemble a church inside, but had brightly colored windows and these enormous pillars. And the remains of St. Thomas Aquinas. When we were about to leave, I went to peek through a door in the corner of the church, but the women at the information desk there stopped me because I needed to pay to go through. The cloister and the abbey of the Jacobins was apparently what was beyond, and I didn’t think it sounded too interesting. But my friends and I found that if we could all present our expired student ids, we would get in for free.
In the abbey, we found a beautiful garden (the kind with the hedges that you walk through) and a couple of chapels. We all kind of gasped when I opened the door, it was so pretty. No other tourists were around at the time, so we had the space to ourselves to enjoy. After we left the abbey, we went to visit the Garonne to take pictures by the Pont Neuf, a famous bridge in Toulouse. There were tons of people at the riverfront as well as tons of pets; Andreea and I saw a dog try to start a fight with a goat.
That evening, Daniel left us to have dinner with his friends, and we proceeded to get lost and confused. We finally worked our way back to the hotel, from which point Alexandru, Paula, and I went back out to a bar. We met up with Daniel and some of his French friends to push our way through the overcrowded brasseries, then finally settled on a pub near the town center. Everyone there was really friendly to us, and we just hung out there until the bar closed. When we returned to the hotel, Andreea told us, “I have some bad news; there are bugs in the bed.” Hahahaha. She started pointing out these little cockroaches that were crawling around, and I threw a few of them out the window until I gave up and went to bed feeling itchy.
The next morning, we woke up way too late to see anything in the town center, so we sat at a street café and drank hot chocolate. While we were sitting there, a troupe of brightly colored… noisemakers… appeared and started playing in the streets. There were about twenty people of different ages playing drums, shakers, bell-type things, and wearing floral dresses and scarves. Each of their pieces lasted at least five or ten minutes, and they exuded so much energy and made so much noise that they drew a big crowd from the area. We watched for a long time, and Paula and I speculated as to what their purpose was. I pulled aside one of the members of the group and asked him what they were celebrating, and he said, “Oh, nothing! We just do this on Sundays.” It was fabulous. I can’t believe that a French city would be so lively on a Sunday.
We meandered through a Sunday market set up there close to the percussion group spectacle, and then we took off to the Cité de l’Espace in the outskirts of the city. The Cité de l’Espace is a museum that reminds me of a more confusing version of the Science Center. Since Toulouse apparently has a thriving air and space travel industry, the Cité de l’Espace was built to teach people about space, physics, the weather, space travel, etc. We walked around to tons of exhibits that I was hard-pressed to understand, not only because they were explained in French, but because I can’t wrap my mind around mathematical and physical phenomena. A lot of it made no sense. But! There was this machine in the museum that was supposed to make visitors feel like they were walking on the moon. I actually got hooked up to the machine twice because I hit up two different workers; visitors were strapped into a sort of seat that would hold up their weight while they bounced around the room. I took videos of pretty much everyone who did it. It was really the adults who liked it best—little kids just seemed confused. I personally laughed my head off. My friends and I also got to see a movie in the Imax there—an American film about the moon that was dubbed in French. We ran around taking pictures, and then we made the trek home.
Since my trip to Toulouse, I’ve had an incredibly busy week. I keep tripping over opportunities; it’s astounding. On Tuesday evening, I went with my French friends Renaud and Marie to a tiny bar in the center of Limoges. They introduced me to the bartender and owner, a man named Ivan who is so generous that he never turns out profits. He has apparently had five bars in the last ten years. Ivan plays the accordion, as does Marie, and he let me try to play it. When he found out that I play piano, he asked me to sit at his piano and read some of the sheet music he had while he played accordion. I was terrible, but he told me that he was very interested in learning to read notes. He proposed a cultural exchange: he would teach me what he knew about music (presumably to play the accordion) if I would teach him how to read music. I said absolutely! Sign me up. He also let me borrow “Jean de Florette” from his little library of books. Then Renaud and Marie taught me a humorous little drinking song that I keep humming around town. It was a lovely evening.
On Wednesday, one of the teachers from my school gave me the opportunity to see the French countryside around Limoges. She grew up near a little town called Eymoutiers, and her sister inherited the family farm and now raises cows (and veal in particular). The two of them—my colleague, Françoise, and her sister, Maryse, told me all about the cows, the region, the plants that grew there… everything. It was like a tour, but with just me. Maryse had me put my hand in one of her cows’ mouths. Cows only have incisors on the bottom of their mouths. Who knew? The two of them also had me help them to do work while continuing the commentary on farming and what it was like to grow up in that region. Françoise fed me an enormous lunch, complete with cheeses that she picked up just so I could try more French cheese. Then we went apple picking and hiked around the Maryse’s property. The whole day was lovely, and the territory was absolutely gorgeous and peaceful; I wish I had pictures. And when we left Eymoutiers, I was exhausted, so much so that I pretty much dozed while Françoise talked to me. Thank goodness her attention was on the road.
And today I had a wonderful day at school! My kids are absolutely precious; one of them sees me on the bus in the mornings and comes up to faire la bise with me every time. My classes were all very well-behaved today, in my opinion (a rarity). I kept my ten-year-olds engaged in a discussion about foods, and they positively freaked out when I talked to them about peanut butter and cream cheese. Apparently a lot of them like peanut butter. Then I told them about BLTs (and realized how much I missed them), and they were so interested. It was pretty funny. I collected their notebooks today, and they were so in earnest about doing things right and copying down everything I’d written on the board. Which actually doesn’t happen often. I really like these kids.
This weekend I’m going to the Beaujolais region/festivals for wine tasting, which doesn’t really fit with me because I don’t drink much wine. But I’d love to see the festivals! I’ll be traveling with two Americans that I don’t know very well at all. Hopefully it will be a nice trip.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Where is that famous French snobbery?
18h France time
The French don't always seem to be particularly joyful, and the paperwork here can be excessive. But you know, I have found the people of Limoges to be really hospitable and warm. And I love dealing with people who work in shops and the like; they are always incredibly helpful and honest. I'm almost shocked at how not difficult people make things for me sometimes. For example, the other day I went to the Office of Immigration to pick up some stickers (literally) for my passport. The OFFI had taken a long time to contact me, but I didn't expect them to be very quick. When I was at the office, the woman I talked to (who bears a striking resemblance to Cruella de Vil) asked me to show the letter I had received from the OFFI telling me to stop by. I had forgotten it, and was about to resign myself to coming back another day. She stopped me and said, "No, I probably still have your letter here in our system." I was stunned as she looked through files on her computer, pulling up my letter and telling an intern that was seated beside her that this way, the "mademoiselle would not have to return home." Before I came to France, I was told to expect to be turned away, that French civil servants would not make things easy for me. Maybe it's just Limoges. I've heard (from French people I've met here) that people are snobbier elsewhere.
Salespeople in stores also try to do what's best for their customers. I was about to pick up some tights from my favorite girly French clothing store, and I asked the girl behind the counter if she thought they would fit. She came around the counter, looked me up and down while saying she needed to get a feel for my height (I'm tall here), then told me not to buy them because they were probably too short. Thank you, Camaieu girl, for saving me 8 euros. People working in stores in Limoges are always willing to give opinions, and they rarely rush, even when lines get a bit long.
And the woman at the boulangerie near me asked me if I wanted "the usual" the other day when I popped by for a baguette. Then she asked me if I had liked the cookies I had bought the week before. These people are all so pleasant!
A week ago I went to this sort of language exchange program for the second time. I dragged a couple of English-speaking friends along with me, and it's a good thing I did. This time, about twenty (if not more) French students had shown up to chat with the four English speakers who arrived. They were swarming us, they were so eager to speak English. I was totally giddy. And then they fed us desserts they had brought and taught us how to play a very enjoyable French game: Loup-garou ("Werewolf"). It was a sort of "Murder in the dark" game, and we played it once in French and once in English. They want to get together again at the end of the month, but I wish we'd organize these events all the time! I had tons of fun. And I'm all for a slew of free French friends.
I chatted with a teacher the other week about how he was supposedly supposed to do a "stage," an internship, in the spring. He told me that he had to learn about art history, because starting next year, primary schools (or maybe just my school) want art history classes for their ten-year-olds. Amazing. And, on the subject of teachers, they already want to strike. I'm not sure if they will all strike; I've only heard teachers say so far that they don't want to participate. But someone distributed newsletters to all of the schools that say "Strike on November 24th!" and list reasons that the teachers of the area should unite against... I'm not sure whom. Possibly the school district administration.
I started up work last Thursday and am feeling really good about teaching today. I've had a couple of classes turn into horrible (but funny) messes, yet I feel undeterred. One of my friends pointed out that teaching is a lot of trial and error. And it's a challenge, but a good one. I'm enjoying myself.
Yesterday was Armistice Day, the end of World War I, and most of France had the day off. Apparently, the U.K. doesn't even take off for Armistice Day, which shows how big and terrible a part of French history the first World War was. Or maybe it just shows how much the French like holidays, which they do. I found out today there was a ceremony for it very close to my apartment, and I missed it! I'll have to keep up on those ceremonies and commemorations.
I want to eat a French pastry. (I have a new one pretty much every day. I should start up a pastry journal.)
The French don't always seem to be particularly joyful, and the paperwork here can be excessive. But you know, I have found the people of Limoges to be really hospitable and warm. And I love dealing with people who work in shops and the like; they are always incredibly helpful and honest. I'm almost shocked at how not difficult people make things for me sometimes. For example, the other day I went to the Office of Immigration to pick up some stickers (literally) for my passport. The OFFI had taken a long time to contact me, but I didn't expect them to be very quick. When I was at the office, the woman I talked to (who bears a striking resemblance to Cruella de Vil) asked me to show the letter I had received from the OFFI telling me to stop by. I had forgotten it, and was about to resign myself to coming back another day. She stopped me and said, "No, I probably still have your letter here in our system." I was stunned as she looked through files on her computer, pulling up my letter and telling an intern that was seated beside her that this way, the "mademoiselle would not have to return home." Before I came to France, I was told to expect to be turned away, that French civil servants would not make things easy for me. Maybe it's just Limoges. I've heard (from French people I've met here) that people are snobbier elsewhere.
Salespeople in stores also try to do what's best for their customers. I was about to pick up some tights from my favorite girly French clothing store, and I asked the girl behind the counter if she thought they would fit. She came around the counter, looked me up and down while saying she needed to get a feel for my height (I'm tall here), then told me not to buy them because they were probably too short. Thank you, Camaieu girl, for saving me 8 euros. People working in stores in Limoges are always willing to give opinions, and they rarely rush, even when lines get a bit long.
And the woman at the boulangerie near me asked me if I wanted "the usual" the other day when I popped by for a baguette. Then she asked me if I had liked the cookies I had bought the week before. These people are all so pleasant!
A week ago I went to this sort of language exchange program for the second time. I dragged a couple of English-speaking friends along with me, and it's a good thing I did. This time, about twenty (if not more) French students had shown up to chat with the four English speakers who arrived. They were swarming us, they were so eager to speak English. I was totally giddy. And then they fed us desserts they had brought and taught us how to play a very enjoyable French game: Loup-garou ("Werewolf"). It was a sort of "Murder in the dark" game, and we played it once in French and once in English. They want to get together again at the end of the month, but I wish we'd organize these events all the time! I had tons of fun. And I'm all for a slew of free French friends.
I chatted with a teacher the other week about how he was supposedly supposed to do a "stage," an internship, in the spring. He told me that he had to learn about art history, because starting next year, primary schools (or maybe just my school) want art history classes for their ten-year-olds. Amazing. And, on the subject of teachers, they already want to strike. I'm not sure if they will all strike; I've only heard teachers say so far that they don't want to participate. But someone distributed newsletters to all of the schools that say "Strike on November 24th!" and list reasons that the teachers of the area should unite against... I'm not sure whom. Possibly the school district administration.
I started up work last Thursday and am feeling really good about teaching today. I've had a couple of classes turn into horrible (but funny) messes, yet I feel undeterred. One of my friends pointed out that teaching is a lot of trial and error. And it's a challenge, but a good one. I'm enjoying myself.
Yesterday was Armistice Day, the end of World War I, and most of France had the day off. Apparently, the U.K. doesn't even take off for Armistice Day, which shows how big and terrible a part of French history the first World War was. Or maybe it just shows how much the French like holidays, which they do. I found out today there was a ceremony for it very close to my apartment, and I missed it! I'll have to keep up on those ceremonies and commemorations.
I want to eat a French pastry. (I have a new one pretty much every day. I should start up a pastry journal.)
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Solidaire
8h France time
Today I'm celebrating a personal victory over rain and French red tape. I wanted to get my bus pass today, so I went to the bus information center to get it. The center had moved due to construction, and I was about to walk home when I decided to go there anyway. I hopped onto line 2 to go somewhere I'd never been, and when I got off the bus, I couldn't figure out at all where I was. I got some wrong directions from a couple of people, but then began to head in the right direction as it started to rain. By the time I found the center (after almost turning back again and asking a bunch of people), I was absolutely soaked. And there were lines outside of the center because the bus system has recently changed and everyone wanted a new bus pass. A nice man let me stand under his umbrella while we waited outside, and half an hour later I had my shiny new bus pass. Then I made my way back and got rained on some more, but I was laughing and smiling and confusing the Frenchies because I was proud of myself for actually getting that damn pass.
Cuter than this story is what happened as I was on my way back home. As I was making my way through the mall (the best way to go home), I saw my friend Andreea, who sprained her ankle recently and has to get around using crutches. I chatted with her for a bit, then offered to help her get home. As we left the mall, I heard a man saying, "On est solidaire (we're united). You see? She has crutches, too." I turned around and saw a dad talking to his six or seven-year-old son, who was also using crutches. The little boy was looking at Andreea, and I said to his dad, "Solidaire?" The man said, "Oui!" I told them goodbye, and the little boy said "au revoir" to me. Then his dad picked him up and took him to their car.
Today I'm celebrating a personal victory over rain and French red tape. I wanted to get my bus pass today, so I went to the bus information center to get it. The center had moved due to construction, and I was about to walk home when I decided to go there anyway. I hopped onto line 2 to go somewhere I'd never been, and when I got off the bus, I couldn't figure out at all where I was. I got some wrong directions from a couple of people, but then began to head in the right direction as it started to rain. By the time I found the center (after almost turning back again and asking a bunch of people), I was absolutely soaked. And there were lines outside of the center because the bus system has recently changed and everyone wanted a new bus pass. A nice man let me stand under his umbrella while we waited outside, and half an hour later I had my shiny new bus pass. Then I made my way back and got rained on some more, but I was laughing and smiling and confusing the Frenchies because I was proud of myself for actually getting that damn pass.
Cuter than this story is what happened as I was on my way back home. As I was making my way through the mall (the best way to go home), I saw my friend Andreea, who sprained her ankle recently and has to get around using crutches. I chatted with her for a bit, then offered to help her get home. As we left the mall, I heard a man saying, "On est solidaire (we're united). You see? She has crutches, too." I turned around and saw a dad talking to his six or seven-year-old son, who was also using crutches. The little boy was looking at Andreea, and I said to his dad, "Solidaire?" The man said, "Oui!" I told them goodbye, and the little boy said "au revoir" to me. Then his dad picked him up and took him to their car.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like "I love you"
5h15 France time
I’ve been bad about blogging. I’ll try to be better, as I am now on my first French break. Ah, the French and their vacations. This vacation is, for my primary school and primary schools across France, that of “Toussaint,” or All Saints’ Day. (These are public schools, mind you. France remains très catholique.) It lasts all the way until the 5th of November! My other working friends are jealous.
Last Friday, a week and a couple of days ago, I was taking the bus home from school when a French guy informed me that I needed to get off of the bus two stops early because of some “protests.” I understood exactly what he said, but I didn’t see how protests were related to me getting off the bus, especially when there were people getting onto it. So this guy turned to the bus driver and said, “She didn’t understand.” “She didn’t understand?” “No.” Then a whole slew of people began to say, “Il faut descendre! You have to get off!” So I left, still totally confused. Now I think that those people who were entering the bus were going the other direction. Anyway, I began the trek home and noticed there were no buses on the street like usual, so I stopped to talk to a policeman. I asked him what was going on, and he said that farmers from the region were holding an enormous protest over the exploitation (I think) of their products, like milk. They didn’t appreciate that sellers of their products were making such a profit. So I continued to my apartment and had the wonderful luck of walking right through the strike! I was ecstatic and I stuck out like a sore thumb as I grinned at all of the confused French farmers. They all wore shirts that paraded their cause and carried signs that said, “Sarkozy! Does agriculture have to pay the price?” (I have not met a single French person who likes Sarko, by the way.) They were just standing about peaceably, talking to one another, though apparently (if I understood correctly) they later built a barricade in front of the prefecture. I missed the action! (Strikes and protests are a big part of the French way of life, and barricading things and setting them on fire is also quite popular here.)
Then on that Friday I went to a festival in Limoges called “Les petits ventres” – the little stomachs, literally. Two of my friends and I wandered around these streets sampling spice cakes (pretty good), boudin (blood sausage; I wasn’t too fond), chocolate moelleux (amaaazzing), quiche with veal (gross), and apple cider. This last thing was all right, but I have to say, I think that the French screw it up a little bit. “Cidre” is always alcoholic and is not as apple-y as cider in the U.S., so I don’t prefer it. But there you have it: a French food festival. My friend Mei tried to ask for what she thought were mushrooms, but when she found out they were six euros, she left. I asked the man standing next to me what they were, and he revealed that Mei had tried to buy some sheep testicles. Yum. There were musicians at the festival, a sort of guitarist and a saxophonist, which was an entertaining combination. They were wonderful, I thought, and I was dancing in the street a bit. They really seemed to enjoy that; everyone else just walked by. The French don’t… they don’t really look. They don’t make eye contact. At least, not that I’ve seen. And I realize I stick out because I can’t help but smile and look at all kinds of things.
After the festival, I attended my first (and only, so far) rehearsal with the anarchist/revolutionary choir whose members I had met the weekend before. We met up in this big building, a warehouse of sorts, that did have a heater but didn’t feel heated. Then, when most of the people had gathered, one of the men got us started on warming up exercises. We warmed up forever, and then we finally we moved on to the music. The music, it turns out, was not notated; we only had the text written down, and veteran members of the choir sang the tunes at us newcomers until we figured it out. It was not like any choir I’ve been in before, but it was really enjoyable. Then after the rehearsal, all of the choir members sat down for dinner. Everyone had brought something for a sort of potluck (I had brought some cider from the festival) and we all served each other and talked politics and exchanged names. One of the women there was teaching another girl to play accordion, so the two of them played away at their respective accordions until the experienced player broke out the drinking songs. That was pretty fantastic; all of the French people knew these hilarious, bouncy little songs and they just sang away. Then my girlfriends and I helped with clean-up and we went home.
On Saturday, I made my trip to Bordeaux with my Romanian friends, Alexandru and Andreea. It was actually a terrible decision on my part, because I was still (still!) sick. I felt fatigued and headache-y and was leaking snot like a faucet, but I decided to go anyway. I’m glad I did, because Bordeaux was just beautiful! It’s much bigger than Limoges and it’s full of life and gorgeous sites. When we arrived, Alexandru pressed for us to go to a sort of carnival that was happening in the city center. I wasn’t interested at first because I figured we could see a carnival anywhere, but when we entered the site I was dazzled. There were rides going on right next to nineteenth century sculptures (a hilarious juxtaposition), and the food booths all sold crèpes and “barbe à papa” (Papa’s beard, or cotton candy). I helped myself to an enormous thing of cotton candy, twice the size of my head, while Alexandru went for a crazy ride that would surely have made Andreea and me incredibly nauseous.
After we left the carnival, the three of us went to see the river, some fountains (one was dyed pink and had pink sashes around the naked female statues that adorned it for Breast Cancer Awareness month), too many shoe stores, and a number of enormous monuments. Andreea pushed for us to attend a service at the Cathedral of Saint-André, a massive church in the city center, without realizing what a Mass is like (or how long it is). It was pretty entertaining for me to make the comparison between church at home and in France, and I got to see how French cantors operate. After we left the church, we went to a bar and drank coffee and hot chocolate. I think by this point I had a fever (oops), but we kept on anyway and went to sit at the river’s edge while night set in. It was such a fantastic view, what with all the lights and bridges and buildings, and the city was still so alive even as it got to be ten or eleven at night. (Limoges pretty much falls asleep by nine o’clock.) We took pictures around town, stopped into a wine shop to see the exorbitant prices for wine and run away (Bordeaux is most known for its wine), and saw sushi menus outside of restaurants advertising “foie gras sushi.” Disgusting. I laughed so hard. At about 11:30 or so we went on home, and I passed the heck out for the entire three and a half hour trip.
Last Friday, a week and a couple of days ago, I was taking the bus home from school when a French guy informed me that I needed to get off of the bus two stops early because of some “protests.” I understood exactly what he said, but I didn’t see how protests were related to me getting off the bus, especially when there were people getting onto it. So this guy turned to the bus driver and said, “She didn’t understand.” “She didn’t understand?” “No.” Then a whole slew of people began to say, “Il faut descendre! You have to get off!” So I left, still totally confused. Now I think that those people who were entering the bus were going the other direction. Anyway, I began the trek home and noticed there were no buses on the street like usual, so I stopped to talk to a policeman. I asked him what was going on, and he said that farmers from the region were holding an enormous protest over the exploitation (I think) of their products, like milk. They didn’t appreciate that sellers of their products were making such a profit. So I continued to my apartment and had the wonderful luck of walking right through the strike! I was ecstatic and I stuck out like a sore thumb as I grinned at all of the confused French farmers. They all wore shirts that paraded their cause and carried signs that said, “Sarkozy! Does agriculture have to pay the price?” (I have not met a single French person who likes Sarko, by the way.) They were just standing about peaceably, talking to one another, though apparently (if I understood correctly) they later built a barricade in front of the prefecture. I missed the action! (Strikes and protests are a big part of the French way of life, and barricading things and setting them on fire is also quite popular here.)
Then on that Friday I went to a festival in Limoges called “Les petits ventres” – the little stomachs, literally. Two of my friends and I wandered around these streets sampling spice cakes (pretty good), boudin (blood sausage; I wasn’t too fond), chocolate moelleux (amaaazzing), quiche with veal (gross), and apple cider. This last thing was all right, but I have to say, I think that the French screw it up a little bit. “Cidre” is always alcoholic and is not as apple-y as cider in the U.S., so I don’t prefer it. But there you have it: a French food festival. My friend Mei tried to ask for what she thought were mushrooms, but when she found out they were six euros, she left. I asked the man standing next to me what they were, and he revealed that Mei had tried to buy some sheep testicles. Yum. There were musicians at the festival, a sort of guitarist and a saxophonist, which was an entertaining combination. They were wonderful, I thought, and I was dancing in the street a bit. They really seemed to enjoy that; everyone else just walked by. The French don’t… they don’t really look. They don’t make eye contact. At least, not that I’ve seen. And I realize I stick out because I can’t help but smile and look at all kinds of things.
After the festival, I attended my first (and only, so far) rehearsal with the anarchist/revolutionary choir whose members I had met the weekend before. We met up in this big building, a warehouse of sorts, that did have a heater but didn’t feel heated. Then, when most of the people had gathered, one of the men got us started on warming up exercises. We warmed up forever, and then we finally we moved on to the music. The music, it turns out, was not notated; we only had the text written down, and veteran members of the choir sang the tunes at us newcomers until we figured it out. It was not like any choir I’ve been in before, but it was really enjoyable. Then after the rehearsal, all of the choir members sat down for dinner. Everyone had brought something for a sort of potluck (I had brought some cider from the festival) and we all served each other and talked politics and exchanged names. One of the women there was teaching another girl to play accordion, so the two of them played away at their respective accordions until the experienced player broke out the drinking songs. That was pretty fantastic; all of the French people knew these hilarious, bouncy little songs and they just sang away. Then my girlfriends and I helped with clean-up and we went home.
On Saturday, I made my trip to Bordeaux with my Romanian friends, Alexandru and Andreea. It was actually a terrible decision on my part, because I was still (still!) sick. I felt fatigued and headache-y and was leaking snot like a faucet, but I decided to go anyway. I’m glad I did, because Bordeaux was just beautiful! It’s much bigger than Limoges and it’s full of life and gorgeous sites. When we arrived, Alexandru pressed for us to go to a sort of carnival that was happening in the city center. I wasn’t interested at first because I figured we could see a carnival anywhere, but when we entered the site I was dazzled. There were rides going on right next to nineteenth century sculptures (a hilarious juxtaposition), and the food booths all sold crèpes and “barbe à papa” (Papa’s beard, or cotton candy). I helped myself to an enormous thing of cotton candy, twice the size of my head, while Alexandru went for a crazy ride that would surely have made Andreea and me incredibly nauseous.
After we left the carnival, the three of us went to see the river, some fountains (one was dyed pink and had pink sashes around the naked female statues that adorned it for Breast Cancer Awareness month), too many shoe stores, and a number of enormous monuments. Andreea pushed for us to attend a service at the Cathedral of Saint-André, a massive church in the city center, without realizing what a Mass is like (or how long it is). It was pretty entertaining for me to make the comparison between church at home and in France, and I got to see how French cantors operate. After we left the church, we went to a bar and drank coffee and hot chocolate. I think by this point I had a fever (oops), but we kept on anyway and went to sit at the river’s edge while night set in. It was such a fantastic view, what with all the lights and bridges and buildings, and the city was still so alive even as it got to be ten or eleven at night. (Limoges pretty much falls asleep by nine o’clock.) We took pictures around town, stopped into a wine shop to see the exorbitant prices for wine and run away (Bordeaux is most known for its wine), and saw sushi menus outside of restaurants advertising “foie gras sushi.” Disgusting. I laughed so hard. At about 11:30 or so we went on home, and I passed the heck out for the entire three and a half hour trip.
Andreea, Alexandru, and me in front of La Cathédrale Saint-André
Me playing around in the "Miroir d'eau," a reflective fountain-type-thing in the city center
Barbe à Papa
The carnival at BordeauxThis past week I got to experience a number of things, notably a visit to the Limoges porcelain museum and a European dinner party with Paula, Andreea, and Alexandru last night. After our visit to the museum (which was full of exquisite things and free to enter), Paula and I provided the food for the big dinner; we ate gnocchi, pizza, salad, grapes, baguette, cheese… it was delicious, and we all got to sit and talk and be friendly. It seems that meals often last an eternity in Europe. After we had finished, some friends of Andreea’s from Lebanon showed up and talked with us in French. (Someone tell Lisa!) They were fun and chatty, and they were really complimentary of my French and of Paula’s accent when she spoke English. We discussed, of course, cultural differences, and I realized that foreigners in France become awfully nationalistic and defensive of their own countries. These two guys talked forever about how Beirut was better than Paris and about how Lebanese women are the most beautiful women in the world. Alexandru and Andreea are always talking about how beautiful Romania is and defending it from stereotypes, and Paula does the same for Scotland. I have to admit that I’m not terribly defensive of the U.S., but at the same time I appreciate what’s good about it and realize that for me, a U.S. citizen, life is quite a bit easier back at home. (Not that I don’t like the challenges I come across here.) Paula says that being abroad just makes you aware of what you like and don’t like about your home country, as it makes you understand better what you do and don’t like about the country in which you’re staying.
This morning, Paula, Alexandru, and I headed to a public pool in the older part of the city for a swim. When we tried to enter the pool room, Alexandru was stopped by a lifeguard and asked to change out of his Bermuda shorts into a “slip de bain.” At the public pool here in Limoges, men are required to wear speedos! Paula and I had a field day, and poor Alexandru had to buy a new swimsuit. After we went to the pool, the three of us went around the enormous Cathedral of Saint-Etienne and checked out the Botanical Gardens. They’re not very garden-y at this time of year, but they’re still beautiful, complete with stone walls and architecture that’s hundreds of years old. This part always astounds me- the medieval architecture that one sees everywhere in France. Cobblestone streets and buildings that date back more than 200 years always remind me of how weird it is that I’m here. I love it. And you know, this is commonplace for so many of the people I’ve met here! Europeans all have castles in their backyards. It’s not fair.
Things have been going pretty well at the schools where I’m teaching, and I’m still trying to figure out how to get my kids to behave so that their teachers will be happy. The other day, I confiscated my first item! The ten and eleven-year-olds can be a bit of a handful. My class of six-year-olds is absolutely adorable, though; the kids are excitable, but they love that I can name them all, and the other day three of them came up to me to give me a kiss. Another one asked if he could braid my hair instead of telling me his favorite color. They’re so, so sweet.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Ma Mère l’Oye
4h30 France time
Today I was thinking I would go to the bank and the prefecture to take care of some official business, but as it turned out… I didn’t want to. It was my long day at school—I teach five classes—and I’ve been a bit sleep-deprived. My classes this morning and afternoon were a teensy bit more challenging than normal, but you know, I wouldn’t really care if I thought no one else did. When the kids get really excited and loud, I honestly don’t mind all that much. But French teachers are a little stricter, I believe, than teachers in the U.S. or Britain, and so I have to figure out how to keep things under control. Today some of the kids in one of my older classes were brandishing rulers by the end of the English lesson, and their teacher approached me in the Teacher’s Lounge. When I understood that he was about to talk to me about how to teach, I wanted to sink into the floor, but he was actually very nice and diplomatic. He said a billion times that he didn’t want to “interfere,” but that I might want to include more written work in class and maintain more discipline. And I let the kids walk around the classroom for an activity this morning, which I realize now is not something French kids do during class.
But I like being the fun teacher. :(
Yesterday I went to a meeting for the English assistants that was really boring and little stressful. But at the end of it, Mariella, another American, approached me and said, “What are you doing today? Do you want to go shopping or something? I don’t want to sound desperate, but I’m not around a lot of people these days and I thought we could hang out.” Poor thing. We’ve all been there. So I went with her and Paula to get something to eat (Paula had the most delicious crème brûlée) and then Mariella and I went shopping. Please, someone, freeze my bank account. I’m getting a little crazy with the French fashion. I go into these clothing stores, and everything looks attractive. Everything looks like something I might like to wear. And as I live behind a mall, I walk through it several times a day. The temptation is enormous; it’s killing my pocketbook. But I feel so well-dressed these days!
Tonight I’m pondering going to a language exchange program called “Tandem.” The English assistants were encouraged to come and chat in English with future French English teachers, and I figured that the program meant a free French friend. Then this weekend, my Romanian friends want to go to Bordeaux, and I’m determined to join them. I have things to do, lessons to plan, but I know I’ll kick myself if I don’t take every opportunity I can to travel in this fabulous country.
Oh! And I went to the library this week. Incredible. It’s beautiful and full of wonderful things. I looked through the classical music section, which was at least twenty times bigger than that of our local library in St. Louis, and I found things that I never found at Missouri State. I think that’s pretty sad, actually. The DVD section had seasons of Lost and Arrested Development, which I thought was amusing, and there were a million books. I also picked up a pamphlet about activities in Limoges—I’m hoping to find a yoga class. Heh. Not that I can do yoga.
Today I was thinking I would go to the bank and the prefecture to take care of some official business, but as it turned out… I didn’t want to. It was my long day at school—I teach five classes—and I’ve been a bit sleep-deprived. My classes this morning and afternoon were a teensy bit more challenging than normal, but you know, I wouldn’t really care if I thought no one else did. When the kids get really excited and loud, I honestly don’t mind all that much. But French teachers are a little stricter, I believe, than teachers in the U.S. or Britain, and so I have to figure out how to keep things under control. Today some of the kids in one of my older classes were brandishing rulers by the end of the English lesson, and their teacher approached me in the Teacher’s Lounge. When I understood that he was about to talk to me about how to teach, I wanted to sink into the floor, but he was actually very nice and diplomatic. He said a billion times that he didn’t want to “interfere,” but that I might want to include more written work in class and maintain more discipline. And I let the kids walk around the classroom for an activity this morning, which I realize now is not something French kids do during class.
But I like being the fun teacher. :(
Yesterday I went to a meeting for the English assistants that was really boring and little stressful. But at the end of it, Mariella, another American, approached me and said, “What are you doing today? Do you want to go shopping or something? I don’t want to sound desperate, but I’m not around a lot of people these days and I thought we could hang out.” Poor thing. We’ve all been there. So I went with her and Paula to get something to eat (Paula had the most delicious crème brûlée) and then Mariella and I went shopping. Please, someone, freeze my bank account. I’m getting a little crazy with the French fashion. I go into these clothing stores, and everything looks attractive. Everything looks like something I might like to wear. And as I live behind a mall, I walk through it several times a day. The temptation is enormous; it’s killing my pocketbook. But I feel so well-dressed these days!
Tonight I’m pondering going to a language exchange program called “Tandem.” The English assistants were encouraged to come and chat in English with future French English teachers, and I figured that the program meant a free French friend. Then this weekend, my Romanian friends want to go to Bordeaux, and I’m determined to join them. I have things to do, lessons to plan, but I know I’ll kick myself if I don’t take every opportunity I can to travel in this fabulous country.
Oh! And I went to the library this week. Incredible. It’s beautiful and full of wonderful things. I looked through the classical music section, which was at least twenty times bigger than that of our local library in St. Louis, and I found things that I never found at Missouri State. I think that’s pretty sad, actually. The DVD section had seasons of Lost and Arrested Development, which I thought was amusing, and there were a million books. I also picked up a pamphlet about activities in Limoges—I’m hoping to find a yoga class. Heh. Not that I can do yoga.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Spoonfuls of Nutella and the "Paperwork Nightmare"
6h France time
There's this expression in French—“je vais craquer.” It means kind of what it sounds like: “I’m going to crack” or “I’ll lose it,” but it’s pretty lighthearted. Well. Today je vais craquer thanks to all of this red tape. Paperwork and documents are of the utmost importance in France, and if one wants to get anything done, rest assured copies of identification, photos, and duly filled-out forms will be necessary. I decided today to try to get a head start on my CAF, a document that will allow me to get some of my rent back (because I don’t have an enormous salary). I realized, however, that I needed a social security number to fill out the document. Well. I don’t have my social security (more like basic health insurance here) number yet. I looked at my form for the Sécu Sociale, and I don’t even know what to fill out or whom I should give it to. And I actually don’t think I can fill it out before I have my Carte de Séjour, which is essentially a piece of identity that says “I’m authorized to be here.” And I can’t get my Carte de Séjour until I have a form that says I did go to the doctor’s last week for my immigrant check-up. It’s like a never-ending parade of documents. Out of a sitcom. Or a cartoon.
And just now my landlady, Nicole, told me that a document that I spent 8 € to fax to my parents must be redone. I had them sign a form that said that they would pay my rent if ever I couldn’t, but since they don’t live in France, they won’t work. Nicole told me to talk to a teacher at my school about filling it out. That should be awkward. Then she told me that I had to pay my rent with a check, not with cash; but I know that one of my friends paid two month’s rent recently entirely in cash. I can only conclude that the French want things to be difficult for foreigners. Or maybe for everyone.
Anyway, enough negativity. I had the most pleasant weekend out in the countryside, in a little town called Arnac. Paula invited me to come with her to the home of this adorable French couple, and she and I met up with two Chinese girls, Mei (who I’d met before) and Edith, to take the bus out to Arnac. The couple, Christophe and Monique, fed us dinner on Saturday evening and let us stay overnight in their very comfy attic. (They live in a converted school house. It's quite interesting.) Christophe, Edith, and I also took a walk through the village and into the woods a bit that night. I felt like I’d never seen so many stars at once, though I could be romanticizing things a bit since it’s France. Before and during dinner, I was drilled about my thoughts on Obama’s health care plan: why, my friends asked, are a number of American people so staunchly against it? It seemed like progress to them. I reasoned that the plan resembles socialism, which still scares the pants off of Americans. And then I had fun telling them how much I paid in health insurance in the United States. It elicits the most hilarious reaction out of people here. They freak out, and then they suggest that Americans must have much bigger salaries than Europeans. We do have slightly higher salaries than the French, but the difference isn’t great.
The health care debate got me to thinking—and I’m still turning it over in my head—and just to warn you, this is boring—about why Americans reject the idea of socialized health care and the French embrace it. I think, first of all, that U.S. citizens are often inclined not to trust their central government, and this has something to do with the fact that the U.S. is so enormous. How can people living in the center of the country trust politicians in Washington, miles and miles away, to make the best decisions for them? Politicians, Americans reason, guide in self-interest. The French, on the other hand, think it awfully suspicious and bizarre that Americans would entrust their health care to privately owned businesses. In France, the central government controls everything. It is a well-oiled and pervasive machine, so even if the French complain about it, they still trust it because they have to. And what’s more, the French are heavily involved in their government. I’ve read that one in ten French persons is a civil servant; the French protest constantly (it’s practically a way of life) and most of them vote. Relative to France, the United States is a loose confederation of states full of politically uninvolved and complacent people. And voilà. It’s all a matter of who people trust, which is really a matter of who people know best.
So, on Sunday, Christophe and Monique hosted a birthday party for Christophe in the form of a three-hour lunch (long meals are apparently the norm). The couple’s friends who attended are all quasi-anarchists/communists who are very politically informed, and talk at the table was very current events-y. There were two or three discussions in rapid French at a time, and it was pretty hard to keep up, but I was addressed directly a number of times to be asked about American politics, opinions, and ways of life. After lunch (and two very chocolatey desserts), the party went for a walk in the woods. Christophe told me that there was a cave nearby that had housed prehistoric peoples, but we didn’t get the chance to go see it. We did see a shrine in the middle of the woods that had sculptures of Mary in it, but it was apparently a “popular” religion shrine that combined pagan and Christian ideals so that everyone could be happy. It was quite pretty. After the party, Christophe and Monique chatted with me about European history, and I ate it up. This whole weekend was such a good look at the French way of life and at the political dynamic in Europe. It was fantastic.
So now I’m going to have to put together some good lesson plans for my kids. I’ve been really relaxed about it, but I think I should probably be a bit more organized. The kids have all been really cute, and so far they seem to like me a lot. Every time I walk through the school yard at one of my school, I’m swarmed by little girls, many of whom just kind of look at me with big eyes. Some of my six-year-olds keep giving me drawings and bits of eraser. Really, children are wonderful. They’re so harmless and sweet.
There's this expression in French—“je vais craquer.” It means kind of what it sounds like: “I’m going to crack” or “I’ll lose it,” but it’s pretty lighthearted. Well. Today je vais craquer thanks to all of this red tape. Paperwork and documents are of the utmost importance in France, and if one wants to get anything done, rest assured copies of identification, photos, and duly filled-out forms will be necessary. I decided today to try to get a head start on my CAF, a document that will allow me to get some of my rent back (because I don’t have an enormous salary). I realized, however, that I needed a social security number to fill out the document. Well. I don’t have my social security (more like basic health insurance here) number yet. I looked at my form for the Sécu Sociale, and I don’t even know what to fill out or whom I should give it to. And I actually don’t think I can fill it out before I have my Carte de Séjour, which is essentially a piece of identity that says “I’m authorized to be here.” And I can’t get my Carte de Séjour until I have a form that says I did go to the doctor’s last week for my immigrant check-up. It’s like a never-ending parade of documents. Out of a sitcom. Or a cartoon.
And just now my landlady, Nicole, told me that a document that I spent 8 € to fax to my parents must be redone. I had them sign a form that said that they would pay my rent if ever I couldn’t, but since they don’t live in France, they won’t work. Nicole told me to talk to a teacher at my school about filling it out. That should be awkward. Then she told me that I had to pay my rent with a check, not with cash; but I know that one of my friends paid two month’s rent recently entirely in cash. I can only conclude that the French want things to be difficult for foreigners. Or maybe for everyone.
Anyway, enough negativity. I had the most pleasant weekend out in the countryside, in a little town called Arnac. Paula invited me to come with her to the home of this adorable French couple, and she and I met up with two Chinese girls, Mei (who I’d met before) and Edith, to take the bus out to Arnac. The couple, Christophe and Monique, fed us dinner on Saturday evening and let us stay overnight in their very comfy attic. (They live in a converted school house. It's quite interesting.) Christophe, Edith, and I also took a walk through the village and into the woods a bit that night. I felt like I’d never seen so many stars at once, though I could be romanticizing things a bit since it’s France. Before and during dinner, I was drilled about my thoughts on Obama’s health care plan: why, my friends asked, are a number of American people so staunchly against it? It seemed like progress to them. I reasoned that the plan resembles socialism, which still scares the pants off of Americans. And then I had fun telling them how much I paid in health insurance in the United States. It elicits the most hilarious reaction out of people here. They freak out, and then they suggest that Americans must have much bigger salaries than Europeans. We do have slightly higher salaries than the French, but the difference isn’t great.
The health care debate got me to thinking—and I’m still turning it over in my head—and just to warn you, this is boring—about why Americans reject the idea of socialized health care and the French embrace it. I think, first of all, that U.S. citizens are often inclined not to trust their central government, and this has something to do with the fact that the U.S. is so enormous. How can people living in the center of the country trust politicians in Washington, miles and miles away, to make the best decisions for them? Politicians, Americans reason, guide in self-interest. The French, on the other hand, think it awfully suspicious and bizarre that Americans would entrust their health care to privately owned businesses. In France, the central government controls everything. It is a well-oiled and pervasive machine, so even if the French complain about it, they still trust it because they have to. And what’s more, the French are heavily involved in their government. I’ve read that one in ten French persons is a civil servant; the French protest constantly (it’s practically a way of life) and most of them vote. Relative to France, the United States is a loose confederation of states full of politically uninvolved and complacent people. And voilà. It’s all a matter of who people trust, which is really a matter of who people know best.
So, on Sunday, Christophe and Monique hosted a birthday party for Christophe in the form of a three-hour lunch (long meals are apparently the norm). The couple’s friends who attended are all quasi-anarchists/communists who are very politically informed, and talk at the table was very current events-y. There were two or three discussions in rapid French at a time, and it was pretty hard to keep up, but I was addressed directly a number of times to be asked about American politics, opinions, and ways of life. After lunch (and two very chocolatey desserts), the party went for a walk in the woods. Christophe told me that there was a cave nearby that had housed prehistoric peoples, but we didn’t get the chance to go see it. We did see a shrine in the middle of the woods that had sculptures of Mary in it, but it was apparently a “popular” religion shrine that combined pagan and Christian ideals so that everyone could be happy. It was quite pretty. After the party, Christophe and Monique chatted with me about European history, and I ate it up. This whole weekend was such a good look at the French way of life and at the political dynamic in Europe. It was fantastic.
So now I’m going to have to put together some good lesson plans for my kids. I’ve been really relaxed about it, but I think I should probably be a bit more organized. The kids have all been really cute, and so far they seem to like me a lot. Every time I walk through the school yard at one of my school, I’m swarmed by little girls, many of whom just kind of look at me with big eyes. Some of my six-year-olds keep giving me drawings and bits of eraser. Really, children are wonderful. They’re so harmless and sweet.
Immigration and mad dogs
October 9, 5h France time
It’s been kind of weird week! Thinking back on it, I don’t even know what to say; it’s been a bit blurry. But it’s certainly been full of learning experiences. The most exciting thing I probably did was to take a trip with my (now two) Romanian friends to a castle about 60 km outside of Limoges. (Everyone talks in the wrong units here.) The castle was called “Montbrun,” and it looks like this: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3232/2383780762_59c2d1569b.jpg It’s owned by someone from Sweden, and I kind of figured, naively, that if you owned a castle you would live in it. Wrong. This Swedish person owns the castle and recently remodeled the interior, but no one lives in it. It’s just a wealthy person’s unoccupied property. My friends and I didn’t want to pay the tour price, so we just walked around Montbrun and hiked up the side of it. We considered hopping the crumbling stone walls outside of it, but I think that would have been fatal. :) We also had the fortune of coming across a little town festival when we were on our way to the castle. We watched more traditional clog dancing and ate croque-monsieurs and hot dogs. It was very French. And I learned from them about European stereotypes, of which there are a lot. Apparently, Europeans think that all Romanians are Gypsies and that Gypsies came originally from Romania. (I did some research; the Romani people, or Gypsies, actually came from India.) What’s more, these Romanian friends classified all Gypsies as being a certain way, and not a good way. I told them that I thought it seemed like a stretch, to say that a minority could all be the same, but they maintained that it was true. Hmmm.
On Wednesday I came down with a mysterious stomach flu on my way to the doctor that rendered me relatively helpless for the morning. I think I had food poisoning—from pasta I made myself. Not a good sign for my aspirations to be a good cook. My doctor’s appointment was a routine “immigrant” checkup required by the OFFI, an association here in France that deals specifically with immigrants and foreigners living in France (students, assistants like me, etc.). Tuberculosis remains a big concern in France for some reason, so I had to enlever mes vêtements for a chest radiograph (that I got to keep, incidentally). Then I had to go to the OFFI, where I sat with a big group of people from a number of countries for a sort of meeting.
Before the meeting began, one of the OFFI employees asked for the students to follow her, but I didn’t because I’m not really a student. I spoke with the woman sitting next to me, from Uruguay, who told me she had married a French man, and she said, “It’s funny you should have to go through all this to be in France for eight months.” I soon found out what she meant; I had accidentally been grouped in with people who intended to stay in France for the really long haul. An OFFI employee began a presentation to the group about the things they would have to obtain while in France—four certificates that attested that those immigrating to France had attended classes about the “values of the French Republic,” had taken courses in the French language and passed proficiency tests, and had completed other démarches administratives. (This means “administrative steps,” as in the steps in an official French procedure. To say “démarche” really makes more sense.) Then the people in the group were committed to watch a movie all about France, excerpts of which included “the French are quite attached to their ideal of égalité. Men and women are completely equal in the workplace as well as at home, and they make decisions their together.” Not completely true, from what I’ve heard and read, but of course countries will try to sound as lovely as possible to outsiders. Anyway, at this point I seized the opportunity to ask someone where I was actually supposed to be.
It’s been kind of weird week! Thinking back on it, I don’t even know what to say; it’s been a bit blurry. But it’s certainly been full of learning experiences. The most exciting thing I probably did was to take a trip with my (now two) Romanian friends to a castle about 60 km outside of Limoges. (Everyone talks in the wrong units here.) The castle was called “Montbrun,” and it looks like this: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3232/2383780762_59c2d1569b.jpg It’s owned by someone from Sweden, and I kind of figured, naively, that if you owned a castle you would live in it. Wrong. This Swedish person owns the castle and recently remodeled the interior, but no one lives in it. It’s just a wealthy person’s unoccupied property. My friends and I didn’t want to pay the tour price, so we just walked around Montbrun and hiked up the side of it. We considered hopping the crumbling stone walls outside of it, but I think that would have been fatal. :) We also had the fortune of coming across a little town festival when we were on our way to the castle. We watched more traditional clog dancing and ate croque-monsieurs and hot dogs. It was very French. And I learned from them about European stereotypes, of which there are a lot. Apparently, Europeans think that all Romanians are Gypsies and that Gypsies came originally from Romania. (I did some research; the Romani people, or Gypsies, actually came from India.) What’s more, these Romanian friends classified all Gypsies as being a certain way, and not a good way. I told them that I thought it seemed like a stretch, to say that a minority could all be the same, but they maintained that it was true. Hmmm.
On Wednesday I came down with a mysterious stomach flu on my way to the doctor that rendered me relatively helpless for the morning. I think I had food poisoning—from pasta I made myself. Not a good sign for my aspirations to be a good cook. My doctor’s appointment was a routine “immigrant” checkup required by the OFFI, an association here in France that deals specifically with immigrants and foreigners living in France (students, assistants like me, etc.). Tuberculosis remains a big concern in France for some reason, so I had to enlever mes vêtements for a chest radiograph (that I got to keep, incidentally). Then I had to go to the OFFI, where I sat with a big group of people from a number of countries for a sort of meeting.
Before the meeting began, one of the OFFI employees asked for the students to follow her, but I didn’t because I’m not really a student. I spoke with the woman sitting next to me, from Uruguay, who told me she had married a French man, and she said, “It’s funny you should have to go through all this to be in France for eight months.” I soon found out what she meant; I had accidentally been grouped in with people who intended to stay in France for the really long haul. An OFFI employee began a presentation to the group about the things they would have to obtain while in France—four certificates that attested that those immigrating to France had attended classes about the “values of the French Republic,” had taken courses in the French language and passed proficiency tests, and had completed other démarches administratives. (This means “administrative steps,” as in the steps in an official French procedure. To say “démarche” really makes more sense.) Then the people in the group were committed to watch a movie all about France, excerpts of which included “the French are quite attached to their ideal of égalité. Men and women are completely equal in the workplace as well as at home, and they make decisions their together.” Not completely true, from what I’ve heard and read, but of course countries will try to sound as lovely as possible to outsiders. Anyway, at this point I seized the opportunity to ask someone where I was actually supposed to be.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Limoges se couche
7h France time
I’ve just discovered the most brilliant radio station ever! It’s called “Nostalgie,” and it plays popular songs from the U.S. and France from (it seems like) the fifties and sixties. Right now, it’s “Hello, Dolly” as sung by Louis Armstrong. Before, there was “Turn, Turn, Turn,” some Elvis, a jazzy, Frenchified version of the spiritual, “Go Down, Moses,” “A bicyclette,” and music by the Beatles. With French commercials in between. It’s really fun to listen to. I just heard an ad for the latest Barbara Streisand album featuring her singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and I’m totally interested. I’ve got my enormous window open, I just ate half a baguette, it’s a beautiful day, and an echo-y Frenchman is singing, “Paris s’éveille.” And I think the butter tastes better here.
I called in sick on Thursday, so my teaching job began yesterday. I really enjoyed it, and each time I left a class I was able to make a mental note: Have a plan before you start talking. Figure out how to keep the class under control. Put together visual aids. I went to three classes, each one forty-five minutes long. All three groups were quite big—25 kids or more—and they were all really excited about having a language assistant. In the first class, full of eight-year-olds, I had no idea what I was doing, but I eventually got to talking to the kids in French about what they last learned (because they’d all been taught by different teachers the year before) and about what they wanted to learn this year. Then I left them for a boisterous class of ten-year-old kids. I showed them all of the photos that I had of my family, friends, and St. Louis. First I showed them a map of the U.S., and they all started asking me where cities were: “Où est ‘ollywood?” “Où est New York?” “Où est Miami?” Some of them were pretty unintelligible. They later asked me if I knew Miley Cyrus, Michael Jackson, and “Vanssa ‘udges” (Vanessa Hudgens). They were totally thrilled with all of my pictures- I had one of downtown St. Louis in the evening that was awfully romanticized, and they freaked out. I think they’ll be fun, as long as I can figure out how to calm them down. Then in my last class, one of little baby five and six-year-olds who had never studied English, I got the chance to be more an assistant than a teacher. Their instituteur, this really sweet guy, spoke English well enough to do the teaching and allow me to be the living example. So we went around the room and tried to get the kids to say, “Hello, Therese. I’m _____.” It was mostly, “’Aylo, Thérèse. Aeen (Emma).” They were absolutely adorable. Next week I’ll have to present myself to four or five more classes of students, and on Thursday I’ll begin teaching these classes that I’ve already met.
Then last night I got to meet Paula’s Chinese friend, Mei, and some of her friends, who were French. We had a Chinese dinner party during which we discussed cultural differences. Then Paula, Mei, and I caught the end of a concert at “Le Zèbre;” the band, which classified itself as “jazz rock,” was like a jam band with a flautist as the soloist. This same guy also played trumpet and sax. And as an encore, the group played “Groove is in the Heart,” which no one else seemed to recognize. Then I met some more French people, a couple of whom were sweet and interested in talking to people who weren’t French.
Now this station is playing “The Winner Takes It All.” Amazing. The commentator called it, “Ze winnair take zit ohl.”
Today, Paula introduced me to Alexander, a boy from Romania who is staying in our building. He speaks almost no French, which astonishes me because he said he studied it for eight years. He almost seems to not want to learn it. Anyway, he told me about the way people drive in Bucharest, and I said, “Where?” to which he replied, “Bucharest. The capital of Romania. What have you heard about Romania?” I told him not very much at all, and then he asked me if I’d heard of Dracula. Hahaha. Anyway, the three of us went to a brasserie so that they could drink beer and I could drink a limonade, and then we got to see some traditional French dancing in the street. I was so excited, I practically ran over to the event. The dancers wore enormous wooden clogs, so that must be part of Limousin culture. They must have been performing throughout the city, because they did a few dances for us in their traditional dress and clogs and then paraded down the street to another location.
So I've had a pretty good day! Right now I’m trying to get together some ideas for what to do in my classes. First objective: figure out how to learn 200+ names.
I’ve just discovered the most brilliant radio station ever! It’s called “Nostalgie,” and it plays popular songs from the U.S. and France from (it seems like) the fifties and sixties. Right now, it’s “Hello, Dolly” as sung by Louis Armstrong. Before, there was “Turn, Turn, Turn,” some Elvis, a jazzy, Frenchified version of the spiritual, “Go Down, Moses,” “A bicyclette,” and music by the Beatles. With French commercials in between. It’s really fun to listen to. I just heard an ad for the latest Barbara Streisand album featuring her singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and I’m totally interested. I’ve got my enormous window open, I just ate half a baguette, it’s a beautiful day, and an echo-y Frenchman is singing, “Paris s’éveille.” And I think the butter tastes better here.
I called in sick on Thursday, so my teaching job began yesterday. I really enjoyed it, and each time I left a class I was able to make a mental note: Have a plan before you start talking. Figure out how to keep the class under control. Put together visual aids. I went to three classes, each one forty-five minutes long. All three groups were quite big—25 kids or more—and they were all really excited about having a language assistant. In the first class, full of eight-year-olds, I had no idea what I was doing, but I eventually got to talking to the kids in French about what they last learned (because they’d all been taught by different teachers the year before) and about what they wanted to learn this year. Then I left them for a boisterous class of ten-year-old kids. I showed them all of the photos that I had of my family, friends, and St. Louis. First I showed them a map of the U.S., and they all started asking me where cities were: “Où est ‘ollywood?” “Où est New York?” “Où est Miami?” Some of them were pretty unintelligible. They later asked me if I knew Miley Cyrus, Michael Jackson, and “Vanssa ‘udges” (Vanessa Hudgens). They were totally thrilled with all of my pictures- I had one of downtown St. Louis in the evening that was awfully romanticized, and they freaked out. I think they’ll be fun, as long as I can figure out how to calm them down. Then in my last class, one of little baby five and six-year-olds who had never studied English, I got the chance to be more an assistant than a teacher. Their instituteur, this really sweet guy, spoke English well enough to do the teaching and allow me to be the living example. So we went around the room and tried to get the kids to say, “Hello, Therese. I’m _____.” It was mostly, “’Aylo, Thérèse. Aeen (Emma).” They were absolutely adorable. Next week I’ll have to present myself to four or five more classes of students, and on Thursday I’ll begin teaching these classes that I’ve already met.
Then last night I got to meet Paula’s Chinese friend, Mei, and some of her friends, who were French. We had a Chinese dinner party during which we discussed cultural differences. Then Paula, Mei, and I caught the end of a concert at “Le Zèbre;” the band, which classified itself as “jazz rock,” was like a jam band with a flautist as the soloist. This same guy also played trumpet and sax. And as an encore, the group played “Groove is in the Heart,” which no one else seemed to recognize. Then I met some more French people, a couple of whom were sweet and interested in talking to people who weren’t French.
Now this station is playing “The Winner Takes It All.” Amazing. The commentator called it, “Ze winnair take zit ohl.”
Today, Paula introduced me to Alexander, a boy from Romania who is staying in our building. He speaks almost no French, which astonishes me because he said he studied it for eight years. He almost seems to not want to learn it. Anyway, he told me about the way people drive in Bucharest, and I said, “Where?” to which he replied, “Bucharest. The capital of Romania. What have you heard about Romania?” I told him not very much at all, and then he asked me if I’d heard of Dracula. Hahaha. Anyway, the three of us went to a brasserie so that they could drink beer and I could drink a limonade, and then we got to see some traditional French dancing in the street. I was so excited, I practically ran over to the event. The dancers wore enormous wooden clogs, so that must be part of Limousin culture. They must have been performing throughout the city, because they did a few dances for us in their traditional dress and clogs and then paraded down the street to another location.
So I've had a pretty good day! Right now I’m trying to get together some ideas for what to do in my classes. First objective: figure out how to learn 200+ names.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The French word for seal
19h France time
This morning I opened up a bank account, and it was totally painless and totally free. While one would expect a bank account to be free to open, many people have to pay monthly fees to keep one. One of the assistants I met last night will pay 8€ a month for his account. I feel quite fortunate.
Then, with Paula's help, I finally set up an internet connection in my room! And I do have Skype capabilities, it would seem, so everyone get Skype and call me and we'll talk.
After that, I made a stop at the French pharmacy to get a thermometer and some sudafed as I have come down with a pretty bad cold (or is it the flu?). The man who sold me these items asked me if I had change to pay for the sudafed. When I said no, he said, "Okay, well, I don't have any change for your 10. Come back later with 1€60 and pay for it." I was incredulous. He had no identification from me, no idea who I was, nothing to make sure that I would come back with the money. (I did, of course, this afternoon.)
Then I had a bus misadventure. The best way to get to one of my schools is by bus, so I tried to figure out the route this afternoon. I had a nervous conversation with the driver to get my ticket, and then I sat on the bus and watched as he went right past my stop. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know why he hadn't stopped, so I just sat on the bus until the end of the route. Once he had reached the last stop, the driver turned around and said, "You haven't left." I told him no, I had meant to get off at a certain stop, but I must have missed it. So he told me all about how you have to push a red button to tell the driver you want to get off at the next stop, and he gave me a very detailed description of each stop we had come across. On the way back to my apartment, he had me come to the front of the bus so he could explain to me precisely where my stop was. It was really kind of him, and I of course took ages to understand. But he was still apparently fooled. A woman got on the bus, heard our conversation, and said, "So she's not French?" And he said, "No, she is; she just hasn't taken the bus before." It must be my sexy nasal voice that's tricking everyone.
Now I'm at home, and I've just checked my temperature in celsius (I had forgotten it would be!) on this new thermometer: 38°C, which equals a little over 100°F. Oh dear. So now I'm debating what to do about my first day of work tomorrow, and I'm contemplating another nap.
This morning I opened up a bank account, and it was totally painless and totally free. While one would expect a bank account to be free to open, many people have to pay monthly fees to keep one. One of the assistants I met last night will pay 8€ a month for his account. I feel quite fortunate.
Then, with Paula's help, I finally set up an internet connection in my room! And I do have Skype capabilities, it would seem, so everyone get Skype and call me and we'll talk.
After that, I made a stop at the French pharmacy to get a thermometer and some sudafed as I have come down with a pretty bad cold (or is it the flu?). The man who sold me these items asked me if I had change to pay for the sudafed. When I said no, he said, "Okay, well, I don't have any change for your 10. Come back later with 1€60 and pay for it." I was incredulous. He had no identification from me, no idea who I was, nothing to make sure that I would come back with the money. (I did, of course, this afternoon.)
Then I had a bus misadventure. The best way to get to one of my schools is by bus, so I tried to figure out the route this afternoon. I had a nervous conversation with the driver to get my ticket, and then I sat on the bus and watched as he went right past my stop. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know why he hadn't stopped, so I just sat on the bus until the end of the route. Once he had reached the last stop, the driver turned around and said, "You haven't left." I told him no, I had meant to get off at a certain stop, but I must have missed it. So he told me all about how you have to push a red button to tell the driver you want to get off at the next stop, and he gave me a very detailed description of each stop we had come across. On the way back to my apartment, he had me come to the front of the bus so he could explain to me precisely where my stop was. It was really kind of him, and I of course took ages to understand. But he was still apparently fooled. A woman got on the bus, heard our conversation, and said, "So she's not French?" And he said, "No, she is; she just hasn't taken the bus before." It must be my sexy nasal voice that's tricking everyone.
Now I'm at home, and I've just checked my temperature in celsius (I had forgotten it would be!) on this new thermometer: 38°C, which equals a little over 100°F. Oh dear. So now I'm debating what to do about my first day of work tomorrow, and I'm contemplating another nap.
Joie de vivre
September 29, 15h50 France time
Very French experiences in the past few days:
I tried steak tartare this past weekend. This is essentially raw hamburger meet with capers, an uncooked egg yolk, and onions mixed into it. I thought it would be revolting, but it was really quite good.
http://varmintbites.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/coquettesteaktartare.jpg
I have been to several cafés and have tried French coffee, which is more like a tiny cup of espresso.
I get a pain au chocolat almost every day from the same boulanger who has a little open-air shop.
I’ve dressed myself in scarves and a sweater over the past few days, creating a French disguise that fools people as long as I don’t have to say too much to them.
I was called a string of French curse words when I refused to look over at a car full of Frenchmen who tried to address me (possibly for directions) the other night. I just figured I wouldn’t take my chances, which must be how those people who just stare in another direction when solicited for help feel.
Things that the French have messed up:
Twix bars. There are some products, such as Coke, that the French and other Europeans improve upon; Twix bars are not one of them. I had one the other night, and it was like cookie sawdust with caramel and chocolate. Of course, maybe it was stale.
The movie “The Hangover” was cleverly renamed “Very Bad Trip” here in France. This is not to say that the direct translation of the French title was “Very Bad Trip,” but rather that here the title was changed to another English title which makes no sense.
“Where’s Waldo?” is “Où est Charlie?” in France. The only thing that I can guess is wrong with the name “Waldo” is that the French rarely use the letter W.
Traffic lights. The system of traffic lights and signals is great here, but I’m beginning to wonder if it has any bearing whatsoever on how the French drive. Pedestrians walk whenever they want to, people run red lights constantly, and drivers don’t use turn signals or anything like that. Not even the bus drivers. Come to think of it, I wonder if they have turn signals.
Last night, I got to talk quite a bit more with Paula, the Scottish girl next door. She was very interested in learning about health care in the U.S., and for the most part she was appalled by what I told her. She said the U.K. uses a very clever system for healthcare which has its drawbacks but which requires very little money from its citizens. She and I also discussed the fact that we have no clue how to teach English to whole classes of students by ourselves, and we agreed to share all of the material and ideas we could. And then she told me that she has lived in Limoges before, so she knows where all of the interesting stuff is. Perfect. And she says “bloody hell” all the time.
This afternoon, I met up with another American teaching assistant and his boyfriend, who is French. We sat down at a café and got to know each other in French and in English. It was the most linguistically mixed conversation I’ve ever had; everyone was constantly switching. But I felt very comfortable speaking in French today.
September 30, 1h30 France time
Tonight I met up with a bunch of the American assistants, plus one Scottish assistant and one French boy. We had a lovely chat at a brasserie (like a bar) that was quite close to my building, and everyone started proposing that we do things together. “Come over to my apartment! …I need company,” or “Let’s all go to the open-air market on Saturday morning” or “There’s live music in the centre-ville this Friday, let’s go see it!” Fantastic!
Very French experiences in the past few days:
I tried steak tartare this past weekend. This is essentially raw hamburger meet with capers, an uncooked egg yolk, and onions mixed into it. I thought it would be revolting, but it was really quite good.
http://varmintbites.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/coquettesteaktartare.jpg
I have been to several cafés and have tried French coffee, which is more like a tiny cup of espresso.
I get a pain au chocolat almost every day from the same boulanger who has a little open-air shop.
I’ve dressed myself in scarves and a sweater over the past few days, creating a French disguise that fools people as long as I don’t have to say too much to them.
I was called a string of French curse words when I refused to look over at a car full of Frenchmen who tried to address me (possibly for directions) the other night. I just figured I wouldn’t take my chances, which must be how those people who just stare in another direction when solicited for help feel.
Things that the French have messed up:
Twix bars. There are some products, such as Coke, that the French and other Europeans improve upon; Twix bars are not one of them. I had one the other night, and it was like cookie sawdust with caramel and chocolate. Of course, maybe it was stale.
The movie “The Hangover” was cleverly renamed “Very Bad Trip” here in France. This is not to say that the direct translation of the French title was “Very Bad Trip,” but rather that here the title was changed to another English title which makes no sense.
“Where’s Waldo?” is “Où est Charlie?” in France. The only thing that I can guess is wrong with the name “Waldo” is that the French rarely use the letter W.
Traffic lights. The system of traffic lights and signals is great here, but I’m beginning to wonder if it has any bearing whatsoever on how the French drive. Pedestrians walk whenever they want to, people run red lights constantly, and drivers don’t use turn signals or anything like that. Not even the bus drivers. Come to think of it, I wonder if they have turn signals.
Last night, I got to talk quite a bit more with Paula, the Scottish girl next door. She was very interested in learning about health care in the U.S., and for the most part she was appalled by what I told her. She said the U.K. uses a very clever system for healthcare which has its drawbacks but which requires very little money from its citizens. She and I also discussed the fact that we have no clue how to teach English to whole classes of students by ourselves, and we agreed to share all of the material and ideas we could. And then she told me that she has lived in Limoges before, so she knows where all of the interesting stuff is. Perfect. And she says “bloody hell” all the time.
This afternoon, I met up with another American teaching assistant and his boyfriend, who is French. We sat down at a café and got to know each other in French and in English. It was the most linguistically mixed conversation I’ve ever had; everyone was constantly switching. But I felt very comfortable speaking in French today.
September 30, 1h30 France time
Tonight I met up with a bunch of the American assistants, plus one Scottish assistant and one French boy. We had a lovely chat at a brasserie (like a bar) that was quite close to my building, and everyone started proposing that we do things together. “Come over to my apartment! …I need company,” or “Let’s all go to the open-air market on Saturday morning” or “There’s live music in the centre-ville this Friday, let’s go see it!” Fantastic!
The job
September 28, 19h13 France time
All educators and majors in education, send me your teaching advice! I went to the two schools in which I am to teach this year and found out that my “assistantship” is really going to be a “teachership.” My contact person, the pedagogical counselor for my school district, informed me along with the first school’s principal that the teachers who I am supposed to aid don’t actually know how to teach English (and possibly don’t even speak it). First the principal asked me, “What materials will the students need for your class?” I said, “Uh, materials? I don’t know.” “Notebooks?” “Yeah… I think that’s all they’ll need.” Then they said, “You can teach the class, right?” and when I confusedly agreed, they ran around asking teachers if they had method books for certain English courses. I don’t know what I’m doing.
But! This evening, Nicole asked me if I would welcome a new student to the building, one who she said was American. She said she had to go the doctor’s, and she gave me Paula’s key and asked me to take care of her. And so I waited downstairs with a book and some cookies until Paula showed up with a tell-tale giant suitcase. Turns out she’s from Scotland, and she’s going to be an assistant too. :) She said she’s an English assistant who teaches a class on her own for nine months, and that she’s nervous because she’s never taught other than privately; I told her that I had to teach whole classes anyway, so we pretty much had the same deal, only mine was shorter. She lives right next door to me, and she said she’s all about sharing ideas, so it looks like we’ll be working some of this out together! I’m so glad to have someone to talk to in English who’s in the same boat.
I talked to a couple of the other assistants today, too, and we’re going to get together tomorrow night, so I’m going to be building a network! An English-speaking network, but a network all the same. And I’m sure I’ll get to know some French people eventually. When my French gets good enough that the people here will tolerate conversation with me.
All educators and majors in education, send me your teaching advice! I went to the two schools in which I am to teach this year and found out that my “assistantship” is really going to be a “teachership.” My contact person, the pedagogical counselor for my school district, informed me along with the first school’s principal that the teachers who I am supposed to aid don’t actually know how to teach English (and possibly don’t even speak it). First the principal asked me, “What materials will the students need for your class?” I said, “Uh, materials? I don’t know.” “Notebooks?” “Yeah… I think that’s all they’ll need.” Then they said, “You can teach the class, right?” and when I confusedly agreed, they ran around asking teachers if they had method books for certain English courses. I don’t know what I’m doing.
But! This evening, Nicole asked me if I would welcome a new student to the building, one who she said was American. She said she had to go the doctor’s, and she gave me Paula’s key and asked me to take care of her. And so I waited downstairs with a book and some cookies until Paula showed up with a tell-tale giant suitcase. Turns out she’s from Scotland, and she’s going to be an assistant too. :) She said she’s an English assistant who teaches a class on her own for nine months, and that she’s nervous because she’s never taught other than privately; I told her that I had to teach whole classes anyway, so we pretty much had the same deal, only mine was shorter. She lives right next door to me, and she said she’s all about sharing ideas, so it looks like we’ll be working some of this out together! I’m so glad to have someone to talk to in English who’s in the same boat.
I talked to a couple of the other assistants today, too, and we’re going to get together tomorrow night, so I’m going to be building a network! An English-speaking network, but a network all the same. And I’m sure I’ll get to know some French people eventually. When my French gets good enough that the people here will tolerate conversation with me.
Friday, September 25, 2009
And now...
Hello everyone! I'm at an internet cafe, and I wanted to put up some journal entries I wrote up on my laptop yesterday and the day before, so there you are. I'm safe, and everything is going pretty well. Send me an email or something if you want my cell number. And I don't have internet yet, but I will this coming week, probably by Wednesday.
I went into the Church (cathedral) of St. Peter today, and it was this huge, confusing jumble of art and architecture from different eras. I don't know if it was all right for me to be there; I just walked in. And there was a shrine to St. Therese there, and it would seem she is très populaire en France! She had lots of candles and statues around her, and there were a number of plaques that said, "merci, Ste. Thérèse" around her statue that people must have put up. It was beautiful. And it's a sign.
I went into the Church (cathedral) of St. Peter today, and it was this huge, confusing jumble of art and architecture from different eras. I don't know if it was all right for me to be there; I just walked in. And there was a shrine to St. Therese there, and it would seem she is très populaire en France! She had lots of candles and statues around her, and there were a number of plaques that said, "merci, Ste. Thérèse" around her statue that people must have put up. It was beautiful. And it's a sign.
Day two post!
September 25, 2h45 French time
Today was “démarches admistratives” day. I ran around this confusing city taking care of official business, setting up things for my apartment and picking up papers and signing contracts and buying stuff and asking anyone who would look my way for directions. Seriously, I have the most pathetic sense of direction, and this city, like many French cities (or all?) is arranged much differently than U.S. cities. The French seem to like “places,” centers where streets converge in a sort of star, rather than grids. So when someone tells me to turn left, as far as I can tell, that could mean a slight left, a left at a right angle, or a very sharp left. And street signs are tiny and hard to find. Zut alors. So I just wandered the city today! I bought a delicious Panini and sat on the steps of a cathedral to eat it, which felt very serene and European. I had at first tried to walk while eating it, but stares informed me that the French don’t really eat on the run.
I talked in French quite a lot and met a number of strangers, but I really have very little company here. I met a couple of lovely Germans last night and we commiserated over excessive French tape, and I’ve run into some rather forward French men. But as far as I have seen, I am THE American in this city. Some people assume I’m French—today at the supermarket, the girl who checked me out started muttering about the mean, crazy guy who was in front of me in line. (He really was unhappy; there was a big to-do later at the supermarket when he got angry at the check-out girl in the toiletries section of the store for trying to sell him his soap for less than what he had seen it marked.) I might have been able to understand, but she was practically whispering her rapid French. I just said, “Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry. Don’t worry.” I must have looked pretty confused. Most people understand me pretty well, and the woman at the immigration office told me I spoke very good French. Another woman who helped me with my apartment insurance noticed immediately that I was foreign and graciously spoke very slowly. A couple of people have assumed that I’m European of some sort—German and British. They’re actually surprised when I say I’m American, which I think is a good thing (not that I don’t like being American. I very much appreciate Americans right now). And once someone understands that I’m American, they try to say something barely intelligible to me in English, which I think is amusing. I’m not very encouraging when I don’t understand, though. Last night, an Algerian man said to me, “Good afternoon!” at 10 pm. I looked at him strangely, and he said, “English. Good afternoon!” And I said, “Oh! Yes, good afternoon. Good evening!” I can’t wait to find out what these kids I’m supposed to teach will sound like.
Today was “démarches admistratives” day. I ran around this confusing city taking care of official business, setting up things for my apartment and picking up papers and signing contracts and buying stuff and asking anyone who would look my way for directions. Seriously, I have the most pathetic sense of direction, and this city, like many French cities (or all?) is arranged much differently than U.S. cities. The French seem to like “places,” centers where streets converge in a sort of star, rather than grids. So when someone tells me to turn left, as far as I can tell, that could mean a slight left, a left at a right angle, or a very sharp left. And street signs are tiny and hard to find. Zut alors. So I just wandered the city today! I bought a delicious Panini and sat on the steps of a cathedral to eat it, which felt very serene and European. I had at first tried to walk while eating it, but stares informed me that the French don’t really eat on the run.
I talked in French quite a lot and met a number of strangers, but I really have very little company here. I met a couple of lovely Germans last night and we commiserated over excessive French tape, and I’ve run into some rather forward French men. But as far as I have seen, I am THE American in this city. Some people assume I’m French—today at the supermarket, the girl who checked me out started muttering about the mean, crazy guy who was in front of me in line. (He really was unhappy; there was a big to-do later at the supermarket when he got angry at the check-out girl in the toiletries section of the store for trying to sell him his soap for less than what he had seen it marked.) I might have been able to understand, but she was practically whispering her rapid French. I just said, “Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry. Don’t worry.” I must have looked pretty confused. Most people understand me pretty well, and the woman at the immigration office told me I spoke very good French. Another woman who helped me with my apartment insurance noticed immediately that I was foreign and graciously spoke very slowly. A couple of people have assumed that I’m European of some sort—German and British. They’re actually surprised when I say I’m American, which I think is a good thing (not that I don’t like being American. I very much appreciate Americans right now). And once someone understands that I’m American, they try to say something barely intelligible to me in English, which I think is amusing. I’m not very encouraging when I don’t understand, though. Last night, an Algerian man said to me, “Good afternoon!” at 10 pm. I looked at him strangely, and he said, “English. Good afternoon!” And I said, “Oh! Yes, good afternoon. Good evening!” I can’t wait to find out what these kids I’m supposed to teach will sound like.
Journal from the first day
September 23, 2009; 14h France time
I got onto my flight yesterday to go to Chicago and sat next to an elder woman who I later found out was named Georgine. Georgine is probably in her sixties, has reddish hair, went to the Holy Land last fall, and wears mauve lipstick; she and I talked very well at the beginning and end of the flight. At the end, she told me that she would show me around the Chicago O’Hare airport, which she absolutely did. We went and looked at artifacts and things about Mr. O’Hare (I don’t remember his first name) himself, a kids’ playground, and a dinosaur sculpture. Then Georgine dropped me off at my terminal, asking me for my email address and giving me a hug and a kiss goodbye. I got extremely nervous in the Chicago airport before departing on the flight to France, but felt better once in flight.
I barely talked to my seatmate on the flight to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, but at the end we got to know each other; she told me her name was Martine, which sounds very French, but she was very American. While on this same flight, I had a happy exchange with the French flight attendant, Christoph. He said,
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Pasta, please.”
“Wrong choice.” (They were out of the pasta meal on his cart.)
“Oh! I’m sorry. Well then, I want chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I love chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“Non, j’adore le poulet!”
“No, I’ll get pasta for you.”
When he returned with the meal, I said, “Merci.” Then he proceeded to ask, “Are you French or American?” I said, “American,” and then grinned like an idiot for a couple of hours.
After the flight to Charles de Gaulle, I made the acquaintance of a girl I had thought was French (because she was wearing a scarf- they all wear scarves!) but was actually American, and we figured out the RER and métro together. Her name was Jacky, and she is vacationing in Paris for a week on a whim. She was very fun and grateful to have met me because she was scared (as I was) and didn’t speak French. So we helped each other out. I asked around for things for her, and she found where my luggage was. At the switch to the RER C, I met Roxanne, a practically forty-year old photographer who looked like she’d seen the world (and she had) and who went everywhere taking photographs for big events (weddings and concerts). She helped me all the way to the TGV and offered me a pass, through her, to the Manu Chao concert she would be photographing. Tonight. I can’t go, because it’s way far away and I’m exhausted, but she was fantastic. Roxanne and I ran into Caroline Cooper, another assistante de langue who was at Paris at the same moment on the way to her little town outside Limoges. Then I saw a woman, Carol, who was also on the trip from Chicago to Charles de Gaulle. Carol lives near Limoges five months out of every year, and she gave me her information so that I could visit her whenever and so that I would know someone in France.
I love women. And Americans. They are so friendly.
September 23, 20h France time
All Americans: no French friends, excepting a nice middle-aged man who turned out to be a bit creepy and the receptionist/gardienne of my apartment building. Her name is Nicole, and she’s adorable and treats all of the students in this building as if they were sweet little children who just need to be loved. She laid on me all of the things I had to do initially and freaked out at me several times in rapid French, telling me to listen! and asking every few seconds if I understood. I did the best I could, and was thinking things were going to be difficult with her, but it turns out she’s just a flustered sort of person who does everything 110%. She took me to my room, which I was astonished and ecstatic to find has a bed, closet, shelves, table, chair, and kitchenette-type thing, and which I have realized is either growing mold (Catherine, you would die) or is just smelly because a boy lived here before me. But hey. I have a bed. Yessss. And Nicole freaked out when I told her I didn’t have sheets, and she gave me sheets and a pillow (as well as cookware!) in secret, telling me she usually has students pay but that she felt bad for me. She then asked if I had eaten, and when I said no, she offered to let me eat at her house. And then, when she saw me again and I told her I still had not eaten, she tried to force on me some shrimp she had bought at the grocery store. I think I love her.
Lots of help along the way. But I thought my French was going pretty well, and I really have to work to keep up with these fast talkers. I thought that Paris would be the hard part, but it was way easier than getting along in Limoges has been. A lot of people tried not to look at me when I asked for help today, as though when I addressed them I would ask for money or attack. They would just stare resolutely in another direction. Weird. And I really don’t dress like these people do. I’m trying to get creative with my clothes here. I’m thinking skirts and scarves.
Actually, I feel encouraged and good enough to do this. And I like this whole having my own apartment deal.
I got onto my flight yesterday to go to Chicago and sat next to an elder woman who I later found out was named Georgine. Georgine is probably in her sixties, has reddish hair, went to the Holy Land last fall, and wears mauve lipstick; she and I talked very well at the beginning and end of the flight. At the end, she told me that she would show me around the Chicago O’Hare airport, which she absolutely did. We went and looked at artifacts and things about Mr. O’Hare (I don’t remember his first name) himself, a kids’ playground, and a dinosaur sculpture. Then Georgine dropped me off at my terminal, asking me for my email address and giving me a hug and a kiss goodbye. I got extremely nervous in the Chicago airport before departing on the flight to France, but felt better once in flight.
I barely talked to my seatmate on the flight to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, but at the end we got to know each other; she told me her name was Martine, which sounds very French, but she was very American. While on this same flight, I had a happy exchange with the French flight attendant, Christoph. He said,
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Pasta, please.”
“Wrong choice.” (They were out of the pasta meal on his cart.)
“Oh! I’m sorry. Well then, I want chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I love chicken.”
“No you don’t.”
“Non, j’adore le poulet!”
“No, I’ll get pasta for you.”
When he returned with the meal, I said, “Merci.” Then he proceeded to ask, “Are you French or American?” I said, “American,” and then grinned like an idiot for a couple of hours.
After the flight to Charles de Gaulle, I made the acquaintance of a girl I had thought was French (because she was wearing a scarf- they all wear scarves!) but was actually American, and we figured out the RER and métro together. Her name was Jacky, and she is vacationing in Paris for a week on a whim. She was very fun and grateful to have met me because she was scared (as I was) and didn’t speak French. So we helped each other out. I asked around for things for her, and she found where my luggage was. At the switch to the RER C, I met Roxanne, a practically forty-year old photographer who looked like she’d seen the world (and she had) and who went everywhere taking photographs for big events (weddings and concerts). She helped me all the way to the TGV and offered me a pass, through her, to the Manu Chao concert she would be photographing. Tonight. I can’t go, because it’s way far away and I’m exhausted, but she was fantastic. Roxanne and I ran into Caroline Cooper, another assistante de langue who was at Paris at the same moment on the way to her little town outside Limoges. Then I saw a woman, Carol, who was also on the trip from Chicago to Charles de Gaulle. Carol lives near Limoges five months out of every year, and she gave me her information so that I could visit her whenever and so that I would know someone in France.
I love women. And Americans. They are so friendly.
September 23, 20h France time
All Americans: no French friends, excepting a nice middle-aged man who turned out to be a bit creepy and the receptionist/gardienne of my apartment building. Her name is Nicole, and she’s adorable and treats all of the students in this building as if they were sweet little children who just need to be loved. She laid on me all of the things I had to do initially and freaked out at me several times in rapid French, telling me to listen! and asking every few seconds if I understood. I did the best I could, and was thinking things were going to be difficult with her, but it turns out she’s just a flustered sort of person who does everything 110%. She took me to my room, which I was astonished and ecstatic to find has a bed, closet, shelves, table, chair, and kitchenette-type thing, and which I have realized is either growing mold (Catherine, you would die) or is just smelly because a boy lived here before me. But hey. I have a bed. Yessss. And Nicole freaked out when I told her I didn’t have sheets, and she gave me sheets and a pillow (as well as cookware!) in secret, telling me she usually has students pay but that she felt bad for me. She then asked if I had eaten, and when I said no, she offered to let me eat at her house. And then, when she saw me again and I told her I still had not eaten, she tried to force on me some shrimp she had bought at the grocery store. I think I love her.
Lots of help along the way. But I thought my French was going pretty well, and I really have to work to keep up with these fast talkers. I thought that Paris would be the hard part, but it was way easier than getting along in Limoges has been. A lot of people tried not to look at me when I asked for help today, as though when I addressed them I would ask for money or attack. They would just stare resolutely in another direction. Weird. And I really don’t dress like these people do. I’m trying to get creative with my clothes here. I’m thinking skirts and scarves.
Actually, I feel encouraged and good enough to do this. And I like this whole having my own apartment deal.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Pre-departure whirlwind
I don't feel much of anything, but I burst into tears every few minutes, perhaps from stress or worry or I don't know what. I have barely gotten to see my mom lately, and when she left tonight to go to my grandma's I started crying. I'm crying all the time. It's ridiculous.
But I don't feel like I'm going to France tomorrow unless I really think about it. When I do, I feel like my heart has been tied in a knot. It's weird.
I had to call my apartment building this morning, which I'd been avoiding like the dickens because the cheapest way to do it is through Skype and I didn't want to talk to my computer. What's more, the idea of calling France to talk in French from the U.S. freaks me out. But I called, and this woman talked to me about my imminent arrival and was incredibly sweet. I kept telling her that I hadn't understood or that I needed her to repeat something, and she would simply speak a little more slowly and clearly. She never switched to English (of course, she may not have spoken it). So as far as I understand, I can move in immediately, but I need to provide the residence with all kinds of stuff (such as a statement from a bank that says I have enough money to make my rent) that I won't be able to procure right when I arrive. I hope they'll let me crash there anyway. But talking to the woman this morning was a positive experience. See, the French are nice!
But I don't feel like I'm going to France tomorrow unless I really think about it. When I do, I feel like my heart has been tied in a knot. It's weird.
I had to call my apartment building this morning, which I'd been avoiding like the dickens because the cheapest way to do it is through Skype and I didn't want to talk to my computer. What's more, the idea of calling France to talk in French from the U.S. freaks me out. But I called, and this woman talked to me about my imminent arrival and was incredibly sweet. I kept telling her that I hadn't understood or that I needed her to repeat something, and she would simply speak a little more slowly and clearly. She never switched to English (of course, she may not have spoken it). So as far as I understand, I can move in immediately, but I need to provide the residence with all kinds of stuff (such as a statement from a bank that says I have enough money to make my rent) that I won't be able to procure right when I arrive. I hope they'll let me crash there anyway. But talking to the woman this morning was a positive experience. See, the French are nice!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
One more week
It's late, but I'm surprisingly not sleepy at all. A blog seemed like a great idea to keep in touch with everyone, so here I am with my first post! I've always been lazy with journals, blogs, and any sort of regular record of my thoughts, but this year I promise I will try harder.
My flight to Paris is in one week; this coming Tuesday I'll be on my way! My present concerns involve luggage restrictions, the Paris métro, and whether or not a caretaker will be at my apartment to let me in when I arrive. I've also been thinking a bit about what I will not be around in France, such as my favorite movies (e.g. Mary Poppins and When Harry Met Sally...), potato casseroles, chatty strangers in a Walmart, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and flip flops. So I'm trying to get in as many American activities and experiences as possible before I leave them behind for eight months.
My flight to Paris is in one week; this coming Tuesday I'll be on my way! My present concerns involve luggage restrictions, the Paris métro, and whether or not a caretaker will be at my apartment to let me in when I arrive. I've also been thinking a bit about what I will not be around in France, such as my favorite movies (e.g. Mary Poppins and When Harry Met Sally...), potato casseroles, chatty strangers in a Walmart, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and flip flops. So I'm trying to get in as many American activities and experiences as possible before I leave them behind for eight months.
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