Hey, oh, how are y-- Oh, sorry, no, you go first. No, after you... Oh, good. Good. Glad you're well. You look... really great. You do. Aw, shucks. You don't have to say that...
Well. This is awkward, isn't it? Look, I'm sorry I fell out of contact. Things got busy, and I meant to write to you, I really did, but the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, and after awhile I figured you probably didn't even want to hear from me. You're right, that's a lame excuse. And here you are, a loyal reader as always. I should have treated you better. I'm sure you've moved on and found other blogs to read. I hope you have. You've always deserved someone more reliable than me.
Now that we've cleared the air a bit, I guess I'll fill you in on what's been going on in my life since last we talked. That's why you're here, right? Oh... to collect your things. Yeah, of course. Uh, I think there's a cardboard box around here somewhere you can use. Ah, here it is. But while you're gathering your stuff, mind if ramble on a bit? You can reciprocate in the comments section.
The reason I chose to write to you today is because it's our anniversary of sorts. And because my mom made me. No, really, she did. (Not that I wasn't going to write you anyway!) But exactly one year ago today, I landed in Paris amidst nationwide strikes, lugging two barely-under-the-weight-limit suitcases through the labyrinth of the Metro from Charles de Gaulle to Gare de l'Est, somehow managing to put myself on one of the few trains running to northeast France, and arriving in Bar-le-Duc exhausted, sore and dubious about the slanted ceiling of my apartment, despite the romantic idea of being a young, independent woman writer living in my very own garret apartment in France. Clearly Virginia Woolf's room of her own had high ceilings; otherwise, she would have bumped her head as often as I did and given up the profession all together.
As cliché as it sounds, it's hard to believe that a year has already passed. There were the seven months in Bar-le-Duc (that I often thought would never end), my short-but-sweet séjour in Bretagne as an au pair, and the incredible, non-stop, Swiss-Italian-American, summery, good times of Lugano. I realize that I never wrote from Switzerland, mostly because I was up at 7am and asleep at, well, late, every day, and my downtime was spent cat-napping, lesson-planning and consuming caffeine from the free espresso vending machines in the staff rooms. How to sum up TASIS? Let's just say that when I arrived in Lugano, awe-struck by the beauty I had already seen from the short train ride from Milan, I was greeted at the train station with a big ole American bear hug from one of the counselors and I realized I wasn't in France anymore. No more bisous (although it was finally beginning to feel like a natural impulse), no more heart-attack-inducing first conversations wherein it became abundantly clear that I was far too awkward and socially-inept to function in a foreign language and country, and no more falling back on the timid, meek persona that had become my identity in France to hedge against my making stupid errors and committing twenty taboos before goûter.
Goûter. We had goûter at TASIS too, although it functioned slightly differently. Whereas in France even the kids in CP quietly sat at their desks and waited patiently to be handed one Petit Ecolier cookie and a glass of water (no one having to be told that they were to wait to eat until everyone was served), TASIS goûter was an indescribable nightmare of forty screaming international children with selective-English comprehension abilities, running around throwing cups, apple cores and demanding more milk as we drama teachers fought valiantly to preserve a semblance of calm and order and organized bathroom lines for ten minutes, before giving up and allowing the remaining ten minutes to become a free-for-all. They were the art teachers' problem after that, anyway.
But besides that, TASIS was fantastic. The campers were smart, outgoing and funny and I connected with so many of them, despite language barriers. I learned a little bit of Italian and even less Russian, and they learned Shakespeare. These kids were amazing. I won't try to distill two months into two sentences or even two paragraphs, but suffice it to say that I hope I'll be back next summer with some practiced phrases in Russian and Italian, and maybe Japanese and Bulgarian if I'm motivated. Although even nyet worked wonders.
It's hard not to get caught up in the past under the best of circumstances, but even harder after a full year of new places, new experiences, new friends and a new way of living. Although I've been home for a month now, I still feel like I have one foot in Europe and one foot in the States. (I've got long legs.) But I'm in no hurry to change that. I hope that my family and friends in both places will be able to put up with my scatterbrained, split-personality as I try to maintain my two lives. While I've got two years in Chicago ahead of me as I work on my Masters at DePaul, I know that I'll be back in Europe in the future, hopefully as early as next summer. I'm not finished with you yet! I might even plan a trip back to Bar-le-Duc to revisit the grocery store, post office, and other places of entertainment.
But for now, here I am, an English major in Chicago. Not very original, I'm afraid. You can't take two steps without kicking one of us huddled inside a damp, cardboard box. While my life may not be as exotic as it was this past year, if that's the word you want to use (it's the one I like to use), I'd like to continue to subject you to my thrilling insights and witty repartée. However, I think this particular blog must come to a close.
So, what I'm saying, is that we've been through a lot together and it would be a shame to say goodbye like this. I'd like to give it another go. If my apology means anything to you and your heart is still in it. I want it to be a mutual thing. I can't write without my readers. You've given me so much this past year, not least of which is the confidence to write and pursue writing. Your comments always mean the world to me!
... What's that? You'll come back? Oh, callooh callay! Well, stay tuned because another blog is in the works. I'll be posting the link as soon as it's ready. And empty out that cardboard box you're still holding! Really. It's where I'm living these days.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Au Revoir, La France
Just about a year ago, I received a very important looking envelope in the mail, signature required, "recommandé avec avis de reception", covered in French stamps, with Mlle. Laura FOX written out in impeccably neat cursive. Inside was my seven month contract to teach in Bar-le-Duc. A year later, my adventures in Bar-le-Duc have ended, I can sort of write in cursive now, and I realize that all important mail in France must be sent "recommandé avec avis de reception" so you have proof that it's not your fault when your letter gets lost in the nightmarish jungle of bureaucracy. *
Based on my five month struggle with French during study abroad a few years ago, I knew that becoming fluent was probably not a realistic goal for this year, unless I found myself a French boyfriend to practice with (the foolproof path to fluency, I've been told.) So as my time in France draws to a close and I am in the final week of my adventures here, I regret to announce that I am still completely un-fluent (ergo boyfriendless). Twelve years after I first opened my 6th grade French textbook, Allons-y! the language is still an unnavigable cauchemar of seventeen tenses and their conjugations (of which I can confidently use about five). And I've retained two things from 6th grade French class: "Oh la vache!" (very useful) and how to sing "I have a Little Dreidel" (Not useful at all.)
One thing I've learned about the French language this year is that there simply aren't as many words as there are in English. To someone learning French, it should be a relief. For example, if I were trying to say in French: "The sun was beating down, I was typing, and then I hit myself," I'd say, "Le soleil tapait, je tapais, et puis je me suis tapée." Taper, taper, taper. Easy enough, right?
But things quickly get complicated instead of easier. Take the word "coup" for example. Everyone remembers the phrase coup d'etat from their high school history classes, right? In our textbooks, it meant a takeover, and when I started encountering the word in everyday French, I began to wonder if violent government takeovers should really be coming up this often. The French say they'll pass you a coup de fil tomorrow to pick a time to boire un coup this weekend. If you didn't use sunscreen you'll get a coup de soleil. A man and woman meet and it's a coup de foudre and then he dies from a coup de feu. Please forgive me for not seeing the connection between "give you a call," "get a drink," "sunburn," "love at first sight," and "gunshot." Unfortunately, the myriad definitions for "coup" don't help to clarify. Knock, blow, dint, hang, hit, swig, move, whack, rap, smash, roll, fall, punch, stroke, crash, shot, thrust, bonk. To an English speaker, all of these words describe very different violent actions and to have them all rolled into one word in French is like trying to fit nine months' worth of clothes, shoes, books and miscellaneous small items you bought on sale while telling yourself they "won't take up any room," into two suitcases without going over the weight limit. In other words, it's impossible.
Leaning French has always seemed like an uphill battle, but this year has made me realize that all this time I thought I was rolling the proverbial boulder uphill, I was only rolling it up a foothill before reaching Mount Everest. Yet reassurance comes in the most unlikely forms. For example, I received this message on Facebook a few months ago, from an unknown admirer.
CC CVA MOI CE SEB TU MESXUSE ON CE CONAI PA ME JE TE DEJA VUE J U TON PROFIL SUR LES AMIE DE BAR LE DUC JAIMERE BIEN FER TA CONAISANCE C TU VE PA CE PA GRAVE
JESPERE K TU MAN VOUDRA PA ET C TU ME VOI MANGEULE PA ALE SALU
hey wadup i'm seb escuse me we don kno each other i saw ur profile on "friends of bar le duc" i wud like to met u f u don wan to its no big deal
i hope that u want 2 and if u c me don get mad. k by.
Regardless of whether "Seb" was in his right mind or not, I was pretty pleased to discover that I spoke French better than he did. Unfortunately for him, that disqualified him as a candidate to be my French boyfriend as I would have had to teach him the language instead of the other way around.
Anyway, it has come time to bid au revoir to France and the French language for the time being. It's strange to think that I'm leaving France for good. To be honest, I haven't thought about it much. I keep thinking about Switzerland and how excited I am to be going, but it was only this week that it really hit me that I'd be leaving the country where I've lived for the past nine months. I'll miss France eventually, but for now I'm glad to be moving on. Once I'm back in the U.S. I hope that I'll be able to look back and accurately reflect on my experiences here, but right now I can't move beyond the here and now, which currently involves deciding what to make for dinner. (Although when isn't that on my mind?)
I'm taking an overnight train from Paris to Milan on Saturday to get to Switzerland, which I'm so excited about. I've inadvertently replaced Bob Seger's lyrics to "Night Moves" with "leaving on the night train," but it's not as good as this version:
* An example of said nightmarish jungle of bureaucracy from one of the French's beloved Asterix and Obelix films, dubbed in English for your viewing pleasure.
Based on my five month struggle with French during study abroad a few years ago, I knew that becoming fluent was probably not a realistic goal for this year, unless I found myself a French boyfriend to practice with (the foolproof path to fluency, I've been told.) So as my time in France draws to a close and I am in the final week of my adventures here, I regret to announce that I am still completely un-fluent (ergo boyfriendless). Twelve years after I first opened my 6th grade French textbook, Allons-y! the language is still an unnavigable cauchemar of seventeen tenses and their conjugations (of which I can confidently use about five). And I've retained two things from 6th grade French class: "Oh la vache!" (very useful) and how to sing "I have a Little Dreidel" (Not useful at all.)
One thing I've learned about the French language this year is that there simply aren't as many words as there are in English. To someone learning French, it should be a relief. For example, if I were trying to say in French: "The sun was beating down, I was typing, and then I hit myself," I'd say, "Le soleil tapait, je tapais, et puis je me suis tapée." Taper, taper, taper. Easy enough, right?
But things quickly get complicated instead of easier. Take the word "coup" for example. Everyone remembers the phrase coup d'etat from their high school history classes, right? In our textbooks, it meant a takeover, and when I started encountering the word in everyday French, I began to wonder if violent government takeovers should really be coming up this often. The French say they'll pass you a coup de fil tomorrow to pick a time to boire un coup this weekend. If you didn't use sunscreen you'll get a coup de soleil. A man and woman meet and it's a coup de foudre and then he dies from a coup de feu. Please forgive me for not seeing the connection between "give you a call," "get a drink," "sunburn," "love at first sight," and "gunshot." Unfortunately, the myriad definitions for "coup" don't help to clarify. Knock, blow, dint, hang, hit, swig, move, whack, rap, smash, roll, fall, punch, stroke, crash, shot, thrust, bonk. To an English speaker, all of these words describe very different violent actions and to have them all rolled into one word in French is like trying to fit nine months' worth of clothes, shoes, books and miscellaneous small items you bought on sale while telling yourself they "won't take up any room," into two suitcases without going over the weight limit. In other words, it's impossible.
Leaning French has always seemed like an uphill battle, but this year has made me realize that all this time I thought I was rolling the proverbial boulder uphill, I was only rolling it up a foothill before reaching Mount Everest. Yet reassurance comes in the most unlikely forms. For example, I received this message on Facebook a few months ago, from an unknown admirer.
CC CVA MOI CE SEB TU MESXUSE ON CE CONAI PA ME JE TE DEJA VUE J U TON PROFIL SUR LES AMIE DE BAR LE DUC JAIMERE BIEN FER TA CONAISANCE C TU VE PA CE PA GRAVE
JESPERE K TU MAN VOUDRA PA ET C TU ME VOI MANGEULE PA ALE SALU
hey wadup i'm seb escuse me we don kno each other i saw ur profile on "friends of bar le duc" i wud like to met u f u don wan to its no big deal
i hope that u want 2 and if u c me don get mad. k by.
Regardless of whether "Seb" was in his right mind or not, I was pretty pleased to discover that I spoke French better than he did. Unfortunately for him, that disqualified him as a candidate to be my French boyfriend as I would have had to teach him the language instead of the other way around.
Anyway, it has come time to bid au revoir to France and the French language for the time being. It's strange to think that I'm leaving France for good. To be honest, I haven't thought about it much. I keep thinking about Switzerland and how excited I am to be going, but it was only this week that it really hit me that I'd be leaving the country where I've lived for the past nine months. I'll miss France eventually, but for now I'm glad to be moving on. Once I'm back in the U.S. I hope that I'll be able to look back and accurately reflect on my experiences here, but right now I can't move beyond the here and now, which currently involves deciding what to make for dinner. (Although when isn't that on my mind?)
I'm taking an overnight train from Paris to Milan on Saturday to get to Switzerland, which I'm so excited about. I've inadvertently replaced Bob Seger's lyrics to "Night Moves" with "leaving on the night train," but it's not as good as this version:
My excitement also stems from the film, "Some Like it Hot," but I think I'm setting myself up for disappointment, as it's not jazz age America anymore.
Well, it's back to dinner-making and packing! Farewell for now, friends. I'll write home from camp when I get a chance. Send clean underwear and bug spray.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Fast-Forward One Month
I cringe when I realize it's been nearly a month since my last blog post, but oh, what a month it's been! My mom visited and we spent two fantastic weeks together as I showed her around northeast France (including a couple of ventures into Germany as well). We somehow survived despite our perpetually sore feet, lack of sleep and dragging our suitcases back and forth across the country (and more horrifically, the Paris metro.) Let's just say that my favorite day was our excursion to the thermal baths in Baden-Baden, Germany. I had forgotten what it felt like to be relaxed.
Saying goodbye to Bar-le-Duc turned out to be as easy as I thought it would be, thanks to dealing with infuriating last-minute bureaucracy and the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life crawling into my bedroom on the last night, causing both my mom and me to leap around screaming until we finally managed to suck it up with a vacuum, and then both of us remaining paranoid that it was actually hiding somewhere in the sheets. It's a wonder either of us slept that night. And while it was as hard to say goodbye to my mom as I thought it would be, it's reassuring to know that we'll be seeing each other again in just three months. And then I'll be living at home and she'll be wondering how she'll ever get rid of me again.
I've spent the last two weeks getting settled in with my au pair family in Brittany, a lovely region on the Atlantic Ocean. I'm about as close to the U.S. as you can get while still being in France, and I'm only a ferry ride away from Ireland and England. I comfort myself with these facts, in case France finally manages to crack me in my last month here and I have to make a quick escape to an English-speaking country before my mind is completely and permanently lost. I say completely and permanently, because clearly my mind is already at least half-gone thanks to these past eight months, but it is most likely not permanently damaged. Yet.
My au pair family is very nice but I'm still trying to figure out why I'm here. The kids are older (12, 16 and 18) and even the youngest of them wakes himself up in the morning, makes himself breakfast, and gets to school by himself. They all do their homework without being asked, they keep their rooms clean, and since they don't have a TV they all either read or practice an instrument in their spare time. If you can't find the 12 year old, it's because he's at the library next door. It's a little freaky, actually. I think that they keep an au pair out of habit (I'm their 19th, they like to say, as if I'm a trophy added to their collection), and yes, it's nice that they have someone to practice English with if they feel like it, or to cook them dinner when the parents aren't around (although they'd be perfectly capable of doing it themselves), but in general the kids are simply too old to have an au pair anymore. Not that I'm complaining! I'm getting paid to read books out on their sunny terrace, play their piano, bake cheesecakes in their huge kitchen and go tanning on the beach. And while Quimperlé makes Bar-le-Duc look like a lively and thriving city of culture, I find that this small quaint town on the Atlantic coast feels like the perfect summer getaway.
And let's be honest, I'm looking forward to Switzerland. In one month, I'll be covered in dirt, campfire smell, markers and five year olds' snot, and I couldn't be any more excited. What I find myself growing increasingly worried about is the whammy of a culture shock I'm going to find myself in. It's not only Switzerland, but Italian-speaking Switzerland (have I mentioned I don't speak Italian, except for a few swear words?), at a summer camp (a culture in itself, with which I am very unfamiliar), surrounded by Americans. And I don't know if I'm ready to be surrounded with my lively, outgoing and friendly compatriots, having spent the last eight months trying to assimilate into French culture by stamping out those same characteristics in myself. I've finally broken the terrible habit of apologizing when I bump into someone on the street and now I expertly glare until that person apologizes to me. I don't smile at strangers, and I can walk with my nose raised haughtily in the air without stepping in dog shit. It seems a waste that I should have to be thrown back into American culture now! I was just beginning to feel French! (A blanket apology to my French friends. Feel free to leave generalizing comments below about obese Americans who drive big cars and can't find Iraq on a map.)
Anyway, that's the last month for you. Here's my empty promise that I'll be more diligent this month.
Saying goodbye to Bar-le-Duc turned out to be as easy as I thought it would be, thanks to dealing with infuriating last-minute bureaucracy and the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life crawling into my bedroom on the last night, causing both my mom and me to leap around screaming until we finally managed to suck it up with a vacuum, and then both of us remaining paranoid that it was actually hiding somewhere in the sheets. It's a wonder either of us slept that night. And while it was as hard to say goodbye to my mom as I thought it would be, it's reassuring to know that we'll be seeing each other again in just three months. And then I'll be living at home and she'll be wondering how she'll ever get rid of me again.
I've spent the last two weeks getting settled in with my au pair family in Brittany, a lovely region on the Atlantic Ocean. I'm about as close to the U.S. as you can get while still being in France, and I'm only a ferry ride away from Ireland and England. I comfort myself with these facts, in case France finally manages to crack me in my last month here and I have to make a quick escape to an English-speaking country before my mind is completely and permanently lost. I say completely and permanently, because clearly my mind is already at least half-gone thanks to these past eight months, but it is most likely not permanently damaged. Yet.
My au pair family is very nice but I'm still trying to figure out why I'm here. The kids are older (12, 16 and 18) and even the youngest of them wakes himself up in the morning, makes himself breakfast, and gets to school by himself. They all do their homework without being asked, they keep their rooms clean, and since they don't have a TV they all either read or practice an instrument in their spare time. If you can't find the 12 year old, it's because he's at the library next door. It's a little freaky, actually. I think that they keep an au pair out of habit (I'm their 19th, they like to say, as if I'm a trophy added to their collection), and yes, it's nice that they have someone to practice English with if they feel like it, or to cook them dinner when the parents aren't around (although they'd be perfectly capable of doing it themselves), but in general the kids are simply too old to have an au pair anymore. Not that I'm complaining! I'm getting paid to read books out on their sunny terrace, play their piano, bake cheesecakes in their huge kitchen and go tanning on the beach. And while Quimperlé makes Bar-le-Duc look like a lively and thriving city of culture, I find that this small quaint town on the Atlantic coast feels like the perfect summer getaway.
And let's be honest, I'm looking forward to Switzerland. In one month, I'll be covered in dirt, campfire smell, markers and five year olds' snot, and I couldn't be any more excited. What I find myself growing increasingly worried about is the whammy of a culture shock I'm going to find myself in. It's not only Switzerland, but Italian-speaking Switzerland (have I mentioned I don't speak Italian, except for a few swear words?), at a summer camp (a culture in itself, with which I am very unfamiliar), surrounded by Americans. And I don't know if I'm ready to be surrounded with my lively, outgoing and friendly compatriots, having spent the last eight months trying to assimilate into French culture by stamping out those same characteristics in myself. I've finally broken the terrible habit of apologizing when I bump into someone on the street and now I expertly glare until that person apologizes to me. I don't smile at strangers, and I can walk with my nose raised haughtily in the air without stepping in dog shit. It seems a waste that I should have to be thrown back into American culture now! I was just beginning to feel French! (A blanket apology to my French friends. Feel free to leave generalizing comments below about obese Americans who drive big cars and can't find Iraq on a map.)
Anyway, that's the last month for you. Here's my empty promise that I'll be more diligent this month.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Fin
The procrastination battle between packing and writing a blog post has finally been won, as evidenced here, only because it's easier to drink coffee and write than it is to fold clothes, sort through seven months of French bureaucratic paperwork, clean the bathroom and drink coffee. If I could have it my way, I'd be drinking coffee all day instead of doing those things. In fact, that is a highly likely scenario.
Well, it's over. Hard to believe, but seven months have come and gone, and I'm finished being an English teacher. This past week was filled with goodbye parties and goûters (snacks). For some classes I made no-bake cookies, which were a huge hit. For other classes, I made peanut butter sandwiches and cut them into sample sizes. These were an even bigger hit and the kids were saying things like, "Mmm, I love this cake!" and the teacher asked me if we ate these for dessert fairly often in the U.S. I said yes and left it at that.
The CP and CE1 classes combined forces to throw me a big party on my last day, complete with pancakes. In the morning, I helped 60 six, seven and eight year-olds make the batter. It went something like this.
Me: "Okay, I think I'm going to crack the eggs, just to be safe."
Six kids: "Nooo, I want to! I want to!"
Me: "Do any of you actually know HOW to crack an egg?"
Six kids: "Yes! My mom taught me-- I've done it before-- Once, we were making cookies, and I cracked an egg-- No, but I want to try!"
Me: "Fine. You there, the responsible looking girl who reminds me of myself when I was that age, come here."
I handed her the egg and two seconds later the egg was all over both of us, the table, and the floor. So, everywhere except in the bowl.
When the first batch of batter was complete, I handed it over to the teacher who volunteered to fry them.
"The batter's really thick..." she said, suspiciously. "Did you put enough milk in?"
"It's supposed to be that way," I explained.
"You didn't mix it very well, there are still grumeaux."
"It's supposed to be slightly lumpy--"
She grabbed the electric mixer and pulverized the batter into a thin, smooth liquid. "Voilà," she said. Next, she ladled the batter onto the grill and spread it as thinly as possible with the backside of a spoon, and when she flipped the pancake over, she tried to flatten it. "Why is it rising up like that?" she asked. "Is that the baking powder?"
"Well, that's the point, yes. American pancakes are supposed to be fluffy."
We both stared at the thin, flattened pancake on the grill. It was a crêpe.
In the afternoon, the cold, congealed mess of pancakes was brought out, along with jam, sugar, nutella and a few drops of maple syrup. ("For you, Laura," a teacher said, holding it out.) So I watched as the teachers spread nutella or jam on my all-American pancakes, or sprinkled sugar on top of them, and handed them out to the kids, who folded them in half and stuffed them in their mouths. "This is how you serve them, right?" a teacher asked. "Sure," I said. You can lead the French to pancakes, but you can't make them eat them like anything else but crêpes.
After school, there was a "grown-up" party for me with all the teachers, but I have to admit that I preferred the kids' party.
So now I'm done! I've said my goodbyes to the teachers and the kids (and guarantee that I will awkwardly run into them at the grocery store at least a few times before I leave), said farewell to my friends, and now all that's left is packing up my place. So what's next for Laura? Well, my mom arrives on Tuesday and we're doing the grand tour of northeast France, where I've spent far too much time over the past two and a half years. Paris, Strasbourg, Nancy and Bar-le-Duc. (Which is the odd one out?) After that, I'm off to Brittany to au pair for a little over a month, then over to Switzerland to be a camp counselor until mid-August, then perhaps a detour through Italy on my way back to the U.S. And then I start my masters at DePaul on September 7th. I don't know whether to be excited or exhausted for the months ahead.
Now that my time teaching has come to an end, it's hard not to feel the need to analyze my experience. I'll let you know if I have any breakthroughs, but for now, just two things.
1) I really like teaching. A lot. I've always known that I'd probably enjoy it, because I like working with kids, but this experience really sealed the deal. I don't know for sure what I'll do when I finish my masters, but it's good to know that teaching could definitely be on the table.
2) I am not even close to being fluent in French. Sure, I know how to say random words like lumps and fluffy, and yesterday I learned a slang word for vomit, and I can have conversations without bringing things to a complete halt, but as I told a friend yesterday, I've given up on conjugations and correct grammar. I hear myself making the mistakes, but I can't be bothered to correct them. I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I had paid more attention in my high school French classes. Je suis desolée, M. Stéphan... On the plus side, this same friend told me that the texts I send him are almost always perfect, but then took me through them and asked me to find the errors I made. Did I mention he's a teacher?
Alright, enough procrastination. Time to pack! This might be the last you hear from me for a few weeks while my mom and I travel, but I'll be back with more absurd stories before you know it.
Well, it's over. Hard to believe, but seven months have come and gone, and I'm finished being an English teacher. This past week was filled with goodbye parties and goûters (snacks). For some classes I made no-bake cookies, which were a huge hit. For other classes, I made peanut butter sandwiches and cut them into sample sizes. These were an even bigger hit and the kids were saying things like, "Mmm, I love this cake!" and the teacher asked me if we ate these for dessert fairly often in the U.S. I said yes and left it at that.
The CP and CE1 classes combined forces to throw me a big party on my last day, complete with pancakes. In the morning, I helped 60 six, seven and eight year-olds make the batter. It went something like this.
Me: "Okay, I think I'm going to crack the eggs, just to be safe."
Six kids: "Nooo, I want to! I want to!"
Me: "Do any of you actually know HOW to crack an egg?"
Six kids: "Yes! My mom taught me-- I've done it before-- Once, we were making cookies, and I cracked an egg-- No, but I want to try!"
Me: "Fine. You there, the responsible looking girl who reminds me of myself when I was that age, come here."
I handed her the egg and two seconds later the egg was all over both of us, the table, and the floor. So, everywhere except in the bowl.
When the first batch of batter was complete, I handed it over to the teacher who volunteered to fry them.
"The batter's really thick..." she said, suspiciously. "Did you put enough milk in?"
"It's supposed to be that way," I explained.
"You didn't mix it very well, there are still grumeaux."
"It's supposed to be slightly lumpy--"
She grabbed the electric mixer and pulverized the batter into a thin, smooth liquid. "Voilà," she said. Next, she ladled the batter onto the grill and spread it as thinly as possible with the backside of a spoon, and when she flipped the pancake over, she tried to flatten it. "Why is it rising up like that?" she asked. "Is that the baking powder?"
"Well, that's the point, yes. American pancakes are supposed to be fluffy."
We both stared at the thin, flattened pancake on the grill. It was a crêpe.
In the afternoon, the cold, congealed mess of pancakes was brought out, along with jam, sugar, nutella and a few drops of maple syrup. ("For you, Laura," a teacher said, holding it out.) So I watched as the teachers spread nutella or jam on my all-American pancakes, or sprinkled sugar on top of them, and handed them out to the kids, who folded them in half and stuffed them in their mouths. "This is how you serve them, right?" a teacher asked. "Sure," I said. You can lead the French to pancakes, but you can't make them eat them like anything else but crêpes.
 |
| The pancakes in the bottom right hand corner are suspiciously crêpe-like. |
 | |||
| The line for pancakes. |
 |
| Students acting abnormally calm. |
 |
| One final round of "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." |
So now I'm done! I've said my goodbyes to the teachers and the kids (and guarantee that I will awkwardly run into them at the grocery store at least a few times before I leave), said farewell to my friends, and now all that's left is packing up my place. So what's next for Laura? Well, my mom arrives on Tuesday and we're doing the grand tour of northeast France, where I've spent far too much time over the past two and a half years. Paris, Strasbourg, Nancy and Bar-le-Duc. (Which is the odd one out?) After that, I'm off to Brittany to au pair for a little over a month, then over to Switzerland to be a camp counselor until mid-August, then perhaps a detour through Italy on my way back to the U.S. And then I start my masters at DePaul on September 7th. I don't know whether to be excited or exhausted for the months ahead.
Now that my time teaching has come to an end, it's hard not to feel the need to analyze my experience. I'll let you know if I have any breakthroughs, but for now, just two things.
1) I really like teaching. A lot. I've always known that I'd probably enjoy it, because I like working with kids, but this experience really sealed the deal. I don't know for sure what I'll do when I finish my masters, but it's good to know that teaching could definitely be on the table.
2) I am not even close to being fluent in French. Sure, I know how to say random words like lumps and fluffy, and yesterday I learned a slang word for vomit, and I can have conversations without bringing things to a complete halt, but as I told a friend yesterday, I've given up on conjugations and correct grammar. I hear myself making the mistakes, but I can't be bothered to correct them. I never thought I'd say this, but I wish I had paid more attention in my high school French classes. Je suis desolée, M. Stéphan... On the plus side, this same friend told me that the texts I send him are almost always perfect, but then took me through them and asked me to find the errors I made. Did I mention he's a teacher?
Alright, enough procrastination. Time to pack! This might be the last you hear from me for a few weeks while my mom and I travel, but I'll be back with more absurd stories before you know it.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Send in the Clowns
I walked into school Monday morning, said hello to the principal while we did our usual cheek kisses, and as I started to walk away she said to me as if an afterthought had just occurred to her: "Oh Laura! Do you know about the clowns?"
Normally, when people ask me questions like, "Do you know about the clowns?" I assume that there's been some misunderstanding on my end. In reality, they're usually asking me something like, "Do you know that the photocopier is broken?" in which case, I respond, "Oui," even if I didn't completely understand the question, because sometimes it's just easier to say yes and get on with things, like trying to make copies on a broken photocopier and wondering why nobody told you the stupid thing was broken. In this case however, if I said that yes, I knew about the clowns, I had a bad feeling that this would get me into an even more absurd and confusing situation later. Before I let myself get carried away with the image of clowns chasing me through the hallways of the elementary school with kids cheering them on, I said, "I'm sorry, what?"
The principal slowly repeated the question, overarticulating, apparently interpreting my confusion to be caused by the language barrier and not by the idea of clowns running around the school on a Monday morning. "There are three clowns here," she continued. "Don't be surprised if they come and disrupt your classes." Considering this a sufficient enough warning, she went back into her office.
Nobody else mentioned the clowns all morning, except for one of the teachers who said that our Thursday morning English class was going to have to be canceled, "à cause de les clowns." With no further explanation, he walked away. So not only were the clowns going to be here all week, I was also clearly stuck in a French absurdist play.
My first class of the day was thankfully clown-free. We learned "I like/ I don't like," with different types of food and took a class survey to determine the most popular. Bread unanimously won the vote, beating out even chocolate and pizza. Even eight-year-olds in France are so... French.
Yet when I walked into my next lesson, I found myself witnessing three clowns wreaking havoc in the classroom. Kids were screaming with laughter as one clown madly clicked through the powerpoint presentation the class had been in the middle of before they had been interrupted by the traveling circus; another clown was running in and out of the classroom with handfuls of tissues claiming to have kid allergies; the third was the straight (wo)man, trying to keep her companions in line while picking on the normally uptight teacher, who was red in the face from laughter. Since the teacher is usually such a disciplinarian, I had to hand it to him for playing along so eagerly. Even as one of the clowns started confiscating the essays the students had been working on, and crumpling them up and throwing them away, the teacher just stood in the corner giggling. (I shouldn't have been so surprised. Mimes, Jerry Lee Lewis, Mr. Bean-- characters that no one finds funny anymore after the age of eight-- are idols in France. My theory is that because the French seem so concerned with keeping up appearances and behaving in the socially-accepted manner that they find a release in these comedians who are able to make such fools of themselves.)
After another few minutes, the teacher shooed them out and the clowns said their goodbyes and shuffled out of the classroom, closing the door behind them. No sooner had the door shut, then did the teacher's smile quickly melt off his face. He pulled his students' crumpled essays from the trash can, held them up and said, "You're going to have to rewrite these."
Monday, March 21, 2011
Ireland
As soon as I handed my boarding pass to the Aer Lingus agent, who smiled as she cheerily exclaimed, "Enjoy your flight!" I was on vacation. Stepping onto the plane in the Charles DeGaulle airport was like stepping into a US embassy in another country. You may not be home, but theoretically you're on American soil. But in this case, Irish soil. I was off to Ireland once again, having become enamored by its lively beauty and friendly citizens back in 2008 during my fall break in Strasbourg. Last time, I visited a friend from high school who was studying abroad in Cork, and together we also went to Dublin. I'd be going back to Dublin this time too, as well as spending a night in Galway, but the real reason I going was to experience first-hand the enigmatic beauty of the Aran Islands.
I've wanted to visit the islands for quite some time. I studied them in a 20th century Irish literature course a few years ago, and then performed in Martin McDonagh's The Cripple of Inishmaan last year, which takes place on the middle-sized island. (McDonagh has written a play for each of the islands-- Inishmaan, The Lieutenant of Inishmore and The Banshees of Inisheer, which apparently was so bad that McDonagh never wanted it published.) I had seen so many pictures of the islands' rocky landscapes and breathtaking cliffs that I knew I needed to see everything in person, and what better time to go than the beginning of March, when anyone with a lick of sense goes not to the Aran Islands, but to the Canary Islands.
My adventures began in Galway. Since the ferry for the islands left early Saturday morning, I needed to stay in Galway Friday night, and found refuge with a lovely couchsurfing host. She showed me around the city, which is absolutely enchanting. It's much less touristy than Dublin, and personally, I found it a lot more charming and welcoming.
Saturday morning, I set off early for the ferry. Calder, whom you may remember from my London adventures, was a fellow cast mate in Inishmaan and was my partner-in-crime on my Aran adventures. We had wanted to visit all of the islands, but ended up just being able to go to Inishmore, the biggest of the three islands. From here, I'll let the pictures do the talking...
The desolate landscape of the island in the gray and foggy morning gave way to a vibrant blue-green sea when the sun broke free in the afternoon. Calder and I biked and hiked the length of the island, which is about a mile and a half wide and five and a half miles long. Having come during the off-season, we had the island mostly to ourselves, relatively speaking. There were a few bus tours full of day trippers, but it didn't begin to rival the 2,000 daily visitors the island receives in the summer, a local told me. (There are only 800 inhabitants of the island to begin with.) Not only were we able to visit the touristy sites in peace, like the ancient Dun Aengus fort set on the cliffs, we were also able to strike up conversations with the locals in the pubs (although they were the ones who struck up the conversations with us!)
Sadly, Monday came too soon and we had to head back to the mainland. We wished we could've had more time to spend on the island, and, well, be careful what you wish for. From the window of our lovely sea-facing hostel, as we were just about to head out the door to leave, I saw a ferry pulling out of the port. Our ferry. That apparently left at 8:15am and not 8:30am, as we had thought. A quick, perhaps rather belated, glance at our tickets revealed that the ferry was indeed scheduled to leave at 8:15am. The biggest problem was that there was only one other ferry to the mainland and it wasn't until the evening, and Calder had a plane to catch from Dublin that night. Oops. Those of you who know both Calder and me will probably be surprised that we could have done something so stupid. And I'd be right with you on that. However, we quickly rebounded and found the number for the airline that had multiple flights to and from Inishmore each day and were able to book a flight that left in a couple of hours. In the end, we were able to have a few more hours on the island, which included the long but beautiful walk to the airport, and had a spectacular plane ride, just us and the pilot, in a little nine-seater that afforded us an amazing aerial view of the islands.
Once in Dublin, I said goodbye to Calder and hello to Amelia! She and I spent two nights in Dublin, packing in as much as we could in just a few days.
Finally, it was back home to France.... Not something either of us were looking forward to. "But you're going to France! A beautiful country! Amazing food! Fashion! The Eiffel Tower!" you might say, using far too many exclamation marks. And you'd be partly right. It's true that there's still some excitement in coming back to France, a country that I love despite what I may write, but it's still a return to the known and to the ordinary. It's still coming back home after vacation, even though you may be tired and smelly and looking forward to being back in your own bed after a nice long shower. But as I laid in bed my first night back with my eyes close, all I could see were the stunning cliffs of Inishmore with the violently blue waves crashing loudly so far below where I lay peering down in frozen rapture.
I've wanted to visit the islands for quite some time. I studied them in a 20th century Irish literature course a few years ago, and then performed in Martin McDonagh's The Cripple of Inishmaan last year, which takes place on the middle-sized island. (McDonagh has written a play for each of the islands-- Inishmaan, The Lieutenant of Inishmore and The Banshees of Inisheer, which apparently was so bad that McDonagh never wanted it published.) I had seen so many pictures of the islands' rocky landscapes and breathtaking cliffs that I knew I needed to see everything in person, and what better time to go than the beginning of March, when anyone with a lick of sense goes not to the Aran Islands, but to the Canary Islands.
My adventures began in Galway. Since the ferry for the islands left early Saturday morning, I needed to stay in Galway Friday night, and found refuge with a lovely couchsurfing host. She showed me around the city, which is absolutely enchanting. It's much less touristy than Dublin, and personally, I found it a lot more charming and welcoming.
Saturday morning, I set off early for the ferry. Calder, whom you may remember from my London adventures, was a fellow cast mate in Inishmaan and was my partner-in-crime on my Aran adventures. We had wanted to visit all of the islands, but ended up just being able to go to Inishmore, the biggest of the three islands. From here, I'll let the pictures do the talking...
The desolate landscape of the island in the gray and foggy morning gave way to a vibrant blue-green sea when the sun broke free in the afternoon. Calder and I biked and hiked the length of the island, which is about a mile and a half wide and five and a half miles long. Having come during the off-season, we had the island mostly to ourselves, relatively speaking. There were a few bus tours full of day trippers, but it didn't begin to rival the 2,000 daily visitors the island receives in the summer, a local told me. (There are only 800 inhabitants of the island to begin with.) Not only were we able to visit the touristy sites in peace, like the ancient Dun Aengus fort set on the cliffs, we were also able to strike up conversations with the locals in the pubs (although they were the ones who struck up the conversations with us!)
Sadly, Monday came too soon and we had to head back to the mainland. We wished we could've had more time to spend on the island, and, well, be careful what you wish for. From the window of our lovely sea-facing hostel, as we were just about to head out the door to leave, I saw a ferry pulling out of the port. Our ferry. That apparently left at 8:15am and not 8:30am, as we had thought. A quick, perhaps rather belated, glance at our tickets revealed that the ferry was indeed scheduled to leave at 8:15am. The biggest problem was that there was only one other ferry to the mainland and it wasn't until the evening, and Calder had a plane to catch from Dublin that night. Oops. Those of you who know both Calder and me will probably be surprised that we could have done something so stupid. And I'd be right with you on that. However, we quickly rebounded and found the number for the airline that had multiple flights to and from Inishmore each day and were able to book a flight that left in a couple of hours. In the end, we were able to have a few more hours on the island, which included the long but beautiful walk to the airport, and had a spectacular plane ride, just us and the pilot, in a little nine-seater that afforded us an amazing aerial view of the islands.
Once in Dublin, I said goodbye to Calder and hello to Amelia! She and I spent two nights in Dublin, packing in as much as we could in just a few days.
 |
| We weren't the only ones in Dublin. Justin Bieber was there too. We didn't see him, but we did decide to follow around the throng of screaming girls for awhile who were desperately hoping to get a glimpse of him while he shopped in Tommy Hilfiger. |
Finally, it was back home to France.... Not something either of us were looking forward to. "But you're going to France! A beautiful country! Amazing food! Fashion! The Eiffel Tower!" you might say, using far too many exclamation marks. And you'd be partly right. It's true that there's still some excitement in coming back to France, a country that I love despite what I may write, but it's still a return to the known and to the ordinary. It's still coming back home after vacation, even though you may be tired and smelly and looking forward to being back in your own bed after a nice long shower. But as I laid in bed my first night back with my eyes close, all I could see were the stunning cliffs of Inishmore with the violently blue waves crashing loudly so far below where I lay peering down in frozen rapture.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Light Reading For Your Saint Patrick's Day Hangover
I do my fair share of France-bashing. Sometimes it can get a little out of hand, and I have to remind myself that I do it out of love for a place that I have wanted to live in since I was in 6th grade. But it's easy to get caught up in the frustrations of bureaucracy, language barriers and cultural differences, and then suddenly it's two hours later and you're still on your tirade about how the French wear winter coats and scarves in 65 degree weather and then look at you like you're the insane one in a dress and sandals.
However, there are times when we all can put aside our own quirky differences and join together to celebrate another culture, and what better time is there than Saint Patrick's Day, when for 24 hours, everyone wants to believe that they are just a little bit Irish. In America, we drink green beer. In France, we have fancy sit-down dinners with whiskey, mini Heineken kegs and, of course, wine. And let me say now, that I have never had a better St. Patrick's Day. I had figured that St. Patty's would be a let down, having just been in Ireland last week (more on that next time) and watching cities gear up for their celebrations. But when I was invited to this St. Patrick's party by some of my teachers with the promise of traditional music and food, I figured why not?
With the party to look forward to in the evening, I showed up for my three morning classes full of Irish spirit. A few of my outstanding students had remembered to wear green and I had to make the hard decision as to whether or not I should pinch the rest. (I ultimately decided it would be a bad idea.) We read a little history of St. Patrick's Day, and then I put on some Irish music as they worked on their themed word search and asked each other, "Où est leepreeshaun?"
In a younger class, I had them repeat some St. Patrick's words while showing them the accompanying pictures. I had an awful realization as I heard "shaymrack" parroted back at me, that I'm teaching my students to speak with an American accent. I suppose there are worse things, but mostly it makes me want to scream, "Don't tell me I really sound like that!" However, if you hear Amelia's impression of me, you'll realize that I do really sound like that. I'd just like to point out that my impression of her is much nicer because I make her sound like the Queen.
Finally the evening arrived, and when Amelia and I showed up unfashionably early, I immediately became wary of the long, nicely set tables with pink and purple napkins (had none of my teachers listened to my St. Patrick's lesson when I stressed several times that green is a rather important color on this holiday?). The fancy table settings were punctuated with bottles of red wine, and I suddenly felt a little hopeless. Could it be that the French were the only nation of people impervious to the Irish brand of jovial merry-making?
But I needn't have feared, because soon the whiskey started flowing, as well as Heineken to my horror, and a few people commented on the Guinness shirt I was wearing by saying, "Do you actually like Guinness?" with looks of disgust. It makes me wonder why Bud Light hasn't caught on in France yet. There would be a killer market for it. The first course was fish and coleslaw (first of all, ew. Second of all, not Irish at all, unless you count the cabbage) and the second course, a very Irish beef stew and potatoes, arrived shortly after. Amelia and I had to insist as vegetarians that no, it was not possible to just pick out the carrots from the beef stew and eat those, and that we were just fine eating bread, thanks.
And then finally, the music began! Amelia and I were pulled up to sing with two of my teachers and we and the band (also comprised of some of my teachers) worked our way through the Irish songbook that had been meticulously put together and distributed to all of the party-goers. We sang classics like Molly Malone, Dirty Old Town, The Wild Rover and... Lord of the Dance. If you're not familiar with Lord of the Dance, it's a fast, upbeat little number that is the universal favorite church hymn, especially the line, "It's hard to dance with the devil on your back." If you are familiar with the song, now try to imagine a room of thirty mostly non-English speakers try to get through it at a pace that was making even me foam at the mouth. It was brilliant.
After the cheese course (we're still in France, after all) a bunch of us learned an Irish dance with partners. I normally count myself as a very poor dancer indeed, but sadly I was one of the few who actually caught on. Clearly, French men were not born to dance and unfortunately most of them were old and smelly. But it was still really fun and everyone was laughing in spite of having their toes repeatedly stomped on.
The rest of the night was just spent socializing, but then suddenly, hop! Everyone was putting on coats and leaving because it was nearly midnight and most of them had apparently arrived by pumpkin coach, not to mention they were all teachers and had school the next morning. I had been hoping that the party would go on a little longer because I was having such a good time talking to my teachers outside of school, and having conversations that went beyond, "So, animals for the next lesson? Great, see you then." I knew mostly everyone at the party, and it seemed that even more people knew who I was, and it felt so good to finally be at a level of French where I could do what I love to do and socialize, schmooze and make jokes. I felt that I gained some insight as to why people might actually enjoy living in Bar-le-Duc, as small and boring as it is. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knows where everyone else went on vacation. Everyone knows everyone else's little quirks, but nevermind that, because when they all get together they still have a great time.
My boss, Isabelle, told me that she was going to be sad to see me leave at the end of April, which is coming up so fast. And for the first time, I realized how sad I was going to be too. I've made great friends, most of them either twice or half my age, and will most likely never see them again. I'll leave Bar-le-Duc in five weeks, au pair in Brittany, work at a camp in Switzerland, return to the States in August, start my Masters in September, and remain in Chicago for the foreseeable future. While there's no doubt in my mind that I'll return to France someday in some capacity, I don't think I'll ever come back to Bar-le-Duc. This town of fallen grandeur, that used to be wealthy and the seat of the duchy, is now poor and lacking in resources. While it's smackdab between Paris and Strasbourg, the TGV speeds through ten times a day, not even slowing down enough for the passengers to read the name of the town on the side of the train station. It's a little blip on the map, cut off from the rest of the country in a wealth of green countryside called Meuse, and most people who are born here die here too. No one leaves because they're happy enough not exploring the world outside and honestly, it's an eerie little place. Seven months have been quite enough here. Perhaps when I think back on my time here, I'll remember how I stayed holed up in my apartment, or struggled to get my classes under control, or how I felt unimportant and insignificant in my schools. But hindsight has a way of bedazzling our memories, and I have a feeling that I'll look back and remember laughing with my students, conversing fluidly in French without feeling self-conscious, and how we all crooned the sad fate of sweet Molly Malone and raised our glasses, our faces flushed with whiskey, and cried, "Sláinte!" in disparate unity.
However, there are times when we all can put aside our own quirky differences and join together to celebrate another culture, and what better time is there than Saint Patrick's Day, when for 24 hours, everyone wants to believe that they are just a little bit Irish. In America, we drink green beer. In France, we have fancy sit-down dinners with whiskey, mini Heineken kegs and, of course, wine. And let me say now, that I have never had a better St. Patrick's Day. I had figured that St. Patty's would be a let down, having just been in Ireland last week (more on that next time) and watching cities gear up for their celebrations. But when I was invited to this St. Patrick's party by some of my teachers with the promise of traditional music and food, I figured why not?
With the party to look forward to in the evening, I showed up for my three morning classes full of Irish spirit. A few of my outstanding students had remembered to wear green and I had to make the hard decision as to whether or not I should pinch the rest. (I ultimately decided it would be a bad idea.) We read a little history of St. Patrick's Day, and then I put on some Irish music as they worked on their themed word search and asked each other, "Où est leepreeshaun?"
In a younger class, I had them repeat some St. Patrick's words while showing them the accompanying pictures. I had an awful realization as I heard "shaymrack" parroted back at me, that I'm teaching my students to speak with an American accent. I suppose there are worse things, but mostly it makes me want to scream, "Don't tell me I really sound like that!" However, if you hear Amelia's impression of me, you'll realize that I do really sound like that. I'd just like to point out that my impression of her is much nicer because I make her sound like the Queen.
Finally the evening arrived, and when Amelia and I showed up unfashionably early, I immediately became wary of the long, nicely set tables with pink and purple napkins (had none of my teachers listened to my St. Patrick's lesson when I stressed several times that green is a rather important color on this holiday?). The fancy table settings were punctuated with bottles of red wine, and I suddenly felt a little hopeless. Could it be that the French were the only nation of people impervious to the Irish brand of jovial merry-making?
But I needn't have feared, because soon the whiskey started flowing, as well as Heineken to my horror, and a few people commented on the Guinness shirt I was wearing by saying, "Do you actually like Guinness?" with looks of disgust. It makes me wonder why Bud Light hasn't caught on in France yet. There would be a killer market for it. The first course was fish and coleslaw (first of all, ew. Second of all, not Irish at all, unless you count the cabbage) and the second course, a very Irish beef stew and potatoes, arrived shortly after. Amelia and I had to insist as vegetarians that no, it was not possible to just pick out the carrots from the beef stew and eat those, and that we were just fine eating bread, thanks.
And then finally, the music began! Amelia and I were pulled up to sing with two of my teachers and we and the band (also comprised of some of my teachers) worked our way through the Irish songbook that had been meticulously put together and distributed to all of the party-goers. We sang classics like Molly Malone, Dirty Old Town, The Wild Rover and... Lord of the Dance. If you're not familiar with Lord of the Dance, it's a fast, upbeat little number that is the universal favorite church hymn, especially the line, "It's hard to dance with the devil on your back." If you are familiar with the song, now try to imagine a room of thirty mostly non-English speakers try to get through it at a pace that was making even me foam at the mouth. It was brilliant.
After the cheese course (we're still in France, after all) a bunch of us learned an Irish dance with partners. I normally count myself as a very poor dancer indeed, but sadly I was one of the few who actually caught on. Clearly, French men were not born to dance and unfortunately most of them were old and smelly. But it was still really fun and everyone was laughing in spite of having their toes repeatedly stomped on.
The rest of the night was just spent socializing, but then suddenly, hop! Everyone was putting on coats and leaving because it was nearly midnight and most of them had apparently arrived by pumpkin coach, not to mention they were all teachers and had school the next morning. I had been hoping that the party would go on a little longer because I was having such a good time talking to my teachers outside of school, and having conversations that went beyond, "So, animals for the next lesson? Great, see you then." I knew mostly everyone at the party, and it seemed that even more people knew who I was, and it felt so good to finally be at a level of French where I could do what I love to do and socialize, schmooze and make jokes. I felt that I gained some insight as to why people might actually enjoy living in Bar-le-Duc, as small and boring as it is. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knows where everyone else went on vacation. Everyone knows everyone else's little quirks, but nevermind that, because when they all get together they still have a great time.
My boss, Isabelle, told me that she was going to be sad to see me leave at the end of April, which is coming up so fast. And for the first time, I realized how sad I was going to be too. I've made great friends, most of them either twice or half my age, and will most likely never see them again. I'll leave Bar-le-Duc in five weeks, au pair in Brittany, work at a camp in Switzerland, return to the States in August, start my Masters in September, and remain in Chicago for the foreseeable future. While there's no doubt in my mind that I'll return to France someday in some capacity, I don't think I'll ever come back to Bar-le-Duc. This town of fallen grandeur, that used to be wealthy and the seat of the duchy, is now poor and lacking in resources. While it's smackdab between Paris and Strasbourg, the TGV speeds through ten times a day, not even slowing down enough for the passengers to read the name of the town on the side of the train station. It's a little blip on the map, cut off from the rest of the country in a wealth of green countryside called Meuse, and most people who are born here die here too. No one leaves because they're happy enough not exploring the world outside and honestly, it's an eerie little place. Seven months have been quite enough here. Perhaps when I think back on my time here, I'll remember how I stayed holed up in my apartment, or struggled to get my classes under control, or how I felt unimportant and insignificant in my schools. But hindsight has a way of bedazzling our memories, and I have a feeling that I'll look back and remember laughing with my students, conversing fluidly in French without feeling self-conscious, and how we all crooned the sad fate of sweet Molly Malone and raised our glasses, our faces flushed with whiskey, and cried, "Sláinte!" in disparate unity.
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