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.