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.

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 Bordeaux

This 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.