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.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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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