First Week of Vacation Wasted? Check.

The first week of vacation is almost over and I couldn't be more thankful.  Awhile ago, I decided that I wouldn't mind spending the first week in Bar-le-Duc.  I figured I would finally finish reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, perhaps start a new book (maybe even in French!), go for jogs, do yoga, hike through the forest, write, and generally do a lot of fun, relaxing things that I would feel good about myself for doing.  Fast forward to today:  I have done none of those things.  Okay, maybe hiking and running were ambitious as I would actually have to leave my apartment to do those things.  Yoga was a little iffy too because I'd have to unroll my mat, and who has time for those things?  And when I think about it, did I really imagine I could pick up that book completely within arm's reach and open it to the bookmarked page?  And writing?  HA!  I must've been drunk when I came up with my vacation to-do list.

Instead,  I have filled my days with Q.I. (Quite Interesting), the amazing BBC quiz-type show hosted by Stephen Fry from which I've learned an absurd number of things, none of which I can remember right now; Doctor Who (Amelia, I am shaking my fist at you for getting me hooked); and Frank McCourt's 'Tis on audiobook, which is like an Irish grandfather reading you the most depressing bedtime story ever.  So really, things could be worse.  Even though I have done nothing but go from lying in bed and doing the above things, to sitting in a chair and doing those things while eating, and then going back to lie in bed with a supply of cookies and tea to do those things, at least I haven't become a meth addict over break.  It's all about perspective.

Yesterday, however, I felt it was time to break the vicious BBC/ tea cycle, so I hopped on a train to Reims, the champagne capital of the world.  Just an hour away from Bar-le-Duc, Reims was a major city back in the day, hosting the coronations of all the French kings in its huge, gothic cathedral that gives Notre Dame of Paris a run for her money.  The city was badly damaged in both world wars, but it was in Reims that Eisenhower received word of the Germans' surrender in May 1945.   Reims is a modestly-sized city, probably comparable to nearby Nancy and Metz, so I was easily able to see its sights in just a day.  No, I didn't have any champagne (it's just as expensive in Reims as it is everywhere else) but getting out of Bar-le-Duc was refreshing and bubbly enough.

 The Subé fountain, erected in 1930.  The angel at the top, "Victory," was taken by the Germans in WWII, but finally given back in 1989. 

 Notre Dame of Reims (completed early 14th century).  The French kings have all been coronated on this very site, even before the cathedral was constructed.  Clovis, the first king of the Franks, was baptized on this spot in 496 AD by Saint Remi.

The interior

 Chagall's stained glass windows in the cathedral

 Saint Remi Basilica (early 11th century)

 The interior of the basilica

 The monastery, which is now the Saint Remi museum

 Buildings on one of the main roads

Today, I finally start my real vacation!  It'll be a whirlwind of planes, trains and automobiles as usual, plus ferries even.  Train to Paris tonight, plane to Dublin tomorrow morning, bus to Galway in the afternoon, and then a ferry to Inishmore on Saturday morning.  I will resist the urge to speak in an Irish accent, lest the locals think I'm mocking them and throw me off the cliffs... but I really can't be held responsible after a few pints.  Sláinte!

Bientôt les Vacances

Lately, there's been a whisper in the air.  Synaptically jumping with imperceptible speed and immediacy, it's made its way from student to teacher, from teacher to student, linking their minds with horrifying unity as this whisper grows louder and louder and louder and infects each individual with the robotic determination of a one-track mind... bientôt les vacances, bientôt les vacances, bientôt les vacances...

Yes, it's nearly vacation-time again and while the students are especially squirmy and the teachers groan about how the break can't come soon enough, I'm saying, "What?!  Already? Didn't we just get back from one?"

Every six week or seven weeks, lucky French children are blessed with a two-week break.  We've already had Toussaint in October/November, Christmas break in December/January and we'll be having Winter break in February/ March, Easter break in April/May and les Grands Vacances in July/August/September.  Yes, you read that right.  October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May, July, August, September.  Every month of the year, excluding June, is at least partially covered by some break.  We Americans can at least take some spiteful pleasure in knowing that the French kids will be in school until July 2nd, whereas we get out, yes, a whole two weeks earlier in June (alright, or less, depending on how many snow days we've had...)  I think we can all agree who's got the better end of the deal. 

While I may be benefiting from these bountiful breaks while I'm here, don't think that I'm telling you all this to rub it in.  I'm just as bitter about it as you are.  Every time I hear a teacher say, "You know, seven weeks is simply too long to go without a break," I try to repress my natural Jekyll-like instinct to fly into a rage and drag my fingernails across the chalkboard and tear the curtains from the window while screaming, "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW EASY YOU HAVE IT, YOU LUCKY BASTARDS!"  But usually, I just explain that Americans only have two weeks in December, one in March or April, and then the summer break (you know, just to give them some perspective and perhaps help them realize they should feel grateful for the 18 weeks of vacation they have).  But this generally backfires and the teachers and students exclaim things like, "Oh la la!  C'est pas possible!" and end up making me feel like I live in some sort of primitive, tyrannical, backwards culture.  And who's to say who's right?

So I may as well enjoy it while I can.  While I'll be spending the first week of vacation in Bar-le-Duc (here's hoping for sunny weather so I can sunbathe by the canal and pretend I'm lying on a beach in Nice), I'll then be hopping over to Ireland for the second week to give my French it's due vacation as well.  And after vacation is over, only six weeks left of teaching... I'm so torn about how that makes me feel that that'll be a blog post for another day. 

Vivent les vacances!

Elementary, My Dear Watson

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I work at an elementary school.  Usually this is brought on after asking a student for the third time in a row to please take the scissors out his mouth.  Then there are other times where I'm reminded against my will.  Such as this morning, when I overheard two teachers talking:
"Any poop or pee yet today?"
"Nope, but it's still early."
A few minutes later, a boy came racing inside from recess amidst a furious temper tantrum, screaming, "Pu du cul!  Pu du cul!" at the top of his lungs.  Understanding that this was something rude, but not quite sure of the literal meaning, a teacher took it upon herself to mime out the meaning for me.  Miming is a great tool for teaching foreign languages.  I mime hats, weather patterns, animals and pencil cases on a regular basis.  Today I realized the efficacy of this method first hand as the teacher first held her nose and crinkled her face up in disgust, and then pointed to her rear.  I gathered then that pu du cul roughly translated to stinky butt.  Add that to my ever-growing arsenal of vocabulary I would never have learned if I didn't work at an elementary school.

A Blip of Spring

The first few weeks of January were gorgeous.  55 degree weather, sun shining every day.  Knowing it wouldn't last (but secretly hoping it would), I took my camera out on one of my walks to try and capture how beautiful everything looked.

 The dreaded stairs I have to take when I miss the bus and have to walk to school.  They're alright when you're not running up them though. 

These bizarre, knobbly trees are everywhere!  Anyone know what kind of tree this is? 

Anyway, now it's back to being cold and overcast, but it's still milder than midwestern winters.  There's no snow and it doesn't dip much below 30 during the day, yet the people here still gripe.  I've learned to let it go every time I hear someone say how freezing it is, because they don't want to hear that this is spring-like compared to the winters I'm used to.  I guess I don't blame them.  No one wants their complaining invalidated.  But it reminds me of a Garrison Keillor quote:

Growing up in a place that has winter, you learn to avoid self-pity.  Winter is not a personal experience, everybody else is as cold as you, so you shouldn't complain about it too much.  You learn this as a kid, coming home crying from the cold, and Mother looks down and says, "It's only a little frostbite.  You're okay."  And thus you learn to be okay.  What's done is done.  Get over it.  Drink your coffee.  It's not the best you'll ever get but it's good enough.

Who knew I'd ever miss those midwestern winters?

France in a Nutshell

This morning I was taking the bus home from school when the driver pulled over, parked the bus, grabbed some change from the fare cash drawer, and got out.  I watched him stroll into a boulangerie, buy two baguettes, and stop to chat with someone in the store.  They were clearly friends, laughing and gesturing in silence from behind the store's front window, and finally the bus driver pointed over to the bus as if to say, "I should probably get back to the bus I left parked blocking traffic with the keys in the ignition and ten people on board in the middle of my route, but we'll catch up later," and strolled back on to the bus, closed the doors, and started driving without a word. 

Anniversaries

With this post, I would like to mark the one year anniversary of two auspicious occasions.  The first: turning in my SIP, or Senior Individualized Project.   Kalamazoo's obligatory thesis serves to remind all seniors that even though they just about made it through four years of rigorous and challenging classes, pulled more all-nighters than they had full nights of sleep, survived study abroad, and had more study-parties than party-parties, Kalamazoo still has one more trick up her sleeve in the form of a project that you will spend months agonizing over, writing, rewriting, scrapping completely and starting over, agonizing over some more, and finally rejoicing as you clutch your warm fifty-page masterpiece acceptable final draft, fresh from the printer.  And then hole-punch it five pages at a time because even through every student who is accepted to Kalamazoo College has to do a SIP, Kalamazoo still hasn't thought that it might be a good idea to buy a bigger three-hole-punch.  Turning in my SIP felt amazing; what felt even more amazing was when my jaw, neck and shoulder muscles unclenched about two weeks later. 

The second:  Turning in my application for the Teaching Assistantship Program in France.  Yes, it's painfully symbolic that the very day that I turned in my SIP, the last vestiges of my graduation requirement, I turned in the application that would unfold to become my future.  It's so symbolic that if I came across something like this in a novel, I'd think, "Well, that's a little forced, isn't it?  Hit me over the head with your point, why don't you?" Which is why when I write my memoirs, I will lie about everything.

In addition to the one year anniversaries today, there's a special someone celebrating their three year anniversary... my study abroad application!  Three years ago today, I turned in my application to go to Strasbourg, France.  As if the symbolism couldn't get anymore sickeningly contrived. 

Next January 15th, I wonder what anniversary I'll be celebrating.  The anniversary of me sitting in my room in Bar-le-Duc and doing nothing?  The anniversary of me going to the grocery store?  As this seems to be felicitous date, I feel like I should attempt to do something out of the ordinary and see if fate rewards me once again.  The thing is, I won't recognize it today, or tomorrow, or a month from now.  But next January 15th, 2012, when I'm accepting my Golden Globe for best screenplay, I'll finally be able to look back and say, "I started writing the screenplay for 'The English Assistant,' a year ago today, with absolutely no idea that I might eventually be up here accepting this award.  I'd like to thank the people of Bar-le-Duc for making this possible."

So happy anniversary to my past, present and future!  I won't forget you when I'm famous.

En Attaché

 

Hello!  My name is Laura.  I am 23 years old.  I'm in the process of bettering my handwriting because my students make fun of me.  Every time I write out the date, they have to ask me how it's spelled.

"Monday.  M-O-N-D-A-Y.  It's always the same.  Just like last Monday, and the Monday before last Monday.  And it will be the same next Monday, okay?"

But they continue to interrogate me.

"What is that?  Is it a V or an N?"

Shit.  The worst is when the teacher rewrites what I've already written on the chalkboard.  It's very embarrassing.

It looks like I've made some progress, right?  But now my hand hurts.  A lot.