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A Breakthrough

Since my arrival in France, I have been treated like a second-class citizen at the local grocery store.  They must have sent a memo around to all the employees, warning them that an American with poor French skills and therefore very low self-esteem would be arriving shortly and everyone should treat her like a smelly bag of manure that happens to buy a lot of coffee and pasta sauce.  How else to account for the fact that every cashier greets every other customer with a cheerful, "Bonjour!" and ends each transaction with, "Merciaurevoirbonnefinjournéeàvous!"* but I'm only given an icy glare at best? 

However, today I had a breakthrough.  It started while waiting in the checkout line, when I realized that I was unconsciously listening to the conversation between two cashiers.  Normally, I can't just tune into conversations like that, but I was actually understanding them!  Amazing! Granted, it went something like:
"It's cold out.  I used to have a hat, but now I don't."
"Oh wow, that sucks.  You should get another one."
"I know, but I don't want to."
Then my cashier noticed some ice cream cones that someone had decided they didn't want and left to the side of her checkout lane.  She worked herself up into a tizzy about it, saying that someone always left things in her lane, and everyday it was the same, and she was so sick of it.  I suddenly realized she was directing all of this at me, as if I were her confidante.  So I just shook my head as if to say, tell me about it.  This was a good move.  She recognized me as her sympathizer, so as she scanned my items, she started talking about how maybe she should take up mediation, so I laughed as if to say, that's what we all need, isn't it?  She ate it up.  After paying, I wished her "Bonnes Vacances," my current go-to phrase of the season, and she smiled genuinely and said, "Merciaurevoirbonnefinjournéeàvous!"



*Thanksgoodbyehaveaniceday

Reminders to Self:

-  In order to make up for my bad memory and two hundred students, judge children based on their names.  Boys named Jules are always popular, Enzo's are too cool for school and Maxime's are nerds.  Leelou's are adorable, Léa's are smart and kids with unpronounceable names thankfully respond well to "Hey, you, over there."
-  Do not burst out laughing every time a kid shouts "punking pee" instead of "pumpkin pie."  Yes, it is hilarious and I will never be able to think about pumpkin pie the same way again, but after fifty times, it's not funny anymore.  Oh wait, yes it is.

-  "If You're Happy and You Know It" and "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" are great songs for teaching but will immediately cause mass chaos when employed.  Reserve for the last five minutes of the lesson so I can slip out after and their teacher can figure out how to peel kids off the ceiling. 

- Do not ever, EVER attempt to teach "The 12 Days of Christmas" to non-English speakers.  It is not worth the ensuing horror.  Stick with "We Wish You A Merry Christmas."

-  Do not try to explain the difference between Saint Nicholas and Santa Claus.  It will only confuse the children more and cause them to question existence of both.  Easier to say that we celebrate Saint Nicholas Day in the U.S. and follow the teacher's lead and shout "à cause de décalage horaire!" when asked how Santa Claus visits both France and America during the same night, despite the fact that this is confusing to me because I thought décalage horaire meant jet lag which leaves me with the image of a very tired, confused Santa constantly resetting his watch as his sleigh flies through time zones.

-  Kids could care less about culture lessons.  When shown a painstakingly-crafted slideshow of Christmas in America, all they will want to know is how did they get the star on top of the big Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center?  In the future, predict such questions and research answers so we can move on and not get stuck arguing about it for fifteen minutes.

-  Remember that at any moment I may be called upon to do duties outside of my job description.  While being put in charge as a referee of a handball tournament may have really caught me off guard, I learned a valuable lesson:  Never again agree to be a referee of any sport that 1) I don't know the rules to, and 2) that might involve the players charging the referee and screaming in French about a wrongly-called foul.  I’m sorry that I accidentally shouted sortie when I meant trop haut.  I learned the rules five minutes ago.

-  Always wear the annoying rubber band bracelets that the children give me, even if they threaten to cut off my circulation.  Not doing so will prompt severe reprimands and give me a preview of jealous boyfriends to be.  “Why aren’t you wearing the bracelet I gave you?  I thought you said you weren’t going to take it off.  Next time I see you you better have it on.”

-  It would be best never to repeat any vocabulary I learned from reading Bridget Jones' Diary in French, as tempting as it would be to incorporate "frigid bitch" and "dildo" into conversations. 

Ever wonder what a class full of French kids singing “Jingle Bells” would sound like?

 

Frankly my dear, je m'en fous.

I speak French with all of the grace and delicacy of a bull in a china shop, plowing into shelves of fragile tenses, sending the subjunctive flying to the floor and smashing into a million pieces, while the past and imperfect teeter threateningly in their display case.  However, tenses like the simple past and pluperfect are so far from my mind that they're safely stored miles away in the back of the china shop warehouse, covered in dust from disuse.  But needless to say, most people go running as soon as I open my mouth.

This is why I like idioms.  Neatly packaged phrases I can whip out at the drop of a hat that make me sound like I'm fairly adept at French.  And there's one for every occasion!  A student is getting on my nerves?  "Arrête de me casser les pieds!"  (Stop breaking my feet!)  I make a fool of myself (a daily occurrence):  "J'ai fait des bêtises."  (I did some stupid.)  I might "do a greasy morning" by sleeping in until noon and wake up with a "woody mouth" after a night at the discothèque.  When I spend weekends in Bar-le-Duc, I'm "as bored as a dead rat."

And then there's the whole slew of phrases that every French teacher yells at his or her class every five minutes which goes something like this, always with the same inflection:  "Ça y EST!  C'est pas VRAI!  C'est pénIBLE! OH là là!  J'en ai MARRE de vous.  Arrêtez de faire des bêtises!"  (That's it!  Unbelievable!  It's painful!  Oh la la! [no translation needed]  I've had enough of you.  Stop doing the stupid!)  When asked, I will recite this refrain with gusto for entertainment purposes.  My favorite of these phrases right now is "C'est pénible."  It's painful.  According to all the teachers I've met, just about everything is painful.  You accidentally write in print and not cursive?  Painful.  You dropped your pencil case and the contents are now littered across the floor?  Painful.  You don't know the date today?  Painful.  You colored outside the lines?  Painful.

Although my French is improving at the pace of a lethargic snail, I checked out the translated copy of "Bridget Jones' Diary" from the library yesterday.  I'm already picking up on a lot of new slang.  French Bridget says, "Beurk!" a lot, which I'm pretty sure means "Nerds!" in Tina Fey-speak.  I'm learning.

Grand Saint Nicolas

Before they go to bed tonight, all of my students will carefully lay out their shoes, accompanied by a few carrot sticks, and sing a song inviting Saint Nicolas to come and leave them lots of candy and gingerbread while they sleep.  If they've been good, they'll wake up tomorrow to find their shoes overflowing with sweets, and if they've been bad, they'll find only a bundle of twigs, left by the evil butcher in the Saint Nicolas legend, Père Fouettard.  According to the story, Père Fouettard lured away three children and butchered them, salted them, and hid them away in a tub in his shop.  Saint Nicolas came to their rescue and restored them back to life, and Père Fouettard was doomed to follow Saint Nick around for the rest of time, probably so someone could keep an eye on him.  I mean, what a nutter.

Apparently, while the holiday is celebrated throughout many European countries, there are only a few regions in France that recognize it.  Fortunately, Saint Nicolas is the patron saint of Lorraine, so people here go crazy for this holiday, meaning that even Bar-le-Duc was a jivin' place this weekend.  A temporary Christmas market was set up (eat your heart out, Strasbourg) where I had my first vin chaud of the season.  When I went up to the booth to order it, the old man serving me asked, "Un petit?" and held up a glass the size of a dixie cup. 
     I looked at it with dismay.  "Uhh, non, un grand...." I said.  His eyes widened in surprise.
     "Well, at least she's honest!" laughed another woman in the booth.  He grabbed a more acceptably sized cup and filled it to the brim.
     "Merci," I muttered, and handed over my two euros.  Great, now the town will be abuzz that the American is an alcoholic.  I just wanted my vin chaud!

While Amelia and I walked over to the main road to watch the parade, we devised a point system for evening-- deduct one point for every student you see, and two points for every teacher.  However, within ten minutes we had abandoned the game because it was too hard to keep track.  I saw two teachers within a minute of each other, too many students to count, and my boss playing piccolo in the marching band, followed by one of my fellow choir members playing horn behind her.  They both stopped playing their instruments so they could wave at me.

The parade was a lot of fun, especially because it started snowing, and all of the Christmas lights that had been hanging in the streets unlit for the past two weeks were now festively shining.  There were a few floats and a lot of decorated tractors, but obviously the best part was when Saint Nicolas came past on his sleigh at the very end.  He threw out huge handfuls of candy as he passed, which actually hurt quite a bit as they collided with my face.  On the back of the sleigh crouched Père Fouettard, handing out thin tree branches to all of the boys, the logic being that boys are always naughty.  Now, whoever thought that giving naughty boys long, pointy sticks was a good idea should probably be butchered themselves.  I spent the rest of the night shielding my eyes from being poked out as boys whipped their branches around in delight.  Amusingly, anything stick-shaped is called a "baguette," so the parental chorus of the evening was, "Non, non!  Give me the baguette!"  Even more amusingly, baguette is also the translation for wand, so Harry Potter and Voldemort spend two and a half hours running around screaming about baguettes.  I wonder if French people also substitute the image of a baguette in place of wands while watching Harry Potter.   Or is that just me? 

The fireworks show at the end of the evening was nothing short of spectacular and I've really got to hand it to Bar-le-Duc.  The story of Saint Nicolas was told over speakers and all of the exciting parts were punctuated by fireworks, complete with an accompanying John Williams medley.  Amelia and I ooh-ed and ahh-ed and seemed to be the only ones reacting at all.  But really, it was epic!  It was like Christmas and New Year's rolled into one awesome holiday, complete with an evil butcher!

So tonight, I'll put out my shoes too and sing a song, just in case Saint Nicolas decides to pay me a visit.  But if I wake up in the morning and find my shoes empty, I'll know why because the song explains:  "If you don't come, my mother says it's because I'm all grown up."

Bar-le-Duc must be beautiful this time of year, with all that.... SNOW?!

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning to find my garret windows completely covered in snow, which gave the impression that my building had been buried in an avalanche.  As my "windows" are nothing more than skylights that can't be opened, there was no way to brush the snow off of them, just as there was no way to clean off the bird shit that had been encrusted  on one of my windows for the past month and a half.  Now, the blackened bird shit was particularly eye-catching against a backdrop of pure white.

I had thumbed my nose at the forecast for snow the night before, expecting it to be the typical French snowfall that sprinkles a light dusting of quickly-melting flurries.  But when I saw the snow thickly blanketed on the ground and still heavily coming down, I apologized to the French weather gods (les dieux de la météo) for poo-pooing their ability to bring a Midwestern snowstorm to Bar-le-Duc.  For all I know, they were trying to make me feel at home for Thanksgiving.  In which case, thanks, but you really didn't need to. 

Yet I walked to my bus stop in a blissful cloud of delight that usually accompanies the first snow of the season.  There's something about the crispness of the winter air that sharpens the senses, and I was very aware of seeing my surroundings, and of feeling the snowflakes melt as soon as they landed on my face and then run down my cheeks.  And even though I walked to the same bus stop every morning, this morning was the first time I smelled baguettes being baked in the boulangerie.  The warm, yeasty smell mixed with the clean, fresh scent of snow made me want to curl up in front of a fire with a mug of hot chocolate and devour every single baguette in that boulangerie as if my life depended on it.   A moment later, I passed a boy carrying a huge snowball down the street in his mittened hands.  He didn’t seem to have any intention to throw it, but instead just clutched it to his chest as if it was his teddy bear.   Precious, tangible proof of the first snow.

I arrived at the bus stop and twenty minutes later I realized that the bus was never going to come.  My bus stop compatriots stormed off one-by-one, muttering curses under their breath, and started walking to their destinations.  I held out hope a little longer, because my destination was a twenty minute uphill walk away, half of which was an old, stone stairway that I imagined would be nothing short of deadly in the snow.  However, I finally came to terms with my destiny, and began the long ascent.  On the way I passed myriad tiny French cars stuck in the snow, wheels spinning in hopeless pursuit of the crest of hill, and I realized I was at least in a better position than those drivers, who would soon have to get out and push. 

Eventually, I stumbled into school in time for my first lesson of the day.  Fortunately, my day was easy because all of my lessons were the same:  I had the kids write “I am thankful for…” and underneath draw a picture, which I then helped them translate into English.  (Thanks for the idea, Brooke!)  Here are a few of my favorites.  You can click on the picture to enlarge it:

 Notice the four salads and head of lettuce in the picture.  The artist informed me that they were my vegetarian dishes.

 Thomas is thankful for school, for me, and for.... E.T.?

 This student is also thankful for me and drew me looking very sassy in a jaunty little dress.  I hope that's how I come off to all my students.

 This student is thankful for all the members of his family, including his grandparents... depicted by the coffin. 

After class, I dashed off to Nancy to spend the rest of Thanksgiving with Claire, where we feasted on lentil soup, salad and applesauce.  On Saturday, we went to Pont A Musson where some lovely assistants had offered to host a real Thanksgiving dinner.  We ate all the traditional dishes, including my two favorites—sweet potato casserole with marshmallows, and baked macaroni and cheese!  As is also traditional, we ate ourselves sick, took a walk for digestion’s sake, and then ate ourselves sick with dessert, which included a real homemade pumpkin pie (no canned pumpkin in France!)  The evening ended with us watching a Friends’ Thanksgiving episode, followed by Love Actually.  Couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Saint Punish

Sometimes when you find yourself shivering in the bitter cold in the middle of a cemetery nestled in the misty hills of the Lorraine countryside in an unknown village on a Sunday morning, surrounded by people that you don't know, it's good to take a step back and ask yourself, "Now how did I get here again?"

The explanation was simple, or rather would have been simple if I were either fluent in French, or learned to stop nodding my head and responding, "Oui, oui," every time someone spoke to me in this unintelligible, rapid-fire language, and I actually just asked them to slow down and repeat themselves.  The problem with not understanding a good amount of the language is that I end up agreeing to things without realizing it and the next thing I know, I'm developing hypothermia in a cemetery. 

I'm in a choir here, the youngest member by at least fifteen years, and the only foreigner.  While my French skills are frequently lauded in comparison to "the Previous American," as she's disdainfully referred to, I'm still clearly at a disadvantage.  Information takes awhile for me to process when it's verbally conveyed, so I was a good week behind everyone else in terms of finding out about an upcoming concert mass.   And after that, it came to my attention that it was a mass somewhere not in Bar-le-Duc.  Where?  I couldn't tell you because all the surrounding villages are equally incomprehensibly named.  How was I to get there?  I just hoped that someone would think to offer me a ride.  I'd like to think that in some ways I could be compared to a salmon swimming upstream, because I usually don't give into the path of least resistance, but for the past couple of months, I've definitely been enjoying thumbing a ride downstream and letting it carry me wherever it ends up going.  Which is how I ended up in Sampigny, or Saint Puni, as I thought it was called before I saw it written out.  "Saint Punish."

It was 8:05am on Sunday morning, and I was waiting in front of the McDonalds, desperately hoping that my ride had forgotten me so I'd have an excuse not to go.  An hour earlier, I had woken up, desperately hoping that my minor cold had turned into the flu, or I had lost my voice.  No such luck.  So as the minutes ticked by in front of McDonalds, I grew more and more excited.  8:10am.  If my ride doesn't show up in five minutes, I'm going home.  But of course, as soon as I thought that, a white Renault pulled up in front of me, with two of my fellow choir members waving from inside.  Merde.

On the way to Sampigny, I gazed out the window at the fog-covered countryside, and my stomach clenched as we drove beneath a large, white, spinning windmill, whose vanes sliced threateningly through the air and down towards our little car.  The windmills dotted the countryside, their presence disturbing when juxtaposed against the rolling green hills and herds of cows and sheep grazing underneath.  Unnatural.  When we arrived in the village, I tagged along behind my fellow choristers like an eager but bashful puppy, afraid of being left behind.

The church was cold.  A kind of coldness that crept up through your shoes, into your feet, then up your legs and infected the rest of your body.  A kind of coldness that buried itself somewhere deep inside of you that you couldn't shake off.  This is why I thought that, in conjunction with my head cold, I might be hallucinating when I looked up from where the choir sat in the nave and saw a woman dressed in a full-out renaissance gown, complete with thick, black ringlets crowning her face.  She sat wedged in the front pew, next to modernly dressed people, and it was the discomfort she so clearly exuded that gave her away as a real person and not a figment of my imagination.  Renaissance characters from my fantasies always hold themselves with poise.

As I slowly came to realize (once again, a little slow on the uptake), this mass we were singing at was a celebration of the 300th birthday (or was it the anniversary of her death?) of Henriette de Lorraine, a duchess whose castle had been built in Sampigny but destroyed during the First World War.  And some poor woman had been given the task of dressing up as Henriette de Lorraine so we could celebrate her in person.  She had obviously been chosen, not for her acting skills, but for her girth, so that she would match the portrait of the real Henriette that now stood propped on an easel next to the pulpit.  I found it a little odd that her portrait should be so situated in a place of worship, and that the priest kept comparing Henriette's kingdom to the day's Gospel reading and its famous line, "Remember me when you come into Your Kingdom."  Then again, maybe I misunderstood, because I was also sure that the priest said, "Bling-bling."  I was jerked out of my reverie by these words, only to hear him follow up with, "As the young people say today."  So did he really just say that?  We'll never know...

The next thing I knew, I was standing in a cemetery.  After mass was over, everyone had gotten in their cars and in funeral procession fashion, we had driven slowly out of town and made our way up, up, up a narrow little road until we found ourselves outside a cemetery flanked on one side by pure nature as far as the eye could see, and, on the other, an ancient farmhouse with smoke pouring doggedly out of the chimney as if to prove it was still inhabited, despite its ramshackled appearance.  Everyone pushed their way through the cemetery's gates and crowded around a shiny new plaque that the wind had prematurely unveiled.  I pushed to get a look but was shut-out by others more eager than me.  I never did get to read what it said.  When the priest and Henriette incarnate arrived, they futilely recovered the plaque with the maroon cloth that lay on the ground, and then re-unveiled it officially.  Meanwhile, I was standing behind the crowds of people pushing to get a view, staring out at the surrounding hills, themselves veiled in fog and a mist which stung my eyes with its bitter bite.  The view was majestic and I mentally kicked myself for not bringing my camera.  But how was I supposed to know where I would end up today?  Perhaps some day I'll make it back to Sampigny, Saint Puni.  I'll visit the castle ruins and the old mansion of the former French president Poincaré who once made his home here.  I'll revisit the history of this tiny town, once so important-- the seat of the duchy, the home of the president-- but now boarded up against the biting cold, as the windmills turn and turn and the chimneys spew out an ancient-smelling smoke.

In France, we are always on strike or on holiday.

As you can see, I've changed my blog layout.  It's probably the most exciting thing that's happened to me all day.

I had two afternoon classes today and the first one was one that I was going to for the first time.  Between mix-ups, scheduling issues and the like, I've somehow managed to go six weeks without ending up in this class.  If all goes according to plan, there will be another class this Thursday that I'll also be visiting for the first time.  Keeps me on my toes, that school does.  Anyway, since it was my first day in this class of eight and nine year olds, I ran through my well-practiced routine of introducing myself, telling them where I'm from, pointing to Chicago on a map, then New York, miming a large distance, and then answering the question, "Do you live close to New York?" ten times after that. 

The teacher then allowed the children to ask me questions in French.  Always a bad idea because then the kids can actually ask whatever pops into their head and I suddenly have twenty-three hyper French children spewing out questions so fast that even the teacher herself doesn't understand what they're saying.  Here are some highlights:
Are you married?
Do you have any children?
How old are you? (When I respond, one kid falls off his chair in mock surprise.  Am I that old?)
Do you know any children our age? 
Follow up question: What are their names?
What's your job?  (No, I just teach English to snotty-nosed kids in France as a hobby.)
Do you speak French? (I've been responding to all of their questions in French up until this point...)
Do you live in England? 
Do you live in New York?
Do you know Obama?

Next, the teacher asked the kids to tell me what they thought Americans ate for breakfast.  Most said bacon, eggs, omlettes, pancakes, and then one girl raised her hand and said du blé.
"You think that Americans eat flour for breakfast?" the teacher demanded increduously.
The girl nodded her head.
"How do they eat it?  Like this?"  She mimed eating handfuls of flour.
The girl nodded again.
The teacher turned to me.  "I don't know where they get these ideas.  Maybe she means cereal."

After Q&A was over, I passed around my Illinois driver's license which caused everyone to squeal in delight, including the teacher.  I hadn't done this before, but clearly I should have because it was a hit. 

In my second class, we were still on the subject of Halloween.  Christ.  At this point, as long as we finish Halloween by Christmas, I'll be happy.  Yet again, I was subjected to the unending French spew of questions.  Do you dress up?  Do you eat candy?  How much candy?  Can you tell us how many pieces?  Do you ever play tricks on people?  Do kids all dress up like witches and skeletons?  At this point, I felt it necessary to point out that most kids don't dress up in scary costumes (it's an assumption that all my students have made about Halloween).
I said, "A lot of kids dress up like characters from movies or books.  Like Harry Potter."
"Qui?!" the students shouted in unison.
They must know who Harry Potter is, I thought, panicked.
"Uh, you know, Harry Potter."  Blank stares.  "'Arry Pohter?" I tried, putting on my best French accent.
"Ohhhh!  'Arry Pohter!" the kids screamed in delight.
Welcome to my life.


On the Thanksgiving front:  I had to clarify to a teacher today that no, not all immigrants who come to America are called Pilgrims. Then this perplexing conversation in French:
"So are pumpkin pies tartes?" the teacher asked.
"Yes," I responded.
"And tartes aux pommes... that's a pie?"
"Yeah, we'd say apple pie."
"So it's not a cake?" she asked.
"Apple pie?  No, tarte means pie."
At this, the teacher knitted her brows.  "Are there any tartes that are actually cakes?"
I was utterly confused.  "Uh, no, I don't think so."
"Hmm..." she didn't seem satisfied.
"Oh wait!  Boston Cream pie is actually a cake!"  I exclaimed.
"What's that?" she asked, gleeful that she had been vindicated.
"Uhh... it's, I don't know."  How do I explain in French?  "It's... good.  It's so, so good."
She smiled.  "I'm sure I would like it then."
I'm still totally confused about what she meant about pies and cakes.  And now I just want Boston Cream pie. 

In celebration of me finally learning how to embed videos, please enjoy this gem.  All of it is true.

All mimsy were the borogoves and the mome wraths outgrabe

I've noticed that I write most of my posts on Mondays and Thursdays, which happen to be my two busiest days of the week.  Inversely, most posts don't get written on Saturdays or Sundays when I have nothing to do but change from my pajamas into my sweatpants, catch up on my American television, and then lie on the floor and stare at my ceiling in boredom.  Ah, the mysteries of life.  So to continue with this tradition, here is your Monday post.  However, I write this not because I'm on a roll from my busy day, but because I just went to my afternoon school and was in the middle of printing out the worksheets that I spent two hours creating last night, when one of the teachers casually mentions to me, "Oh, there's no English today.  The teacher's not here."  Let me stop and explain something here:  I love not working just as much as the next lazy American.  But when I only have 12 hours of work per week (the other 156 hours being spent either sleeping, eating or sitting in my room slack-jawed and lost in deep reverie), I tend to really look forward to those 12 hours.  I look forward to them even more after I've put a lot of time and effort into planning lessons.  But as is wont to happen, I've found, yet another class has been canceled on me and it's really starting to get under my skin.  Oh well.  This is when I resort to reciting my canon of favorite French phrases:  Laisse tomber, c'est pas grave, tant pis, il n'y a pas de souci... in other words, fuhgeddaboudit.  But if this keeps up, I'm gonna have to coax out my inner Patrick Swayze.  Cause nobody puts baby in a corner.

"So what DO you do with all your spare time?"  That's a great question, man in the back with the ten-gallon hat.  I still listen to my favorite podcasts like Prairie Home, This American Life and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me; watch a lot of American television; make the most exciting meals possible considering I have only two hotplates and a fridge at my disposal and let my room get really messy so then I can spend a good hour cleaning it.  I've also been reading a lot (currently reading The Best American Short Stories of 1998), journaling every day and writing some short fiction when I'm feeling very motivated, and memorizing poetry.  Yes, you read that right, memorizing poetry.  Like I said, I have a lot of spare time. Whip me out at parties when there's a lull and I'll recite Jabberwocky or Kubla Khan, or maybe Shakespeare and Yeats is more your style!  I've got something for everyone!  I run for hours on battery and come with a convenient retractable cord for charging for your all-night poetry slams!  I have a faulty mute button but locking me in a closet works just as well!

Boredom does strange things to people, but don't be fooled!  I still have all my mental faculties and I'm enjoying life up in my little artist's garret.  Here's something to leave you with:  If iterate already means to "perform or utter repeatedly" then is reiterate an unnecessary reiteration of iterate?  Think about it....

Tut, tut, it looks like rain!

It seems that winter has swept across and engulfed the French hinterland over the course of today.  While there's no snow yet, the temperature has plummeted over just a few hours and now it's pouring those little hard pellets of rain that could almost be snow but instead are only just frozen enough so that they hurt like hell as they pelt your face and the back of your neck as you run for cover.  My poor umbrella has been flipped inside out so many times today that now when I open it, it automatically flips itself inside out before the wind grasps the opportunity.  And naturally, I clomped around in my rainboots all morning because the weather report said it would rain, but at lunchtime, when the sun was still briskly shining as it had been all morning, I changed into my non-rain friendly flats.  Needless to say, the skies blackened and turned on the faucet shortly after I left my house again.  Mondays are so vindictive. 

There are some wonderful moments in school that are so small, and perhaps meaningless in the long run, but they make my day anyway.  Like today when a stern teacher was quizzing his students on the four seasons, and one girl raised her hand and said, "Sprinter?"  I thought it was hilarious.  The teacher didn't. 

Or when I was asking a class what the weather was like today, and instead of saying "It's cloudy," a student said, "I'm cloudy."  Why isn't that a real emotion?  It should be.

In one of my last classes of the day today, a beautiful little red-haired girl came up to me to give me a picture she had drawn of a dog, clearly labeled in English- "DOG."  It warmed my heart. 

Classes ended fifteen minutes early today so that all the kids in the school could sing "Ode to Joy" and "La Marseillaise" together.  Not really sure why, but the two songs almost brought me to tears as I stood listening to them with the other teachers.  As soon as the choir teacher gave them the cut-off after the big finale of the national anthem, the school bell rang, perfectly timed, and everyone cheered.

I've found that some of my favorite students are the ones who misbehave.  I can't really put my finger on why that is, but perhaps it's because these kids are so, so good inside but for whatever reason just can't keep their mouths shut or their butts in their chairs or their hands to themselves.  One kid who drives me up the wall came up to me at recess and gave me a piece of candy and smiled shyly at me before running away.  And the so-called "bad" kids are always the ones who make sure to say hello to me in the hallways.  Also, with few exceptions, they're generally the brightest and quickest students in the class.  But let's not forget, these kids are also little devils and I told one boy today that he was a little rat and I felt like I was speaking to a dog because of all the times I had to yell at him to sit.  Of course, I said this all in English so he didn't understand and therefore couldn't get upset, and speaking in my native language always makes me feel better so:  Win/win.

And then there's the know-it-alls.  Oh god, how I hate the know-it-alls.  One girl in particular, who (to be fair) is very clearly one of the smartest students in the class, drives me insane with her quest to become teacher's pet.  She thinks so highly of herself that she even talks to me like I'm an idiot.  I kid you not, this eight-year old girl talks down to me.  I've told the kids that I can speak French, but not very well, so they should speak slowly with me.  So this girl has taken it to heart and will speak to me one word at a time, which is very confusing, and our conversations are as follows:
Girl:  Laura?
Me:  Oui?
Girl:  Comment.... [trails off and looks at me]
Me:  Huh?
Girl:  Comment dit.... [stares very hard at me]
Me:  Comment?
[She clucks her tongue at me and sighs]
Girl:  Comment... [Makes some frustrated gestures] Tu comprends?
Me:  Uh, oui?
Girl:  Comment dit-on?  ("How do you say?")
Me:  Comment dit-on quoi?
Girl:  Comment dit-on en anglais...  [Checks back in with me to make sure I'm still following]  Comment dit-on en anglais la récréation?
Me:  Oh, uh, recess.
[Girl stares at me like she doesn't believe me.]
I tell her, in French, that she doesn't have to speak that slowly to me.  She seems unconvinced. 

Well, I must don my raingear and head out to the train station.  I'm going to Nancy for my official medical exam for immigration, then spending a few days in Strasbourg with my lovely friends from Kalamazoo! 

I passed some good vacations and well-amused myself, thanks.

Hello all!  A thousand apologies for the delay in updating.  I've been romping around the country and just got back from Paris.  Yes, I feel sorry for myself too.

I've been on vacation for the past two weeks for what is known as Toussaint.  If you don't know what that is, that means you haven't religiously been reading my blog.  Go pick up the dunce cap and sit in that corner.  Yes, that one there.  No, face the wall.  I'll tell you when you can go back to your seat.  So as I was saying, I've been on vacation.  While other teachers at my schools went to Tunisia and Tuscany to soak up the sun for two weeks, I was confined to France because I'm not legally allowed to leave the country until the immigration process is officially complete.  You can pick out all of the people who also stayed in France for vacation because we have a matching sun-deprived pallor.  Except for those jerks who went to Nice and Marseille.  We don't talk to them.

I spent my first week in Nancy with Claire and from there we took two day trips-- one to Metz and one to Strasbourg.  Metz is a beautiful, charming city north of Nancy (you may remember my previous trip there to go to Ikea) and we spent the day walking around with two other assistants.  One of the great things about European cities is the ability to walk everywhere.  Urban sprawl hasn't really caught-on here, thankfully, so most cities are condensed into a center of town with residences surrounding it.  Because of this, we were able to walk the length of the centre ville several times, taking lots of pictures and stopping to watch the swans.  

Highlights of Metz: seeing the oldest church in France, built circa 380 AD; seeing the Metz cathedral, which was stunning in and of itself, but was worth it because of this English description of the Rose window (I've included all the spelling errors and bizarre placements of commas):

"When in the choir, let us turn around and, irresistibly, our eyes will look above the front porch, magnetized by the large window, Hermann of Munster's work (+1392).  Unhappily, the lower level was, suppressed in 1795, thus depriving us partly of the procession of the prophets and the apostles.  But what a marvellous catechise, what a sumptuous stone-kneaded preaching.  When going near, gazing at this rose-window the symbol of the universe surrounded with quatrefoils and trefoils, peopled with angels, the sign of the 'New Heaven' promised to believers, we are plunged into a marvellous dream.  Irradiated by the setting sun that seems to put life in it and recreate the motion of a world turned towards its creator, while, right up, the Christ on the Cross with his mother and John the beloved disciple near by, says again: 'It is accomplished' (Jn 19, 30)."

Watch out, that front porch is magnetized.

Our other day trip was our joyous return to Strasbourg!  I had butterflies in my stomach on the train ride there, almost expecting the city to have changed beyond recognition or to just not be there at all.  When Claire spotted the cathedral looming like a gray monolith over the city as our train approached, my heart pounded and my palms grew sweaty.  However, once we walked out of the train station, I felt completely normal.  I waited for some sort of emotional, cathartic outburst that would send me falling to my knees on the sweet Strasbourgeois pavement, weeping uncontrollable tears of joy as I kissed the ground I had missed so much these past two years.  But nothing came.  Instead, Claire and I set off towards centre ville, our inner compasses already reorientated and pointing the way as if we had never left the city.  The closest I got to any emotional state was when we walked out into the open space of Place Kléber, a sight so familiar to both of us, and saw the cathedral spire reaching effortlessly to the clouds.  I took a picture I have taken so many times before.

We wandered around to our favorite places-- Gallia, where we took pictures of the river; Café Brant for the obligatory espresso and internet binge; Orangerie, the beautiful park close to where both of us had lived two years ago; and finally Flam's, a tarte flambée restaurant where we ate ourselves sick.  It was the perfect day.  We took one last stroll through Petite France, the old section of the city, before catching our train back to Nancy.  I was sad we couldn't spend more time there, but it was so good just to be there for a few hours.  It felt like a homecoming. 

The next day, Claire came back with me to Bar le Duc and after approximately one hour she had seen the whole city.  I was surprised to find myself happy to be home and especially happy that Claire was able to see my humble little town.  We ate a ton of food and watched Paris, Je T'Aime to psych ourselves up for our 6:14am train to Paris the next morning.  Unfortunately, 6:14am is still 6:14am no matter how excited you might be to get to your destination and suddenly my dorm mattress felt like the warmest, most comfortable place on earth when I awoke the next day.  Somehow, and I have little recollection as to how, I managed to install myself on the train with a cup of coffee and my travel mates, which now included two other assistants from Bar le Duc, Amelia and Julia.

Paris.  Paris.  How can I describe thee?  I had been so many times before and I was beginning to think that the magic of the city had worn off for me.  After all, I'd seen the Eiffel Tower, Sacré Coeur, the Louvre, the Seine and Notre Dame numerous times.  They were still beautiful and enigmatic, but they didn't evoke the same emotions that they once used to.  Paris was becoming (dare I say it?) blasé.  However, this time around I managed to see so many new places:

The Catacombs (an underground ossuary):

The Luxembourg Gardens:

Versailles:

 And Sacré Coeur at night:

In addition, I was joined by a high school friend, Aaron, and we went on a free three hour walking tour of Paris and did a tour of Montmartre (the bohemian district that Sacré Coeur is located in.  Think Amélie) later that evening, seeing all of the hang-outs and studios of Picasso, Van Gogh and the other Montmartre artists. 

So in the end, I found myself feeling a renewed enchantment with the city of lights, the city of love.  Part of me wished I was staying, but I was still happy when I got back home to Bar le Duc.  I can't quite wrap my mind around it, but I guess I was feeling a little homesick for my tiny French town. 

In other news, my French and English seem to be rapidly deteriorating at the same pace.  The new thing my brain seems to be doing is substituting similar French words for their literal English counterparts, so I end up with awkward phrases like the "I passed some good vacations and well-amused myself, thanks."  J'ai passé des bonnes vacances et je me suis bien amusée, merci.  I suppose it's a good sign, and I remember this phase during study abroad.  Unfortunately, the next thing to happen will be the loss of command of any languages at all.  In which case, look forward to deciphering those hilarious blog posts to come.

Okay, you in the corner, you can take off the dunce cap and go back to your seat.  And don't let this happen again.

Reasons Why My Life Is Pretty Great Right Now

1) Toussaint.  For those not in the know, Toussaint is a glorious two-week break that goes through the end of October through the beginning of November.  The geniuses behind this break have expertly coordinated its scheduling so that it falls just as the exciting novelty of the new school year has worn off and the little kiddies have started going bonkers.  [See my previous entry if you feel that this statement needs elaboration.]  The timing of this break has been effectively absorbed into the French's circadian rhythm, so as of today, it's all anyone can talk about.  It's like everyone woke up this morning with a one-track mind:  TOUSSAINT!  Even the copier broke down this morning and one of the teachers joked, "Ah, it's started its vacation early!"  Then she asked me how to say Hors Service in English and when I walked past the copier later I saw her handwritten sign that read:  OUT OFF ORDER.  I didn't bother to correct it.  I'm on vacation from teaching English.

2)  I bought cheddar cheese yesterday.  Cross off "They don't have cheddar cheese in France" from my list of "Reasons Why I Probably Want to Go Back to America." 

3)  My birthday.  It's this Saturday and one of my classes remembered and sang me Happy Birthday four times-- twice in English, once in French and once in German.  Then they all wanted to do la bise (the cheek-kissing) with me, so they stood on their tiptoes and I bent down, and my heart just about exploded from kissing all of these adorable little French children.

4)  I'm eating organic Simpsons pasta while watching the Simpsons.  The fact that they have organic Simpsons pasta here is another reason why France is a great country. 

5)  I have eight different types of cheese in my fridge.  See #4:  France is a great country. 

6)  Halloween.  Because of this legendary American holiday, all of my lessons for the month of October have been easily planned thus garnering my first month of teaching the official label of: easy-schmeasy.  However, expect the second month to be more difficult when I have to stretch Thanksgiving into four weeks of interesting lessons.  Turkeys, pilgrims and atrocities committed to Native Americans aren't as interesting to French kids as skeletons, vampires, ghosts, zombies and pumpkins.  I have no idea why. 

7)  Revisiting my childhood on a daily basis.  When was the last time you sang "The Farmer in the Dell," "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes," "The Wheels on the Bus," and "Five Little Pumpkins"?  It's been a few years, hasn't it?  I get to sing them everyday!  Expect my patience for these songs to grow thin by mid-December and have me ripping my hair out by March.

8)  I have awesome friends here who make me laugh a lot.  Wherever you go, you should always find friends who make you laugh.

9)  My French is getting better.  Very slowly, but steadily.  And I do believe, friends, that it was the slow and steady tortoise who won the race.  So in my proverbial race, I will very, very slowly learn French and by April I'll be fluent while those who have learned French very quickly will... lose.  Yep.  (Please just allow me this fantasy.)

10)  I had to explain to one of my teachers today that no one really knows the verses to "We Will Rock You," until you get to "duh duh duh duh MUD ON YOUR FACE, YOU BIG DISGRACE!"  He asked me if I could listen to the song and write down the lyrics for him.

Thank you, Google, for coming up with this video when I searched, "We Will Rock You France"

Un Gros Mot

In my CM1 class today (nine and ten year olds), a rather precocious girl told me she knew how to say a grand mot* in English.  Thinking that this meant a "big word," I foolishly asked her what it was.
     "Fuck!"  She shouted, grinning devilishly.  Before I could catch my jaw, it hit the floor with a deafening thud. 
     "Non non non non!"  I cried.  "Tu ne peux pas dire ça!"  But in spite of myself, I found that I was laughing along with the rest of the class.  Gone was my lesson plan about skeletons in kitchens, bats in bathrooms and witches in living rooms.  I spent the rest of the class period trying to keep the other kids from repeating their impish classmate and fending off requests that I say the word.  Or better yet, translate it for them.  I'm fortunate that my students like me and think I'm funny because I could see see how this situation could've turned out badly, with me fighting for control of the classroom.  But I just kept repeating French phrases like, "Oh la la, c'est pas vrai!"  (Unbelievable!), "Tu m'énerves!"  (You're getting on my nerves!), and "Ça suffit!" (That's enough!), while shaking my head and laughing.  They love it when I speak any French at all, and soon we had at least switched to an American culture lesson, albeit in French.
     "What are the names of the supermarkets in the U.S.?"  (They couldn't believe we didn't have any of the big French stores there, like Auchan, Cora and E. Leclerc.)
     "Do you like McDonalds?"  (Gasps and feigned heart attacks abounded when I said I was a vegetarian.)
     "How do you say vampire?"  (Vampire.)
     "How do you say Dracula?"  (Dracula.)
     "How do you say mummy?" (Mummy.)
At this point, the classroom had deteriorated into tiny French children bouncing off the walls, and just when I thought I was going to lose my mind, the bell for lunch rang.
     "Ça sonne!" I shouted, and everyone cheered.  Including me.
As the kids filed out into the hallway, my little imp came up to me and said in French, "At least you'll never forget me!"  Truer words were never spoken.

*Thanks to Lucie who pointed out that she probably said gros mot, not grand mot, which makes a lot more sense.

There Goes the Baker With His Tray, Like Always, The Same Old Bread and Rolls to Sell. Every Morning Just the Same, Since the Morning That We Came to this Poor Provincial Town.

As yet another week draws to a close in France, I can say with certainty that life is beginning to take on a quotidian normalcy again.  I haven't figured out if that's a good or a bad thing.  On one hand, it's nice to have a solid schedule of classes plotted out in my free planner (thanks Banque Populaire!), I'm having a great time developing rapports with all of the different teachers, and I've figured out exactly how late I can leave my apartment every morning and still get to the bus stop in time.  Well, almost.  I missed the bus to school on Tuesday and had to power walk for 30 minutes straight uphill to get to school, and burst into the teachers' lounge panting heavily and covered in sweat.  Oh... bonjour, everybody.  In my defense, the bus came early, which I had not thought to factor into my apartment departure time.  I guess there's still some room for spontaneity.  I just don't like the kind that makes me have to go uphill.

However, the downside to my now-conventional life is, well, just that-- it's conventional.  I no longer wander through the 15th century streets with my eyes wide open in awe, drinking in the sights and marveling at how lucky am I to be living in this fairytale world of France; rather, I wander through these same streets, my eyes glued to the ground so that I can dodge the dastardly dog residue that the French seem to have a sixth sense for avoiding.  I take the bus up and down and up and down the hills, and when the bus turns onto the road that rises straight up into Ville Haute, I don't stare out my window anymore at the majesty of the little city unfolding beneath me-- the view that caused me to audibly gasp the first time I saw it.  And I'm slowly coming to realize that the people living here were not placed here solely for my benefit.  I am not Belle and this is not my big song and dance number in the village square.*  As much as I wish that people popped their heads out of their windows to say Bonjour! to me, that's not the case.  What I mean is that these people have probably been living in Bar le Duc their whole lives and one American is not going to shake things up that much.  A good handful recognize me, a lot know my name, but few people really care that I'm here and even they don't lose sleep wondering whether I'm settling in okay and making friends.  Blame it on the insular world of Kalamazoo College, but I find it a little hard to adjust to. 

There are little things I do to combat the drone of daily life though.  Like going for a run yesterday.  Do you know how much I hate running?  A lot.  I really, really hate running.  My whole body seizes up as soon as it feels my pace change from the steady walk it's come to love and appreciate.  I try to trick my body by slowly building up from a walk to a power walk to a slow and steady jog and finally to a full-out run.  But as soon as my feet begin to pound against the pavement in a quick rhythmic tattoo, my body is like, "Whooaa, sister, you want me to do what now?"  Usually the subsequent side stitches have me doubled over in pain shortly thereafter, but yesterday I ran two miles (part of it straight uphill) and I only had to stop twice for fear of my lungs collapsing!  Huzzah!  I've decided that my completely unrealistic goal of running the Paris half-marathon in March is now only slightly less unrealistic.

I also try to contribute to the community culture by singing in a choir every Thursday night.  I'm no stranger to community choirs, and have often found myself the youngest person there.  In this choir  I'm clearly the youngest by at least a decade and a foreigner which either gets me double brownie points or puts me at a double disadvantage, depending on how you look at it.  The other choir members are comprised of your typical screechy sopranos, consistently-flat altos,   tenors whose voices crack like a prepubescent's and a bass section that rumbles around searching desperately but fruitlessly for a note to cling on to like a lifesaver in shark-infested waters.  I've also come to realize that the chatty, undisciplined kids in my classes grow up to be chatty, undisciplined adults in choirs.  I've never seen a director have to fight so hard for the attention of a choir, who all seem to view this thing called "singing" as an annoying impediment to their social time.  (Keep that in mind, Mom!)

There are other things that keep me going though: weekly drinks with the other assistants in town, my Nook (currently reading Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, which I highly recommend),  500 GB's of movies on my external hard drive, and that constant itch to write-- although I haven't been very disciplined about it.  But before you think that I'm not enjoying myself, let me step in and say that I'm loving it here and wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.  I love my classes, love the kids, love the teachers, etc.  But it was the French who coined the term "ennui," which is the only appropriate word to describe how I'm feeling.  I bet whoever came up with that word lived in Bar le Duc. 


*I will say, however, that my life is exactly like the opening sequence of Beauty and the Beast, minus the song and dance.  Especially all the parts about the strange, peculiar, odd girl who doesn't quite fit in.  I get the feeling that old ladies whisper about me behind my back all the time.

Voilà, l'internet!

You may have heard the rumors circulating on Facebook, but I am here to confirm that YES, I HAVE INTERNET!   As soon as I got it all hooked up and working, I felt the muscles in my body relax on command, as if my brain had sent a surge of seratonin coursing through my body, or as if I was a junkie getting her first hit of smack in the morning.  I would imagine.  I celebrated with an immediate internet binge (that I'll admit I'm still in the midst of) that will probably last for three days straight, after which I'll feel very poorly about myself and the time I wasted online, and take a break for a day or two before I break down and binge again.  I'll admit that it's an unhealthy situation.  But I'm in control, I swear.

But I should be thankful for another reason-- surviving my first week of work!  Granted, I use the term "work" here very loosely.  I mostly sat in the backs of various classrooms, piping up to give a pronunciation here and there when the teacher asked and having this conversation over and over and over again:
Kid:  "Hello!"
Me:  "Hello!"
Kid:  "What is your name?"
Me:  "My name is Laura.  What's your name?"
Kid:  "My name is [insert impossible-to-understand French name here]"
Me:  "Hi, [mumblemumble], how are you?"
Kid:  "I am fine.  How are you?"
Me:  "I'm great, thanks!"
Kid runs out of phrases and backs away, and the next one comes up to start the conversation again.  Repeat.

Variations on this theme include:  "Where do you come from?"  Answer:  The United States.  "England?"  No, the United States.  It's the United States.  "You are English?"  Um, no, American.  Chicago?  "Ohh, gangster!"  Yes, I am a gangster. 

I have also never said "hello" and "goodbye" so many times in my life!  I at least need to teach the kids "hi" and "bye" to cut down on some syllables.  I thank my lucky stars that there are other English-speaking assistants in Bar le Duc, because I think I might go crazy from having the same limited conversation otherwise.  But the kids are cute and excited about learning English, I'll give them that.  I'm glad I don't have to worry about motivating angsty teenagers, and they probably wouldn't laugh at my silly faces and dramatic readings of "Which Witch's Wand Works?" like the kids do.  Next week, the Halloween lessons begin.  Anyone have any favorite Halloween songs or rhymes that they'd like to share?  When I was in France last time, I taught the boy I babysat, "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!  If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear!"  He loved that, but somehow I don't think it would go over real well in a school....  Yeah, I probably shouldn't have taught it to him either.

Cowpies and Paris

Bonjour à tous!  Apologies for the lack of updates, but I hope my poem kept you satisfied.  I’m still sans internet, although I received a text at 4am last night from the internet company saying that it should be activated this Saturday.  Why they chose texts as their mode of communication, I’m not sure.  Although it makes more sense than email, seeing as how I don’t have internet… In any case, because of the lack of internet chez moi, I’ve been at the mercy of the McDonalds wifi, which chose to take an elongated break over the past few days.  Yesterday, I asked one of the employees if the internet was working again, and she said, “Oui, ça marche!”  However, when I turned on my computer, I couldn’t get a signal and another guy said it wasn’t working for him either.  Anonymous McDonalds employee, you are now on my blacklist.

In any case, what a few weeks it’s been.  Claire, my friend from Kalamazoo who studied abroad with me in Strasbourg, arrived last week and we’ve had many (mis)adventures already.  Put the two of us together and something is bound to go awry.  We are an idiot.  Take, for example, our search for furnishings.  It’s a long story that I will regale you with in detail some other time perhaps, but in a nutshell—we took the bus out to a suburb of Nancy, looking for the cheap furniture store Alinéa, which, according to the map, was supposed to be very close to the bus stop at which we arrived.  However, after a few miles’ walk out into the middle of cow country, it was still nowhere to be found.  We were getting ready to turn around and head back, when I spotted the store.  “There it is!”  I shouted.

Yes, it was across a valley. (Click on the picture for a full-sized view, complete with arrow.)

So down we trekked (fortunately there was a walking path), traipsing through fields and pastures, stopping to take pictures with a few of the locals.

When we reached the end of the walking path, however, Alinéa was still tantalizingly out of reach, and I used the word tantalizingly in its full sense.  Alinéa was our fruit and water and we were poor Tantalus, but in this case, all we wanted was a cheap rug and some bedding. 

Back we went to Nancy, the day only half over, and we decided that we’d go up to Metz, a big city north of Nancy.  Because there lay the cheap furniture mecca—Ikea.  You’d think that it would be even more difficult to go to a completely different city that we’d never been to before, rather than simply take a bus out into the suburbs, but the rest of the day came off without a hitch.  We took the train from Nancy to Metz for only 5 euros each way, and once we arrived in Metz, we found the bus that dropped us off right in front of Ikea.  Hallelujah!  Although it bordered on agony to lug back all the stuff that we bought, it was still easier than hauling our luggage across Paris.  It’s all about perspective. 

This past weekend, Claire and I went to Paris for Nuit Blanche (literally, White Night) during which, from 7pm to 7am, chic bourgeoisie Parisians (or drunken teenagers, take your pick) wandered around to different art exhibits, concerts and films, ranging from the simple storefront installation to a full-on Big Band concert in the Pompidou center (my personal favorite).  I won’t bore you with the twelve hours of wandering we did but I will say that at 5am, when we had nearly lost it with fatigue, we stopped by the Artisan Boulangers exhibit where Parisian bakers, who had been baking all night, handed out fresh patisseries for free.  I ate a croissant there that literally melted in my mouth.  That made the whole night worth it.  That, and getting a grande coffee at Starbucks.  Real coffee!  Starbucks!  It’s amazing the little things that make you feel at home.  

 In other news, I started observing classes this past week.  While it’s been a little stressful trying to figure out my exact schedule as it seems that every teacher wants to teach English at the same time and few are willing to move their schedules around, I’m still really looking forward to my job!  The kids are, almost without exception, adorable.  As soon as they see me, whether it’s in class, in a hallway, or waiting for the bus after school, they say, “Hello!” with their thick French accents.  And when I say hello back, they grin and blush and whisper excitedly to the other kids around them.  I think they finally learned the phrase “Turn around” because that’s what I keep having to tell them as I sit in the back of their classrooms and they all turn in their seats to stare at me, open-mouthed.  My favorite cute kid moment so far was yesterday, when a little girl whispered something to me as I stood close to her, observing class.  I leaned down and asked her to repeat it.  “Tu es belle.” (“You’re beautiful”).  I just about lost it!  I grinned and thanked her and told her she was sweet.  I didn’t even want to correct her—the kids are supposed to use the formal vous with me, not tu! 

My orientation is tomorrow, after which I’ll finally start “assisting.”  Hopefully my job description will become a little clearer, because right now I’m not really sure what I’ll be expected to do.  On verra!  For now, I’m enjoying being the celebrity among the kids.  I hope that doesn’t wear off anytime soon. 

A la prochaine! 

(Renard is Fox in French!)

Reflections

It’s easy to get distracted

by the river’s gentle pace

as you try to match it

to your own. Like lace,

the weeping willow’s tendrils

drape sweetly on the water’s edge,

caught briefly in the current’s pull,

but, caught by wind, instead

drifts upwards, tangling others in its grasp,

then sinking down again,

once the wind has had its laugh,

to kiss the river’s surface.

Yet to watch this playful folly

on the banks of the Ornain,

I can’t help but feel a little sad.

For as I watch this game unfold,

(just as countless others have perhaps)

and the scene has drawn my gaze

to elsewhere but the ground,

I notice that my foot gives in

to something quite less solid than before,

and ere I look I know what I will see.

No, I am not the first to walk

this path along the shore.

Others have walked along this path before,

and not alone, if I may add.

Oh, what a fool was I,

distracted by the view!

For as you see,

I’m ankle deep in dog shit.

Oh, ça pue!

Lazy Sunday

Basically everything is closed on Sundays in France, so I spent most of my day sitting in my cold, cold room and trying to decorate a little bit.  Then I realized it's high time I put some photos up of my place so you can imagine me there.  Just picture me with a little beret and baguette under my arm and you've pretty much got the idea.

 My bedroom!

 And on the other side, my dining room...

 Kitchenette

 Shelves stocked full of French food and Water Street coffee.

 My bathroom.  Not very exciting.

 As you can see, I've started putting up some pictures above my bed!  Look closely, there's probably one of you.

The view from my window!

Le week-end

Hello friends!  Well, it’s been another successful day in Bar le Duc.  I let myself have a lazy Saturday morning, drinking coffee out of a bowl (French-style, but also because I don’t have any mugs) and doing the last bit of unpacking.   I finally feel settled in, but I’m still looking forward to a trip to Ikea.  The bare lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling aren’t very homey, and I’m going to get frostbitten toes from the cold tile floor if I don’t find a rug.  But other than that, everything seems to be functioning well and I’m enjoying the independence that comes with have my own little place.  While I loved my host mom in Strasbourg, I could never get over the fact that I was still a guest in someone else’s home.  Last night, I celebrated making my first dinner in France with a green pepper, tomato and emmental cheese omelette, baguette with tartare (a cheese spread with garlic and herbs—Strasbourg ladies, you know what I’m talking about) and bien sûr, a glass of wine.  The bottle of wine was under 3 euros and from Alsace, so I figured I couldn’t go wrong with that.  Have I mentioned that I love France?

So back to today.  I decided to take a walk around town and get my bearings, which led me to wander up the main street, Boulevard de la Rochelle and then into the Ville Haute, the medieval part of town that’s high above the rest of the city.  It was quite the hike, but once I was up there, the streets turned into narrow little passageways with alleys and paths veering off in every direction.  I would’ve gotten completely lost except that I knew that to find my way home, I just had to go down.  I visited St. Etienne, a beautiful church with a famous sculpture that was incredibly beautiful but darkly gothic. 

After that I took another hike up through the city’s old fortifications where I found the local museum and the clock tower, for which Bar le Duc is famous.  The tower wasn’t open for tours at the time, so I just stood outside and tried to summon one of the local cats over to me.  Didn’t work.  Méchant minou!

 Finally I made my way back down to the main part of town, guided by the steeple of Notre Dame right outside my house.  I stopped at the tabac by my house (they sell things like cigarettes, magazines, lotto cards, etc) to buy some phone credits.  I finally got a taste of being the “celebrity American” when the cashier asked me if I was English.  When I said no, I was American, his face lit up with a huge smile!  He said his daughter was going to study abroad in the U.S. in January (he didn’t know where yet) and asked where I was from.  When I said Chicago, his smile grew even bigger.  As I was leaving the store, I heard him say to the other people in line, “Elle vient de Chicago!  Elle est Americaine!”  If only being American always garnered this response. 

I’m going to look into buying internet on Monday, but for now, it’s still McDonalds.  Yes, Daniel, it’s hard to break my daily two quarter pounders with extra mayo habit.  But I’m working on it.  For now, a view of the city from Ville Haute:

Bonjour from Bar le Duc!

Bonjour tout le monde!  I'm finally here in Bar le Duc!  What a day (or two) it's been.... My flights were all great but the SNCF strike really tested me.  Let's start with my arrival in Paris.  After I passed through customs, I saw the sign that read SORTIE (exit) and immediately went through the sliding doors and they shut behind me.  But it turns out that you were only supposed to pass through that door after collecting your luggage from the baggage carousel.  I wish I could blame this on lack of directional signage, but no, it was completely my fault.  So, that was my first moment of panic because it was forbidden to enter back through those doors.  I ran to the information desk and explained that I had forgotten to pick up my bags after customs and the man simply told me, "No problem.  As soon as the next person exits through the sliding doors, just run back through them."  I thought this was a terrible idea and that if a terrorist asked him the same question, this man would've unwittingly let them bypass security.  But who was I to complain.  So I ran through the sliding doors as they opened and someone walked out and was immediately stopped by a police office (of course) but I frazzledly (not a word I'm sure) explained in botched French that I forgot to pick up my luggage.  He smirked and let me pass, and then I heard of surge of laughter rise behind me as he told the other officers what I had done.  Stupid American. 

The next order of business was getting on the RER (the suburban Metro) to get the the Paris train station.  Unfortunately, this was the first time trying to carry all my luggage by myself, and it turned out to be much more difficult than I had imagined.  My back ached almost immediately from my huge backpacking backpack, and I thought my arm was going to fall off from dragging my big rolling suitcase behind me.  I had to take frequent breaks.  Once on the RER I had a welcome half hour rest as it rode into the city itself.  As the graffiti-tagged banlieues outside Paris raced passed me, I smiled at the sight.  I was finally in France.  I felt completely different from the last time I arrived in France, two years ago.  Even though I had been with ten other people and I was going as part of a program that had planned out every travel detail for me, I had been a complete wreck when I arrived in Strasbourg.  But this time around, I felt comfortable and at ease.  The sights weren't new for me anymore, but familiar.  As we approached Gare du Nord, Sacré Coeur rose from the skyline, perched on its hill overlooking the city.  Had my camera not been packed at the bottom of my backpack, I would've taken a picture because it was a beautiful vision. 

Finally we arrived at Gare du Nord, and my next mission was to get to Gare de l'Est, from where (I hoped) my train to Bar le Duc would be departing.  Even though the two train stations are only a few blocks apart, I opted to take the Metro because of my bags.  Well, if only I had known how relatively simple it was to carry my suitcases through the airport, I might have appreciated it more.  Because once I got off the RER, I had to carry my luggage up and down multiple staircases in order to take the Metro.  Even though my boss had emailed me to warn me against accepting help from strangers who offered to carry my suitcase, I still allowed two different men to help me carry them up and down the stairs.  Obviously if they were sketchy looking and smelled bad I probably would've said no, but they were both so nice and polite, and one of them joked that he hoped I would find some escalators during the rest of my journey and wished me bon courage. 

So then I was at Gare de l'Est, talking to the man at the information desk, who informed me that ALL trains to Bar le Duc had been canceled.  ALL OF THEM.  If it hadn't been for the Valium I had taken at the beginning of my journey, I probably would've burst into uncontrollable sobbing on the spot.  But fortunately, I held it together as he told me that there was a train living in 20 minutes for St. Dizier, which was about 30km from Bar le Duc.  I tried to call my boss, Isabelle, from a pay phone to let her know my situation, but the phones only accepted Carte Bancaire, which is a debit card with an electronic chip (they call it a puce or "flea" in French).  Well, I didn't have one.  So my only choice was to get on the train and hope for the best once I got to St. Dizier.  Fortunately, I had bought a first class ticket originally (it had only been 6 euros more than the second class!), and that still carried over to this train.  This was a life saver, because the train car was awesomely comfortable, spacious and nearly empty, save for a nice group of Australians who helped me with my luggage. 

The train ride itself was fine.  I slept most of the time, then woke up and got a bloody nose out of nowhere.  Fortunately the train's carpet was red so I kind of let it leak on there til I could find my kleenex..... gross.  Once in St. Dizier I had to wait two hours to take the bus to Bar le Duc.  This was probably the low point in my journey because I felt completely stranded.  Even though I knew I could take the bus to Bar le Duc, it still felt like I was caught in uncertainty.  Would the bus actually come?  Would it take me to the right place?  Once I was there would I be able to find Isabelle?  Fortunately, it was yes to all three.  Besides the awkward encounter with the bus driver asking me to come back to his place (was he serious??) and the minor inconvenience of the strike going on in Bar le Duc as well, causing traffic to be really jammed up, I got the the Bar le Duc station, borrowed a nice person's phone and called Isabelle to come get me.

Isabelle is, in a word, amazing.  She took me to get my paperwork filled out at the foyer at which I'll be living, helped me bring all my bags up three flights of stairs to my room, then took me back to her apartment so she could make me dinner and so that I could email my parents from her computer.  She told me she'd be my mother for the time I was here!  I feel a lot better knowing that she's here to help me out.  After that, I went back to my room and crashed for 13 hours.  I've been feeling great all day so I'm hoping I beat the worst of the jetlag. 

Today was mostly running errands.  Got my bus pass (so I can ride the bus for free!), bought some groceries and unpacked... kinda.  It's still a mess.  But I'm really feeling settled in, and hopefully the weather will be nice tomorrow so I can explore the city (it was pouring rain all day, which led to a funny conversation with Isabelle about the idiom "It's raining cats and dogs."  She asked, "Do people actually say that?")

Alright, McDonald's is closing soon (I don't have internet yet so here I am....) so I should wrap up.   Stay tuned for more exciting updates....

Aeroport

At the airport with two hours to kill. I'm tempted to have a glass of wine, but then I think: in 24 hours I'll be in France. Wouldn't it be insulting to waste my money on a cheap glass of American wine when I could get a bottle of good French wine for the same price tomorrow? Probably. But it doesn't make a glass of wine in O'Hare seem any less appealing.

Un Bon Voyage (I Hope)

Since midnight has come and gone, I guess I can officially say that I leave today.  I'll keep it brief because I'm tired and still have an episode of Mad Men to watch before bed...  In short-- I'm excited, but mostly overwhelmed and anxious.  Found out today that SNCF (the French train system) will be on strike when I arrive, so I have no idea if my train will be running.  If not, I'll have to catch another one, but that throws off my whole schedule, like meeting my boss in Bar le Duc and getting the keys to my apartment.  But you know what?  I'm going to France.  And what better way to arrive than during one of their infamous grèves?  I'll just down an espresso, grab a baguette and find a park to read in until I can catch a train.  That actually doesn't sound so bad, does it? 

Alors, au revoir, mes amis.  A la prochaine! 

One week, or should I say, une semaine?

That's right, one week. Or according to my handy dashboard widget--6 days, 23 hours.

I was mildly productive today. I called Sallie Mae to ask what to do about my loans that I'll have to start paying back in January and was told that they don't accept payments from foreign banks. Something to do with the exchange rate, the woman with the thick southern accent told me, before informing me that she had never left the United States, as if this had some bearing on the matter. Unfortunately, I started spacing out as she listed my other repayment options. Something about an international money order made out in U.S. currency. Too much to think about right now.

After that, I read about fused participles on the New York Times grammar blog. They sound much more exciting than they actually are, but have the potential to make me sound like a bad ass.
"Hey, Laura, what did you do today?"
"Oh not much, just corrected some fused participles."
"That's bad ass."
If I had said, "Oh not much, just inserted a possessive before the gerund, thereby making the sentence grammatically correct..." Well, it doesn't really have the same ring to it.  (By the way, I had no idea what a fused participle was before today. I can barely tell you the difference between a direct and indirect object. The rules of grammar never really stuck with me which is why I find this blog so enlightening.)

In addition to grammar blogs, I'm painfully making my way through The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.  I'd rather read the collected works of Dan Brown five times over while sticking needles in my eyes than this book.  At least Dan Brown's novels are page-turners, which is more than I can say about this supposed crime thriller.  I'm about 400 pages in, and it's FINALLY (thank god) holding my attention.  In addition to being poorly written, it's poorly edited too.  It could've been cut down by about 300 pages (by that, I mean the first two-thirds of the book could have literally been ripped out).  Not to mention it's being hailed as a "feminist" novel, but all I see is a female character that doesn't fit the "normal" female lead crime thriller stereotype (except for the fact that she DOES because she still partially exists just to be a sexual partner for the lead male detective, but at least she gets to do a little detecting too), and who is horrifyingly accepting of her being sexually abused (let me digress for a moment and point out the totally non-fused participle that just happened in that sentence.  Woo!)  Then again, it's been on the bestseller list for months (a whole lotta good that's going to do the dead author), made into a film, and has had two successful follow-up novels too.  Shows what I know.  Maybe I should reevaluate my desire to go into publishing.

That rant aside, I think I'm going to go read some more.  One hundred pages til I'm done and can go read a good book.  At least it's serving to distract me from the fact that I'm leaving in one week!